(N): giant (obsolete)

His name was strange in the other man's speech, but it was fine, he didn't mind it any and he nodded a little. "Well, being kind is far better than jumping into suspicion with both feet. Besides, you're just standing here, you're allowed to live places." Gustave waves his hand, dismissive. "I don't have any claim to the forests than any other human does." Gustave shakes his head this time, as if the thought is foolish and arrogant and had never even crossed his mind. "Well, I'm sorry to intrude mister? Oh, man I didn't ask your name. Here I'm supposed to have manners and I didn't even ask." He purses his lips a little, folding his arms over his chest, tapping his fingers lightly against his bicep. "Are you nomadic? If you don't mind me asking?"

"Someone was stealing of your horse? Why, that — that is being horrible," he said, and wished he'd something better to say than condolences. "Going home shall be becoming far more arduous journey now, shall not it?" Oh, poor human!! When he'd been somewhat incredulous of his story, he hadn't been expecting this tragic explanation. He had to stop himself from reaching out; the desire was present to do so and to comfort him somehow, though precisely what comfort being held by such a large being could provide in the first place was surely negligible, overriden entirely by instinctual terror. No; he couldn't do that. He therefore kept his hands upon his knees, and answered the questions posed to him prior.

"I am— nomad-ic, yea," he agreed, hoping he'd correctly recalled the meaning of the word. Besides, you're just standing here, you're allowed to live places. Gustave's words echoed through his mind, and he held them close. Such a philosophy toward him was a rare blessing indeed. He ought to cherish it. 'Mister', that was a first, also. "And I am called... Ingvar, kind Gustave. I wish I were having home, but... it is seldom being safe, remaining some-where long time. Not— not with-out humans noticing, and... desiring to be smiting of me."

He was not normally called Ingvar. He was normally called far worse things shrieked, shouted: monster, beast, fiend, brute, murderer, giant. But the human didn't need to know that — he likely already knew.

grace  holds  the  string-sized  hair  in  his  hands  .        ❝        ah  ,      okay  .      so  you're  like  a  vegetarian  .      or  maybe  a  vegan  ?        ❞        he  spares  the  giant  by  thinking  all  of  this  in  his  head  ,      instead  of  wondering  aloud  and  confusing  him  further  :      does  it  count  if  ingvar  apparently  doesn't  eat  processed  foods  ?      no  foods  containing  any  animal  products  ,      no  products  derived  from  animals  in  any  way  .      in  his  quiet  mulling  ,      grace  glances  over  the clothing  .      no  fur  ,      faux  or  otherwise  .      no  leather  either  ?      he's  never  been  the  best  at  pinning  down  what  is  and  isn't  leather  ,      but  he's  also  not  about  to  start  debating  on  something  he  hasn't  look  into  .      a  waste  of  time  .      what  remains  is  that  ingvar  is  an  animal  guy  .      an  animal  guy  with  a  passion  for  keeping  them  alive  and  an  intolerance  for  eating  them  at  all  .      but  then  ,      how  does  he  get  his  iron      …      ?      maybe  he  doesn't  need  iron  .      they're  not  just  larger  humans  ,      so  maybe  they  just  don't  need  everything  humans  do  .

"Yes, I am knowing what I am, not human-being: being called 'giant'," Ingvar confirmed, though he likely would have been rather embarrassed if he raised he wasn't answering the question Grace asked, not really. "Humans are being born. Born of two humans..." he paused, brows scrunching together as he tried to remember the right word for what he wanted to describe, but he couldn't. He'd only heard it a few times. "er... you are knowing. Giants such as I, we are not being born. We are not being like animals, either, who are coming from egg. I was being made."

@giaunt

❛ Only a little while. ❜ The king answers with immediate honesty, a little bit of remorse lilting his tone. The hedgehog is used to looking up at other folks of taller nature, his kind were simply smaller than most others, but looking up at his new, magnificent company, he could feel the toll of the effort hurting his neck. He ignores it anyway, for the sake of being respectful.

