Kinsrest, the village of giants, was large. That was a given. What was unusual was how it was half-sunken into the dirt. The paths in the village were twice as tall as Moka, with walls of soft earth on either side. Large wooden doors, angled up like cellar doors, led to dwellings Moka could only assume were larger on the inside. Bundled domes of umbrella shaped leaves covered the homes, making them seem like part of the terrain at the base of the mountain from a distance. The mountain, its peak obscured by the pillar of clouds, seemed almost close enough for Moka to reach out a hand and touch it.

From her perch on the cart, Moka could not peer over the domed roofs as they trudged along the sunken road. She tried standing on her tippy-toes, but a few extra inches did little to help. However, it cemented her doubt that her giant acquaintance could stand up straight in any of the huts they passed. He loomed head and shoulders over them.

Moka took the direct route to satisfy her curiosity.

“Why do big people have such small homes?”

The giant glanced over his broad shoulders as he pulled the cart through the village. He let out a soft snort that caused Moka’s hair to whip in the wind. He did not answer straight away.

“Did you know,” he said after some consideration, his voice much weaker now than before. “That giant-kin fear the wide open sky?”

Moka pressed her lips together. She reached up to scratch the back of her neck. Her first thought was to return the giant’s mockery with some of her own. Before she could, something about the way he carried himself gave her pause. Azarus’s voice echoed in her ear.

Hopeless.

“No,” Moka said, looking away from the giant’s turned back. “I’ve never heard that.”

The giant trudged on, the village quiet but for his plodding steps. No other giants roamed the deep paths. He continued to his unnamed destination without speaking. Moka waited. The silence grew long and burdensome. Just as Moka was about to change the subject, the giant spoke.

“We are too far from the sky.” The giant lumbered to a halt. He looked up at the cloud-cover that seemed to grow closer with every step toward the mountain. His vast voice sounded wistful. “My distant ancestors walked the ocean floor with their heads above the clouds.”

“And now?” Moka prompted him.

The giant shook himself from his reverie. He resumed his forward trudge.

“And now,” he repeated, his voice reminding Moka of distant thunder and the promise of rain. “The world is full of vast distances too far for us to cross. We are forever barred from the lands above the clouds.”

Moka watched the sad giant, burdened by more than the weight of five house-sized gourds and the cart containing them. She let out a small sigh, her shoulders falling. Leaning back against a gourd, she looked up at the cloud-covered night sky, far closer than she had ever experienced. It felt suffocating, being sandwiched between the earth and sky like this. She tried to imagine being born afraid of clear blue skies. What it would be like to live that way? After a few moments of thought, she came to a conclusion.

“That’s why you’re hopeless?”

“Hah.” The giant’s laugh was joyless. His words held the same disinterested effort his harvesting had portrayed. “I suppose you could say that. But no. We fear something far more immediate.”

A spark of anger kindled in Moka’s throat. She was here, putting everything on the line to help these people, and this colossal idiot was too sad to talk straight. Whatever this village’s problem was, it was nothing next to what she experienced less than a day ago! She could get a more concise answer from a two-headed ogre that hated itself.

Moka opened her mouth before her reason could catch up to her emotions. The venom in her voice could have laid a wyvern low.

“Shall I build you a fire so you can dance around that, too?”

The giant shot Moka a glare.

“Go ahead,” he said with a dismissive snort. “But don’t forget to hop in after. I’ll need a snack for energy and I prefer my meat cooked.”

Moka all but sneered at the giant, her razor-sharp teeth gritted against the emotions rising in her like a tide.

“A bastard like you couldn’t catch me, even if I served myself on a silver platter.”

For a tense moment, it looked like the giant would give into Moka’s provocation. His brows pulled together, forming deep creases in his face. The corner of his lips turned down. He opened his mouth wide, massive teeth reflecting the dim light. Moka could feel the electric tingle of impending violence grow heavy on her skin. Then, the wind filling his kite evaporated as if it had never existed. His face relaxed into the placid resignation Moka was growing used to.

The sense of blood waiting to be spilled did not leave Moka. Soon, it would come to a head. Moka knew it like she knew her own name.

“Aye, little one,” the giant said, trudging a few steps further. He pulled the cart off to the side, near a dwelling the same as the rest, and tucked it into a nook built to store it. “We are all bastards here. Fallen kin of giants. Hence the name of the village.”

Moka scrambled to the edge of the cart. Her eyes darted back and forth, attempting to lock gazes with the avoidant giant.

“Where did it go?” she said, her voice imperious despite her miniscule frame.

The giant cocked his head to the side, the lines of confusion so clear on his face Moka may as well have etched them there herself. He refused to meet her eyes. Moka decided that having an enormous face was detrimental to hiding emotions.

When the giant did not respond, Moka clarified herself.

“Your anger, fat one. For a moment there, you were alive. Not just some rock with words.”

The giant’s expression softened as understanding dawned on him. He reached out a single large palm, rough and calloused, for Moka to step on to. The ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth as a thought occurred to him.

