Now, though, he looked more balanced, like a true hybrid, somewhere between an Argonian and an elf. It was an unusual appearance, but not unheard of, and far more acceptable to the refugees than his purely elven form.
With scales now visible on his skin and small horns curving from his forehead, he looked more like a half-dragon than a full-blooded elf. The tension in the air eased slightly, and the hostile stares shifted into something softer, sympathy.
Mixed-blood children rarely fared well in this world. They were often scorned, rejected by both sides, and their survival was far from guaranteed. As the refugees noticed his transformation, they began to see him as one of their own, rather than a potential threat.
As more refugees joined the exodus, the journey grew safer. The sheer number of people, some traveling in small groups of five or ten, others in convoys of dozens, and still others in sprawling organizations of hundreds; created a sense of security. The elves, for all their ruthlessness, weren't likely to waste their efforts attacking defenseless refugees while the real resistance still stood.
Day by day, the flood of refugees grew. What had started as a trickle of people, fleeing in twos and threes, became a tidal wave of suffering souls; thousands, perhaps tens of thousands; all moving as one. Bastian couldn't help but watch as the crowd swelled around him, faces etched with exhaustion, eyes hollow from fear and grief. There was no joy here, only sadness and the overwhelming weight of helplessness.
Weeks turned into months, the endless march dragging on through bitter cold and relentless hunger. One by one, people collapsed, too weak to continue. Along the way, Bastian watched as many fell behind, their bodies too frail to survive the brutal journey. By the time the caravan finally reached the Giant Valley, nearly a third of the refugees had been lost.
And yet, despite the toll the journey had taken, there was relief when they arrived. The towering cliffs of the Giant Valley rose before them, a natural fortress that had stood against the elves' advances so far. It was a place of refuge, but it was also a place where decisions would be made, decisions that could change the course of the war.
Bastian stood at the valley's entrance, exhausted but determined. He had come this far, and now, the next step awaited. The knowledge he carried, the secrets he had uncovered, this was what would make the difference.
In the deepest recesses of Giant's Canyon, at the very base of a towering cliff, Bastain finally laid eyes on the elusive figure that had driven his journey, a being of myth, a legend among legends. He stood before the leader of the united coalition of all races, a force of nature whose name echoed in the hearts of all who dared speak it.
"How can something so massive exist?" Bastain muttered, awe-struck. "Is it... truly alive?"
Beside him, the giant who had led him through the canyon nodded solemnly. "Yes. That is the Bram The Great, the most powerful warrior in the world. Our leader."
Bastain's voice had been tinged with disbelief, even a trace of rudeness, but the giant beside him took no offense. He had seen too many visitors stagger at the sight of Ion, too many stunned into silence by the magnitude of their leader's presence.
"My apologies," Bastain stammered. "I didn't mean to offend. It's just… too enormous."
The giant nodded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "You need not explain further. Your reaction is one I've seen a thousand times over."
Bastain let out a shaky breath, grateful for the giant's patience. Still, nothing could fully prepare him for the overwhelming sight before him. Ion, the Bram The Great, was beyond comprehension.
The behemoth sat leaning against the sheer cliffside as if the mountain itself was a mere seat for him. His vast form dwarfed even the landscape, his head disappearing into the mist-shrouded clouds above. Bastain could only make out his vague silhouette from where he stood. He had seen dragons, colossal and terrifying in their own right, but the largest dragon Bastain had ever encountered would barely reach Ion's ankles.
To see him in motion, Bastain suspected, would be to witness an earthquake given form. If Bram so much as shifted, the very earth would tremble. Avalanches would cascade from the mountain peaks.
But what was most striking wasn't just Ion's size. His entire body gleamed with a metallic sheen, as though he were forged from the very essence of the earth itself. If he remained still, you might easily mistake him for an ancient statue, a relic left by gods long forgotten. That was what had first made Bastain question his own eyes.
"Is this truly the Bram The Great?" he whispered under his breath.
Great wasn't just a title, he was the Giant King, a figure of absolute authority among the giants, revered by all. But to be called Great… that was a title reserved for only the most extraordinary of beings. Legends spoke of him as the one who had awakened the ancient bloodline of the giants, channeling the strength of the creator gods themselves. Of course, these were only stories, passed down through countless generations, more myth than truth.
Yet standing here, Bastain wondered if perhaps the legends were real after all.
As impressive as Bram was, something felt amiss. The giant himself appeared unscathed, but his weapons, the gargantuan sword and battle axe that rested at his side, bore the unmistakable signs of battle. Both were cracked and battered, as if they had been pushed to the very edge of their endurance. Scaffolding surrounded the weapons, where hundreds of dwarven and giant craftsmen worked tirelessly, scaling the massive structures to repair them.
"You've come at a fortunate time," the giant guide remarked. "Any later, and the weapons would be mended. Then the Bram The Great would be off to battle once more, and you'd have been left waiting for days."
Bastain nodded mechanically, his mind struggling to process what kind of battlefield could possibly demand the presence of a being like Ion. What kind of enemy could inflict such damage on weapons forged by the finest craftsmen of the land? He watched in fascination as the craftsmen coated Ion's enormous sword with molten mithril, the silver liquid shimmering in the dying light. A weapon like this could cleave through castle walls, and yet here it was, shattered, needing repair.
Steeling himself, Bastain adjusted his cloak, straightened his posture, and carefully withdrew a letter from the folds of his tunic. The old village chief had entrusted this to him, and now, standing in the presence of such unimaginable power, he knew the weight of the task ahead. Some things must be said in person. Some debts, no matter how old, had to be repaid in blood.
"Bram The Great, I am Bastian from the North, of the Frost Axe tribe of the Frost Giants," Bastian began, his voice steady though his heart raced. "I bring a letter from our tribal leader, Odessa. It's... also his suicide note."
He extended the parchment with both hands, the weight of it heavy in more ways than one. The letter had been entrusted to him, a final message from a great leader. It was not just a letter, it was a symbol of the Frost Giants' last desperate plea.
Ion did not speak, but the air around them seemed to grow heavier, as if even the giant's silence held its own gravity. Bastian continued, knowing there was so much more to say, so much more that could not be contained in the letter alone.
"By chance," he said, his voice growing quieter, "I witnessed something, a black spire, rising from the earth, absorbing countless souls into its darkness. I know it sounds impossible, but I saw it with my own eyes. I'm... a clairvoyant, an unknown one at that, but the vision was clear. This spire... it was like nothing I've ever seen."
The words hung in the air, and for a long moment, there was no response. Bastian glanced around, uneasy. He could feel the tension mounting, even if the Bram The Great remained unmoved. The enormous leader, towering over them all, did not question Bastian's account, nor did he demand more details. He was preparing for battle, after all, and communication on such a grand scale was not easy for one of his size.
Instead, it was the others, those who served beneath Ion, who pressed Bastian for more. The golden giants, the local leaders of the race, leaned in closer. Their eyes glinted with curiosity, their minds quick to dissect the report Bastian had given. They were not warriors like Ion, but strategists, thinkers, and they demanded to understand every piece of Bastian's experience.
Bastian answered their questions for over an hour. The golden giants, their sharp minds grasping every thread of the tale, focused especially on one part: a children's book Bastian had mentioned in passing, and the strange theory it had hinted at, called the geological vascular theory. This theory, combined with the strange Solesia plaguing the North, caused a stir among the gathered leaders.
"How could you know this?" came a sharp voice from the crowd. It was a gray dwarf wizard, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "That knowledge is not meant for common folk. How did you come by such a secret?"