A little something for Anem Kram. A little yarn whipped up back in the days of whimsy back in the late 80s.
In the last days of the Schism Wars, it became apparent that the Fey could not defeat the Elves and their growing number of allies. One fey known for his masterful sorcery as well as his unconventional ways, even for a fey, decided that he must do something. Jokala his wife, also known for her sorcery but also for more dark than unconventional ways, did not like his worrying.
"We've lost." She counseled. "Let us sue for peace. Or let us be defeated. Doing something drastic would do no good for anyone."
Wakim, knew his wife was wise, but she tended to be a bit bleak as well. She had a taste for darkness and death, complete with blood-drinking. He, himself, understood force, but was not darkly-driven and no fan of fate. He had crafted victories in his own battles with the elves' troll allies under the marshaling of Marduk early in the war. He had foiled every incursion by the elves into his own lands. In short, we was not used to defeat.
He traveled to the closest edge of the universe around him, a trip that took weeks. Along the way, he burdened himself with dry branches and small logs to the point of teetering. In the cold place where the ice of a giant's breath met the stone and kremm of the in-between, Wakim started a fire. And he kept the fire going for many days. During this this he drank only water and hummed.
It was when he was on his last log, that something in the icy darkness stirred, and a great eye peeked at him from the darkness.
"I thought that was you." The wind howled. "My little brother."
"You were never born." Wakim replied. "I am probably your grandson, you crazy behemoth. But you know me. "
"Stinging sting-haver!" The icy wind ripped everything under a couple of stones weight away from the fey's campsite.
"Yes. I drove you here." Wakim answered.
"You were not alone sprite!" The voice went from wind to grinding stone.
"You are correct." Wakim showed no fear. "But the others would've failed to drive you here without me."
"You are alone." The stone voice ground out.
"You know me." The sorcerer stayed his ground. "And I know you. Your name specifically. Grumjellug, I know you."
The giant, a wildermagick reeled back at hearing its First Name spoken by another.
"And what do you want from me, despoiler?" The wildermagick asked. "The places I dwell now would have no interests you. Too cold for your thin blood. Nothing to steal but frost."
"I have a battle for you." Wakim said plainly.
"A battle which you must be losing." Grumjellug responded.
"Yes." Was the others answer.
"You have stolen all the Fair Lands from me!" The giant's voiced shifted to the wind again. "I can smell me in your veins, and you have driven me here! You want me to fight for you?"
Wakim did not reply at first. Instead he made a point to warm his hands by his struggling campfire, before turning around rather abruptly.
"You and your ilk were doing nothing but freezing these 'fair lands' that you now yearn for." The fey spoke firmly. "You, great primordial force and magic that you are, have no use for these stolen trinkets, Otherwise you would not have allowed me to gain lordship over them. "
The appeal to the giant's vanity worked, the wind died down. A ice-encrusted giant with a red beard and as tall as three elves stepped forward.
Wakim breathed a silent sigh of relief. He continued speaking, almost singing, "You smell us in your nostrils. We are you. We were your thoughts when you battled the dragons. We are your thoughts now when you count the stars beyond your fingertips."
"And who is our enemy, little brother?" Grumjellug asked rather coyly, but still his eyes sparkled with interest.
"Oh Grandfather, it is the elves and their lackeys the trolls." The shorter figure explained. "Along with a horde of muddled kindred that join them out of convenience rather than any sort of conviction."
"Then let us make myself horrible unto them." The wildermagick agreed.
Wakim provided the giant with many a totem and magical artifact during their journey towards the encroaching enemies of the fey in the Schism War. Once there, upon a bluff overlooking a very wide vale spreading towards the east and wet horizons for a day's travel, the giant and the fey sorcerer stood looking at the conquering armies before them.
"This isn't going to be easy or pretty, little brother." Grumjellug commented.
"Do it for your prosperity, brother. Your off-spring." Wakim coaxed.
"I have no mother, you silly dwarf." The giant became much larger than he was a moment before. "What do I really care about ties? You're an idle fancy at best. And the usurpers of my place in the cosmos when I am in bad mood."
Wakim did not reply.
"So what can you provide me to do this task?" The wildermagick asked.
"Nothing but being a part in this struggle." The fey answered finally. " You need more than a fight? A place remembered by us fey. A place as our progenitor and ultimate protector."
Grumjellug laughed heartily, and Wakim cringed.
"Worry not little fey-elf." The giant said. "I like the offer. But think on this; I can only give to this battle what I have to give. And it will hardly be enough for a real victory for you, grandson. My Other name is Ooblun. "
Before the sorcerer could consider what the elder magic giant had said, Grumjellug lept from the bluff into the valley and strode to the approaching armies. Yammar, the Eldest Elf and leader of the advancing forces, held up a hand. With great noise and confusion the cumbersome horde stalled its momentum, and not in equal paces.
The mere giant, hiding his full size, stood a few strides away before the mass of armed assailants. The elven overlord called out to him.
"Dear cousin fey." Yammar sang. "Why do you encroach upon our path? We mean no one individual harm."
Grumjellug laughed. "I am not one of those that you'd bother sparing. Nor an individual that needs to explain himself to an elf."
Yammar, being wiser than most elves of the time, was not insulted at the jibe. And he heard the other words that the antagonist before him had said.
"Oh. You are a giant." The great elf said, sniffing the air. "You should leave this skirmish to those with more involved. I am sure the fey here did not grant you the return of this in-between to you."
"You are someone to speak for the folks that you conquer?" was the giant's retort.
And with that, Yammar knew that a battle was about to occur. He just did not know what scale it was going to take place upon.
As the elf raised his arms in a different signal to his generals at his flanks and elsewhere, Grumjellug raised his own arms. The giant raised his arms, and his eyes flashed, and thunder rolled over his head in the sky over the valley where he and the invaders were assembled.
(to be continued)