"Incident report: Koris and Drevin were at it again. The pair of them are incorrigible rogues, and should really be punished more severely. Yes, I am aware that they are children, but who knows what that brute could do when he's grown?"

I blinked the sleep from my eyes as the transport touched down. Strange, isn't it? I've always felt more at home in ships than I did on the ground. As a Half-Giant born in a town of Elves, I'm used to being different, but even so...it's strange, I suppose. On the ship, I'd been the only one able to catch a moment's rest atop the stormy seas. And even now, riding in an over-sized wooden box, carried through the skies by an untrustworthy and viciously stupid dragon, I'd managed to get some rest. I looked over at Drevin, hoping that my oldest friend had managed some rest - but no, of course not. I loved him dearly, considering him a true brother to me after all we'd been through, but my patience was wearing thin with that damned medallion of his.

"Look, Blue, put that thing away or somebody's gonna take it." I called him Blue as a joke, of course - my blue skin was a far more appealing shade, the royal azure of the deep seas, whereas his shock of blue was softer, paler, a robin's-egg sort of shade. But it brought a smile to his face - usually. Not this time. He turned to look at me, and I could tell something was wrong. "Shit, cheer up. Stick by my side, Blue, and you'll be fine. You have the strongest arm in Aman'lu at your side! With my strength and your speed, they don't stand a chance!" It was bravado, of course. I knew little about the Dryads of Greilyn Isle, but from what I'd heard, even a mercenary force this large would be in for quite the fight.

Perhaps a little background would help: My name is Koris, and evidently, I am some kind of idiot. Born in a town of elves, to parents who died when I was still young, I always felt I had to prove myself. My little sister, Imara, was lucky enough to be fully human, and therefore less reviled than I. But when you're seven feet tall, covered in tattoos, and still only five years old, you have a bit of a chip on your shoulder. The thing about my strength was no boast, by the way - from the age of ten, I was the strongest brute in the whole village, able to carry ten times as much as most of the guards. But my footwork was clumsy, my precision was laughable, and I had no idea how the elves managed their graceful, complex dances. But I wanted to make something of myself, regardless. I worked with the blacksmith, learning everything I could about weapons, armor, shields, and even jewelry. I wanted to make beautiful works of art, but that never panned out. Everything I shaped was ugly, brutish, and painfully efficient. My swords were sharper and sturdier than those my my mentor, but nobody around would be caught dead holding such a distasteful lump of metal. So I branched out.

The elves have a tradition: Upon coming of age, their children would leave the village on a journey, accumulating wealth and knowledge of the world, which they would use to start a life for themselves. Mercenary work was always a decent enough bet, and few would turn their noses up at it. Typically, a returning elf would declare his intentions to the village, who would gather around to celebrate the child's passage into adulthood. Sometimes, those who returned would be far nicer and more tolerant towards me than they had been when they left. Once, a returning elf actually apologized to me for his cruel words. I was dumbfounded. Perhaps the clarity and perspective that they gained on their travels made them a better-rounded, more mature person. But I was young, and stupid, and headstrong. I knew what I wanted, and for the first time in my life, I was competing with somebody: Drevin.

Our parents were friends, I think. His mom and my mom grew up together. That's why their family took me and my sister in, and it's why we were so close. He was fast in the same sense that I was strong: the word hardly did it justice. Precise and perfect as a striking snake, Drevin had a knack for finding the weak point in a foe's armor, and delivering a debilitating blow to precisely the right spot. Our skills were complimentary, and we worked well as a team. But he was a young man, just as I was, and our greatest agreement was on her. Finala. A no-nonsense, mechanically-inclined elf whose solutions to life's problems were similar to my own. I favored an axe, sure, whereas she had a flair for Combat Magic, but we got on magnificently. But I knew that Drevin, upon his return, was planning to ask her to marry him. I went to one of the few Elders who treated me with respect, and asked him for advice.

Amren, wise and old, blessed with incredible vision of the mystical and mundane varieties, consoled me. "Go with your friend, Drevin. If something happens to him, and you are not there, you would never forgive yourself. Moreover, should you and he return as a team, bearing gold and the skills you'll need to make your way in the world, what cause could she have to favor him over you? I have seen you three, playing in the forests, and I know that it is you she loves, as you love her. It may hurt Drevin to see her choose you, but he will understand - especially if you drop hints, over the course of your journeys, that you plan to marry her upon your return."

Giving him my thanks, I left at once, finding Drevin and outlining my plan: We would go on our journey together, as brothers, watching one another's backs and supporting each other. If he knew my secondary motivation, he didn't show it - looking back, I suspect he knew. Not that it mattered, in the end. His only concern at the time was that I was still young - sixteen was plenty old, I argued, as half-giants tend to mature quickly - and that our sisters may not approve of such a matter. But they did, and threw us a going-away party, singing songs and dancing and even revealing the gift they had been preparing for Drevin: A beautiful shield, one of my best pieces of work, but modified to be substantially more aesthetically pleasing. The crest of his family was etched into the center, and comfortable leather straps had been adjusted precisely for his arm. It was even inlaid with the same pattern of silver leaves and vines that twined around his father's hammer, a light little weapon of considerable weight. With them both, he looked like a proper warrior, and I was proud to stand beside him.

My choice of weaponry was a little more simple: A greatsword by the standards of most humans and elves, I had made it for my own hands, and could swing it easily enough one-handed, or take a firm grip with both hands to deliver a more powerful blow. I knew it was ugly and over-sized, but honestly, I found a comforting similarity to myself in it. At eight and a half feet tall, I was large, even for my kind, and though I had filled out with muscle, I knew I wasn't what anybody would call 'handsome'. I was efficient, however, and durable, much as the blade I carried. It was shaped perfectly for my style, primarily composed of sharp chops and crushing thrusts, but with the occasional elven technique thrown in. One move that I was especially proud of was a sort of parry-riposte that, when performed correctly, could bat aside an attacking blade and impale the person holding it, in one fluid motion. It horrified the elves to see their maneuvers being used in such a way, but I took a quiet satisfaction in that. "Let them play at war," I confided to Imara, after a long day of practice. "I was born to it. The blood of Giants flows in my veins, their brands mark my flesh, and their fury lives in my bones. I will be the greatest warrior Aman'lu has ever seen."

Drevin and I left together the night after our feast, neither of us wanting to admit that we were hung over, and made our way towards the lands of humans. We had a choice before us, with two separate armies looking to recruit. Snowbrook Haven was calling for any able-bodied men and women to help it hold the walls against some sort of impending siege, but that sounded more like soldiering than actual mercenary adventure. So off we went to Kalrathia, to sign up with a prince named Valdis and his army. When we got there, we found they were mostly Morden, but hell, we weren't concerned by that. Neither Drevin nor I had had much reason to distrust them, after all, so what could the harm be? Two days later, we were kitted out with some standard chain mail and regulation helmets, and hopping in a transport headed off to Greilyn.

I should have known better. But if I had, would things have really turned out any better?