“You are truly kind. I can’t imagine you serving a cruel god.” He did not remove his hand when Moka refused to alight. “It is not that I am a rock, but a corpse waiting to be collected. Come on, the elders will explain the rest. Don’t make rock jokes.”

With her arms crossed over her chest and her ears laid flat against her skull, Moka accepted the giant’s offer of transportation. His long strides had made quick work of the walk to the village, and she did not feel like sprinting to keep up over the last leg of their journey.

“I like rock jokes,” she told her fatalistic ride, her tone a hair shy of petulant.

The giant shrugged.

“Then, by all means,” he said, a distant twinkle in his eyes. “Have your fill.”

***

“And so you see, my ancestor was the first giant to mate with an earth elemental,” the elder said, the playful smile on her lips a sharp contrast to the severe bun she kept her bone-white hair in. She covered her face with her hands, coated in marble-like skin, palms forward and fingers spread. As she spoke, she spread her palms apart, wildly waving her fingers. “It was a magical affair.”

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The other two elders and Moka’s guide let out a deep, bone-shaking groan at the joke. They sat in a circle around a large wooden table, laden with squash prepared at least seven different ways. Moka stood on the table, taking great care to not wander too close to the serving dishes. She nibbled on a head sized chunk of marinated and grilled squash as the elders talked and argued about her presence. She chewed slowly, admiring how much the taste and texture of the squash resembled meat as the elders joked and bickered.

“Enough, Orestilla,” another of the elders chided the elder with the elemental heritage. He was significantly shorter than his contemporary, even though he made Moka’s guide look short by comparison. Judging from his green-tinged skin and thick, bushy black hair, Moka suspected he had some ogre in him. “Now is not the time for your jokes.”

Orestilla brushed the comments off, all but ignoring them. Fine veins splintered across the surface of her smooth, almost polished, white and pink skin, furthering Moka’s impression she was actually a living statue, not a giant. She looked carved from marble.

“Hush now,” Orestilla said, turning her delicate nose up. “There will be no time for revelry later. Besides, once we send this delicate morsel away, she may be the only one to remember us.”

Orestilla looked down at Moka, offering a sly wink to the goblin. Moka glowered in return. The giantess was unaffected.

“Remember me well, little one,” she said, a ghost passing behind her eyes faster than a startled hare. As if in a willful response to a dark thought, Orestilla’s joyful demeanor turned up several degrees in intensity. “They say the hips in my family can split the earth, then make it come back and ask for more.”

The final elder, a whipcord thin man, easily the tallest giant here, jumped to his feet and brought his hand down on the table, hard. The impact flung Moka into the air, mid bite. She came crashing down on her tailbone, eliciting a pained groan.

“Enough, Orestilla!” the thin elder roared. The fine scales at the corners of his vertically slit eyes rotated up and under each other as his expression crinkled in fury. His body reminded Moka of a snake, all muscles and no bones. “We are dying, one at a time. Our god has forsaken us. Now, some lesser god has sent their disciple to mock us. This is not the time for your foolishness.”

The instant Moka heard Azarus described as a lesser god, she threw down what was left of her squash. She had not dropped it when the snake-elder knocked her over. Holding food while falling was an essential goblin trait. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing a wayward skewer meant for picking up chunks of the fleshy fruit the giants lived off of. To her, it was as good as a spear. Hefting it like one, she bent back, her body tense, then whipped forward, flinging her makeshift spear at the snake-elder’s eyes.

The elder flinched back, startled, as he smacked the small projectile out of the air.

Moka inhaled until it felt like her lungs would burst. She screamed, releasing as much of her pent-up emotion as she could fit into a single sound. Her breath ran out far before the emotions did. The four giants leaned back, looking at the small goblin in confusion.

“Shut up!” Moka screamed up at the giants and their enormous, judgemental eyes. “You don’t know anything!”

With a rush of voices, the elders all spoke over each other. Moka’s guide watched with silent expectation, his eyes tracking Moka’s every move.

“Zmei! Be gentle, you startled her!”

“Silence, little one, we know enough.”

“Little goblin, such behavior is unacceptable.”

“No, no, no,” Moka screamed, her high pitch cutting through and rising above the rumbling objections. “Big, stupid bastards! How can you know anything when you only speak AT me and not TO me?!”

A chorus of rejection rose to greet Moka’s statement. Moka could see refusal written plain on all three elder’s faces, even the jokester Orestilla. They had already been here well over an hour, and they had explained exactly nothing to Moka’s satisfaction. Seeing the continued patronization, Moka gathered up her belongings and prepared to leave. She did not need their permission to complete her task and stabbing them all to make herself feel better seemed a losing strategy.

Walking to the corner of the table, Moka looked down at the table leg. She took a few seconds to judge the easiest, least deadly, path down the table and out of the submerged dwelling. The elders continued to bicker, heedless of her actions. Getting back up the stairs at the entry would be a pain. She would have to treat it like climbing a series of short cliffs.

Chisel in hand, Moka prepared to jump. The timing would be tricky, but if she could halt her descent about halfway down, she should be able to fall the rest of the way without breaking a bone. If she missed… Moka did not consider that. She knew she would be fine. Her connection with Azarus smoldered with quiet confidence. Without a second glance, Moka leapt off the table.

