In the quiet village of giants, the younger generation, those who had never ventured far or had much interaction with the elves, often thought of them as gentle and charming creatures. To them, the elves were nothing short of beautiful, with their delicate features and graceful movements.
After all, every year the elves traded food and supplies in exchange for what seemed like trivial things, animal bones and leftover meat that the giants had little use for. And from a distance, the elves seemed like friendly, benevolent beings.
But those few giants who had ventured into elven territory held a different opinion. They had seen the elves up close, and the memory was far from pleasant. They had little fondness for those with pointed ears.
Drax, one of the younger giants, had been looking forward to his first trip to the land of the elves. He had heard stories of their famed fruit wine and sweet delicacies, and on the journey, he had been full of excitement. He had chatted eagerly with his friend Bastian, barely able to contain his enthusiasm.
Now, sitting in a small room among the elves, Drax's mood had soured. His face was a mixture of frustration and disappointment as he sat with his arms crossed, his large frame barely fitting in the tiny space. He hadn't even been directly insulted, but the cold stares and whispers in the elvish tongue were enough to fill the air with tension. Though he didn't understand the language, the sneering glances, and gestures were unmistakable.
It felt like being watched by small, arrogant creatures, ones who saw him not as a guest, but as a wild beast. He could sense it clearly, the quiet hostility, the condescending looks.
Giants, especially Frost Giants like Drax, were simple in their ways, but far from stupid. Their instincts were sharp. They could tell when someone bore them ill will, and the elves made no effort to hide it. It made Drax feel like a trapped animal, helpless in a land that should have been welcoming.
There was an old saying on the continent, one that everyone knew: "Elves hold grudges for a lifetime, dwarves' creations last a lifetime, dragons' greed lasts a lifetime, and giants' friendships last a lifetime." Some thought it was nothing but a racist slander, but there was truth behind it, truth that had been passed down for generations.
"No wonder the others gave me that look when I said I was coming here," Drax muttered angrily. "I thought they were jealous, but they were pitying me!"
His large fists clenched in frustration. He wanted to lash out, to vent his anger, but Bastian, who sat across from him, remained calm. Bastian had expected this reaction, had warned him in his own way, but Drax, blinded by excitement, had brushed it off.
Sighing, Bastian reached into his pack and pulled out a couple of bottles. He poured a drink for Drax and ordered some roasted meat from their elven hosts.
"Here," Bastian said, sliding a plate towards his friend. "This should help take the edge off."
Many believed that elves didn't eat meat, that they survived solely on fruit and plants, but that wasn't quite true. Elves might have preferred fruit, but like all flesh-and-blood creatures, they needed nourishment. And in a place like this, where the elven population was enormous, perhaps even greater than the combined tribes of giants in the north, meat was a necessity to keep up with their demand for sustenance.
Drax, despite his bad mood, tore into the food, and for a brief moment, the tension in the room eased. Bastian watched with a knowing smile before standing up.
"Enjoy your meal," Bastian said, walking towards his room. "I've got some things to take care of."
He slipped into the next room and closed the door behind him, the faint sounds of Drax's eating fading into the background. Once alone, Bastian let out a deep breath and shrugged off his pack, tossing it onto the bed.
Glancing around to make sure no one was listening, he spoke softly but clearly.
"Alright, it's just us now. You can come out," he said, his voice steady. "Now tell me, why did you ask me to bring you here? What's really going on?"
Let's step back in time, to the night before Bastain's departure. He was still in his cabin, alone with his thoughts, as the northern winds howled outside.
"Boom boom boom."
The sound echoed through the wooden walls. Bastain's hand instinctively shot toward the long sword lying beside him. His muscles tensed, and his sharp eyes scanned the room, suddenly alert. The knocks were firm and deliberate, far different from the usual harsh pounding that a giant's hand might deliver. Giants weren't exactly known for their gentle touch; they preferred smashing doors down rather than knocking.
Whoever was at the door, they were either a familiar face or a foe, and around these parts, Bastain didn't have many friends.
"Crack."
He cautiously unlatched the door and pulled it open, bracing for anything. But there was no one. Just the biting wind and swirling snow, drifting in thick, heavy flakes. The cold bit into his skin, but that wasn't what chilled him. It was the emptiness; the unsettling quiet in the place where someone should've been.
His instincts screamed that something was wrong.
Then came the voice, low and ominous, from directly behind him. He felt the breath on his neck before he even heard the words.
"Do you want to know the truth about your Solesia?"
The question sent a shiver down Bastain's spine. His mind raced back to the eerie tales he had heard just days ago, whispers of lost memories, of beings that could crawl into a person's mind without them ever noticing. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tighter.
He whirled around, prepared to face whatever had crept up behind him. But instead of a looming figure, he found himself staring at the last thing he expected, a snowy owl, fluffed up and looking rather pleased with itself, hopping playfully on his bed.
"Ha! Don't look so jumpy, Bastain," the owl said, its voice high-pitched and cheerful. "Life's too short to be so serious. Now, how about we share a couple bottles of that elf wine you've been hiding? I'm in the mood for wintergreen flavor!"
The snowy owl had somehow slipped out of Bastain's pack, though he hadn't noticed it during the unsettling knocks. This wasn't just any owl, though. In the cold northern lands, such creatures were rare and revered. Their snow-white feathers and piercing eyes gave them a mystical presence. This one, however, had something extra, a smattering of gold patterns woven into its plumage, almost as though the owl had been touched by magic itself. Its head bobbed as it spoke, a mix of cunning and playfulness in its eyes.
Bastain couldn't help but chuckle at the sight. His grip on the sword loosened, the tension easing from his body. The owl's demanding nature was familiar, infuriating, but somehow comforting.
"Elf wine, huh? Holly-flavored, no less," Bastain mused with a raised brow. "And should I fetch you a platter of dead mice and poisonous snakes to go with it, oh wise Mr. Snowy Owl?"
The owl puffed out its chest and fluttered its wings indignantly. "Wintergreen, not holly! And yes, if you can find such a fine feast in the elves' territory, by all means, bring it to me!"
Its voice was full of playful triumph, as if it had once again outwitted its companion. Bastain shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. For all its theatrics, the owl was often right. Life was too short, especially in the North, where danger lurked at every turn.
Still, Bastain couldn't quite shake the words from before, the question that lingered in the back of his mind like a shadow.
"Do you want to know the truth about your Solesia?"
He looked out the door once more, into the swirling snow. Something, or someone, had been there. And they'd be back.
Bastian stood in silence, his mind racing. The elves were obsessively clean. In the Spring Valley where they lived, there wasn't a stray animal in sight, no cats, no dogs, certainly no vermin like snakes or rats. These creatures were rare in the North to begin with, but in elven lands, they were practically nonexistent. The owl's demand for such a feast seemed almost absurd.
Since the day they had met, Bastian had never managed to win a single argument with the owl. Every verbal sparring match left him defeated, often frustrated, and wondering why he kept engaging.
"Alright, alright, I'll stop teasing," the owl said, its tone suddenly shifting, but still with a hint of mischief. "Truth is, I don't actually know what caused your Solesia. How would a little owl like me know something that important?"
Bastian's composure shattered in an instant. His calm exterior gave way to irritation, his fists clenching at his sides.
"Wait, what? Didn't you say you knew the truth about my memory loss? You asked me to risk everything to bring you here because of that!" His voice was sharp, full of the frustration he had been holding back. "And now you're telling me you don't know?"