Chapter 92: Returning Student
“Giant-kin is an ancient term that dates back to a bygone age of antiquity, rooted deeply in the folklore and myths of early civilizations. Back in those ancient day’s it was believed that giants would lay with humans to produce hybrid offspring. Non-mutant humans that were particularly tall were called Giant-kin, and many assumed they possessed latent magical abilities tied to their giant ancestry.
“However, as our understanding of biology and genetics has advanced, we now know these ancient beliefs to be little more than myth and legend. Giants, as a distinct race, possess biological and genetic makeups entirely incompatible with humans or any other species, making crossbreeding impossible. Most of those historically labeled as Giant-kin were likely experiencing a genetic condition that we now identify as gigantism—a disorder characterized by abnormal growth due to an excess of growth hormone.
“Gigantism generally results in excessive height and size, but it often brings with it a variety of health issues. However, research has revealed that there are certain variants, or strands, of gigantism that manifest with few to no health problems, allowing individuals to live long relatively healthy lives. These less severe forms are more commonly found among certain populations within Gix.
“Despite the myth of Giant-kin being debunked, the term continues to persist in modern language, though its meaning has shifted. Today, ‘Giant-kin’ is often used as slang, referring to anyone who is exceptionally tall, whether or not they possess any underlying genetic condition. It is sometimes employed in a playful or affectionate way to describe those who possess the height and bearing that would have once inspired stories of ancient giant blood. In some circles, the term has also come to specifically denote those who have the less problematic form of gigantism from certain populations, or those of the goliath clans.
—“Etymology of Phrases and Slang” By Orvon Jackel
Seated on a weathered, leather couch was Steven Crowley, the former priest and once-revered Hand of Light. His somber presence was contrasted by the delicate porcelain teacup he held with steady hands. The brownish-crimson tea within shimmered faintly, its surface rippling as he brought it to his lips. Wisps of steam curled upward, carrying a light, floral aroma that gently permeated the room, mingling with the faint scent of old books and polished wood.
Crowley took measured sips, his gaze fixed on the woman before him. Across the coffee table sat that woman that came to him about her husband, Stacy, perched stiffly on the edge of a matching couch. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her handbag, betraying her unease. Stacy was an ordinary woman by outward appearances, yet there was a haunted quality in her eyes that had drawn her to Crowley. She had come seeking his counsel, burdened by troubling concerns about her husband—concerns she could barely voice without trembling.
The room fell into a contemplative silence, broken only by the soft clink of the teacup meeting its saucer. Crowley leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable yet attentive, as if weighing every word she had spoken thus far. Here, in this dimly lit sanctuary, he listened—not as a priest, but as a man who understood the shadows that could creep into any heart.
Stacy: “I just don’t know what to do father. I did what you told me to do, but it’s just not working. We spoke to the priest at the church, but he didn’t open up at all. He just asked the priest at the church to perform a purification ritual on him to help reassure me, but I can tell there is still something wrong.”