Wind rushed by Moka’s ears, her messy bun blowing straight up as she fell. The pencil holding her hair together whipped back and forth, holding on with the fortitude of a monster-tamer. She readied her chisel in both hands, raising it over her head to plunge into the table leg. Darkness closed around her. She felt a deep impact in her chest that drove the breath from her lungs. Her stomach lurched as she suddenly changed elevation.

“Elders! Mind your position,” a familiar voice boomed from all directions, chiding the still arguing elders. Light bloomed and Moka found herself at eye level with her guide, cradled in his palms. “How can we expect an outsider to understand our situation if we won’t speak of it?”

Zmei, the snake-elder, turned from squabbling with Orestilla to level a finger at Moka’s guide.

“What is there to understand? The wind comes and our families die. You, of all us, should know. It is as simple as that. Tomorrow it may be me.”

The hand Moka was standing on flexed and moved. She adjusted her stance warily, ready to jump at the slightest sign of the hand closing.

“Tomorrow?” Moka’s guide asked, swallowing hard. His complexion paled by several shades. Moka could not help but notice he let Zmei’s insult go unanswered.

The ogre-elder laid a gentle palm on the guide’s shoulder, looking down with sympathy toward his smaller kin.

“Aye. Granon,” the ogre-elder said. “I saw it in the clouds. Tomorrow night, the winds blow once again.”

Moka’s guide, Granon, trembled, his palm shaking so much it forced Moka to sink to her knees, propping herself up with her hands. A significant silence filled the dwelling. Granon was the first to break it.

“But, the last one was only a week ago…”

Granon trailed off in defeat or acceptance. To Moka, the result was the same. She was tired of it. Raising her hoarse voice, Moka chastised the giants with impunity from her delicate perch.

“Inescapable death this. Big, bad winds that. You lot are worse than kobolds. I will change your fate. Either help me, or put me outside so I can get to work.”

Four pairs of luminous eyes fixated on the bite-sized goblin. Granon’s trembling ceased, allowing Moka to climb to her feet. She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot, encased in a finely crafted leather shoe. With deliberate posturing, she presented her impatience in every way she could, besides speaking. Her voice hurt.

“Well?” she prompted when no one spoke, a needle of pain tickling her throat.

Orestilla replied first, her marble-like features creasing in fine lines as her mouth pulled down into a suppressed scowl.

“Fine.” Orestilla rubbed her eyebrows with her thumb and forefinger. “You speak the truth, even if we do not wish to hear it. It all began many years ago, when the winds first came and blew the clouds away. We treated it as a holy day, lighting great fires to offer the smoke to the clouds. Over the years-”

“No!” Moka yelled, cutting the giantess off. Yelling to speak was horrible, but she would not sit here for another hour while the elders led her by the nose with their stories. She leveled her chisel at Granon. “I am not here to scare rabbits. Who is killing you, why, and what have you already tried?”

Granon looked around at the elders, trying and failing to clear his throat. He brought a wooden goblet to his lips with his goblin-free hand, looking away from Moka’s confrontational stare all the while. After wetting his throat, he looked to the elders in askance. Moka pricked him with her chisel. Right between his thumb and forefinger.

“Ow!” Granon shook his hand on instinct, reacting to the unexpected pain. Moka went tumbling through the air, only to land on a bed of smooth, dry scales. Zmei’s slitted pupils stared down at her, his forked tongue flicking out to taste the air.

“Little one, you cannot stab people just because they are not doing what you want,” the snake-elder said, his long, curved canines flashing.

Moka faced him, her chin held high. Her ruby eyes clashed with his predatory gaze, not giving an inch. She lifted the chisel to her mouth and licked off Granon’s blood without breaking eye contact. Violence crackled in the air.

“My name is Moka, Champion of Azarus. I will do my god’s bidding and no other.” Moka adjusted her grip on the chisel, her clammy hands finding the grip endlessly uncomfortable. A bead of stinging sweat rolled down her forehead and into her eye. She did not blink. Her knees felt stiff, like she would have to break them to move. “You deny my help and belittle my god. What respect have you afforded to me that I should return the favor?”

Claws sprung from the tips of Zmei’s fingers, curling in to hem Moka on all sides.

“The respect of not being a snack,” Zmei said, his jaw unhinging as if he needed the extra space to swallow Moka whole.

Moka bared her teeth at the snake-blooded giant.

“That respect, I have returned.”

Zmei narrowed his eyes, a dark purple liquid dripping down his fangs. There was a sudden rush of movement. Moka’s stomach churned. She clenched her teeth to keep the squash rising in her throat from erupting out of her mouth.

When the world stopped spinning, Moka was once again in Granon’s hands. Orestilla stood between them and Zmei, who looked on the verge of dismissing the illusion of decency. The ogre-elder was off to the side, staring into the middle-distance, lost in thought.

“Granon,” Orestilla said over her shoulder. “Why don’t you take our dear visitor home and explain the situation? We elders need to have a discussion.”

Without a word, Granon cupped Moka in his hands, turned, and left.