❛ I hope you'd grant me your pardon, mighty one, for I wasn't aware of your intentions, and the giants of my realm seldom mean well. ❜ The king was only trying to ensure the safety of his people. A few villagers have reached out to him during one of his voyages, worried faces complaining about a strange, looming shadow that wandered the woods, one that they couldn't quite identify or get a good look upon.

Trusting that his speed would be enough aid against larger & slower opponents, the king took upon investigating the matter by himself, ordering his retinue to idle close behind. But thankfully, his time within the woods clear away all his worries, as he watches birds & critters flock to the serenity of the giant's presence, and feels the forest breathing around him, energized by a stream of life quite ancient & mysterious to the hedgehog, but not at all unpleasant, in fact, it felt almost comforting.

An expression of dread impossible to hide upon such a large face crosses Ingvar's features. His huge body seems to shrink back where it stands, hunching over in some feeble attempt to protect himself or make himself seem smaller. Neither is of any use, of course; if anything, his behemoth body shifting and shadow with it likely startles the skittish. It's a wonder he's not frightened himself off, even, great big coward.

No; he's never been called mighty one. He's never heard of a land where giants truly are bloodthirsty and terrible — yet this blue animal fellow says it so, and fear grasps his huge heart tightly; he wishes never to encounter them. His ears are listening carefully for any sound — sound of anyone who may have accompanied this one here, perhaps, or of hooves. All he hears at present is birdsong and the insectoid chorus of the forest.

"I... I am seeking... place... that I may be living... w-without fear of being smited while I am sleeping," he admits. "Where... others are not feeling frightened of me, for... I am meaning no menace."

Lily blinked. Once. Then again. Finally, a third time. She opened her mouth, tilting her head back as she looked up at him. But before she could say anything, she closed her mouth again and tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. Now her head tilted slightly to the side, as if she were trying to process it all. “You ran…” For a moment, it looked as if she needed to gather her thoughts. “... from me?” 

A brief silence fell over the scene. But was it ever really quiet in a forest at night? Not really. You can always hear something rustling in the underbrush, the flapping of wings in the darkness. Then Lily’s laughter broke the silence. It was bright, clear, and cheerful. It almost seemed as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders when the giant made that confession to her. 

“What did you think I was going to do? Cast a spell on you?” She continued to giggle, smoothing out the white dress she was wearing today. White wasn’t usually her color, but Lily had come to the forest to perform a ritual. Perhaps the scene had really seemed so menacing that a giant had to flee from her. The way she’d been dancing there - barefoot, singing an ancient song, while a few rays of the full moon found their way to her through the canopy of leaves. She’d lit candles, too, and burned herbs. And yet she couldn’t stop laughing at the thought.

“Did you think I’d want to eat you? To make you my servant?” The laughter wouldn’t stop, and yet she didn’t mean any harm. It was simply the whole situation that made her laugh. “I’m five foot nothing! If I’d tried anything, I’m very sure you could have resisted me!”

She really tried. To stop laughing. But she just couldn’t manage it. “I’m sorry,” she managed to say between bursts of laughter. “It’s just,” she continued, snorting, “someone as big as you has never run away from me before! I can’t even hurt a fly… how could I possibly hurt you?” It was a lie, but it rolled off her tongue so smoothly, as if it were true.

Dread held his heart tight. Ingvar's breaths hitched in a gasp when she laughed at his misery. He nodded quickly, 'yes'ing all her questions — yes, he thought she might cast a spell on him, though he hadn't thought of some of the possibilities she'd presented, like her eating him or making him a servant, and now dreaded those also. He felt his face warm. Perhaps he even felt offense well up in him. It was no joke! It was true; he was afraid, and he'd good reason to be; did not she see...?! (Her apology, at the least, helped him feel slightly less terrible)

"It— it is not being funny...!" he protested, though it came out a whisper, hardly a squeak, if indeed such a thing were possible coming from such a hulking body. "I— I am not frightened of you for your dancing. It was being most beautiful; it is only— I am frightened of you because you are human. And humans— humans are most afraid of me, and... when humans are being afraid of something, they are trying to be killing of it most ardently. Hence, I... I was not wanting you to be seeing of me, and telling others of me and bringing them hither with weapons; and so I was... running away."

