Dragoncrest Cliffs itchuktuk

There comes a frost giant; his face is garish and pink with scar-tissue the likes of which Kivirut had never seen before, but he knew this type from the stories his grandmother had told him. They were larger than any wolf of Tartok, each step flowing stiffly to the next, and when their attention trained upon the boy he felt his stomach knot and his withers tremble.

They spoke in a manner Kivirut was not accustomed. His siblings had always had a way with words; and his grandmother Uma, she never allowed him to speak in foreign tongues, only the language of his people. Kivirut was further dismayed by this. His tail curled nearly to his pale belly and he groveled low. Then there came a second wolf — smaller, older too from the smell of her — but her presence did not diminish Kivirut's apprehension.

Unfortunately he could not tame his nerves enough to speak, finding a greater comfort in pressing himself low and small to the sand, with a pleading note issued from his throat—all signs of submission, asking for acceptance over violence.