From afar, they looked like sluggish toys crawling toward the wall — distant, almost comical, as if the desert heat bent their silhouettes into something harmless. But as the dust thinned and the ground's trembling grew into a rolling quake, the scale bared itself.
They were not toys.
They were titans.
Bigger than the usual hill-born giants Azezal had described in half-truths. Not quite Loki's impossible height, but massive nonetheless — each stride an earthquake, each breath a storm's sigh.
Their skin came in hues that seemed stolen from different realms. Some were the dull granite grey of the Underlands, others a copper-red that caught the firelight like cooling embers. A few bore a blue so pale it made them seem carved from old ice.
Some had horns — curling forward like rams, sweeping back like blades, or jagged like shattered coral. Others bore no horns at all, their heads bald but ridged, veins throbbing beneath skin like exposed roots.
