#NaNoWriMo : Story for the Day: Word of a Giant P2

After being locked in a large wolves’ cage upon the high snow banks at the edge of the village and left to himself, the giant overheard a small exchange between two of the villagers who were walking back toward the square: a storm was coming, but not any sort that he had been used to endure on the islands; one of violent winds and heavy snows that was fast approaching from the east, one that would envelope the whole of the northwest and hopefully pause the battles overtaking the far west and south, as it would also halt any consignments of rations or weapon taken thither. This would be favourable; it should allow him to travel without being traced, hopefully to the east and along the highlands where his presence would be unfelt in the expanse of the Frewyn countryside. He could return home by way of one of the ships traveling north from the capital, and if he was careful, as he mostly was, he could easily be home in a few weeks by trading one vessel for another in Lucentia, but all his machinations here ceased. His private musings were interrupted by the sudden uproar of whipping snows, pouring down from a deep grey sky in endless sheets. He had heard of Frewyn’s unbearable cold and blinding snows, but he had never expected such excruciating conditions, his discomfort expatiated by the loss of his fur-lined sandals, the constant pangs hunger wracking his body, and his terror at misplacing the one article that might secure his passage home. He huddled within his trappings, keeping only the top of his head uncovered, and began to arrange his escape.
                The cage in which he sat was poorly constructed: the hinges rusted and the bars tolerably bent, by minimal strength and connivance he could easily pull the bars open, but he was tired and cold and starving. He had not rested or eaten in some weeks, and his only notion now was to rejuvenate and absent himself once refreshed. He knew where his weapon was, and that was his only concern at present. He would rest there in the unconvincing prison until nightfall, slip into the armoury by way of the blacksmith window, take what was his, and be gone before morning. Meditation and protracted respirations would be his cure for the hunger and unquietness, but the shame he must be under for having murdered so many, even with reason, and for being forced to allow himself be captured had no remedy. He could only be thankful that no one of consequence was about to see him in his wretched state, shivering and cowering beneath a mound of furs, his chest pressed to his knees, his arms around his shins, his eyes closed, his brow bent in a quiet agony, and his mind furnished with thoughts of home: its warmth, its familiarity, its verdure; these were the images upon which his ruminations rested. The white shore, the ebb and flow of the foaming waters, the trilling sounds of the bards, training with his brothers: his heart was warmed by such notions, and though he felt a pang in his stomach, either from fear of never seeing his home again or from the hunger beginning to eat away his insides, the sensations of peace that the remembrance of the islands produced tranquilized his mind and soothed all his vexation. Nourishment of the body was all that was wanting; nourishment of the spirit found its comfort here. 

Enjoy the story? Enjoy the first book in the series and the new standalone novel:


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