❝ how, uh, how far are we from where my car is? ❞ mulder was really coming to now. head shook lightly, testing out how it felt. splitting still ... that was stupid of him. he groaned and pressed the heel of his hand into his eye. ❝ where is hither? ❞ as much as he wished to remain sitting up, mulder succumbed once more to laying. he lowered slowly because any sudden movement seemed to worsen his head. but, he wouldn't fall asleep again.

Oh, what a great big fool Ingvar feels; he has no way of describing precisely where they are...! He has no units for distance as humans do, and quantifying it in time taken for him to walk it will make no sense whatsoever without context of how large he is or units smaller than partial days to measure time. Dread knots his stomach. He can't see me, he thinks. I have not moved since he awoke, so he does not know my size. I must keep it that way, remain a disembodied voice.

Despite this very reasonable line of thought held tightly, when the man finishes speaking, slumps back and simply lies there supine, he gasps sharply and the ardent desire to help returns with racing thoughts of what could be ailing the human; the gap between them closes in an instant with two hasty, earth-shaking steps; and he kneels, and when he stoops down, his head blocks out the moon, emerald eyes slightly aglow — and becoming ever-more agape with each passing second in sheer, undiluted horror at what he's just done and cannot undo. Time has stopped. His lips part, but no words come out from beneath his beard at first. Only trembling, hitched breaths. His heart pounds in his ears, body dares not move.

Please do not scream, human. Oh, please do not scream, eff-bee-eye agent, whoever you are...!

A kingdom (or village, for a smaller scale) discovers that there is a giant who is dwelling too close for comfort, and decides that instead of trying to kill it and risking everyone's lives, they'll use a lottery system to choose a maiden* to be sent as sacrifice to appease it — the assumption, of course, being that the giant wishes to either kill or eat people and destroy their homes, and a sacrifice will prevent that.

... Our Ingvar, of course, wants none of that. So he's positively horrified when he comes to inspect shouts about tempering his wrath in exchange for a woman's life, and finds them true — there's a human woman bound up, left alone to die, the people who so bravely sent her here having fled the very moment they knew they'd been heard and Ingvar was actually coming.

Still, even when he frees the would-be sacrifice from the position, all is not entirely well. If the people who sent her to save their own skins knew their sacrifice was alive and the giant neither appeased nor dead, then all hell would break loose; maybe they'd want to kill her themselves, or maybe they'd come up with some other terrible fate for either her, him, or someone else. In any case, she can't go back, and it can't be discovered what's actually happened; she must remain hidden away with him, whom no one dares venture into the presumed domain of, or she must convince him to be brave and take her somewhere far away, where no one knows her and she can live safely among humans again.

* - plot is not gender locked just to muses who are women, though that is "traditionally" how these stories go.

Possible variation:

Was it hallucination, or a glimpse of a biblical echo? Perhaps that should not have been the vicar’s first thought as he lay sprawled in the vast folds of a giant’s palm; but even in a weakened state, the man’s curiosity shone through. With glazed blue eyes he struggled to focus, notions flickering between an overly large branch and the flesh that he felt beneath him yet still questioned.

"Nay...!" he whispered, painfully aware of the sound of his own voice, and of what resonance would be in it should he raise it in any manner. He would need to be careful not to get too upset or excited, then — not an easy feat for the giant, truly, given the stressful circumstances, but he was for now successful. "I— I am not... 'claiming your life'...! I— I wish— only to be helping you to be— retaining of it...!"

-—# ap0ptotic 🚀🌌👎

An INDIE && CANON-DIVERGENT / HC-BASED

( DR. RYLAND GRACE ) from PROJECT HAIL MARY.

Pulling inspiration from both the book && film; NOT spoiler-free for either !!

21+ ONLY, DEAD DOVE THEMES PRESENT. READ RULES & CONDUCT YOURSELF ACCORIDNGLY !!

🚀 ( PINNED POST & INFORMATION ) 🚀 ( GRAPHIC CREDIT )