In the lower ranges of Epher, where winter brings rain, not snow, and temperatures too cold for crops to grow, the winter brings stories told by folk who drink and gather about a fire so warm and full of light.
They tell the story there of a man of ages past, a man called Erek, the giant slayer.
One might think of beasts as tall as trees or mountains when one thinks of the ancient horror of giants. But these were different giants, these were simply men. For Erek was of a stature so small, it was thought he was borne of faerie blood, or perhaps a simple curse.
When invasion came to that home of his, in the mountains between the rains, Erek stood when few others would, with a dagger that to him was as a sword. Before he had drawn blood, none knew what secrets he held.
They knew the invasion was coming, but chose to flee and hide, presenting their treasures and symbols of wealth in the hopes their conquerors would happily leave. But Erek knew better than the hopes of those who would hide as their homes would be burned, and alone he wandered that treacherous path to meet those who would conquer and raze.
With shield and sword he went with pride to face those who came for a prize. With laughter they met him, with certainty they pushed by to be met with a blade of cold. A sword cares not for the size of its owner but the flesh which it meets to open.
And soon would the laughter be turned to a fear and a anger in their desperate spree. But Erek was quick and with skill and a rage made potent by the disbelief of foes. He cut and he sliced, he stabbed and he tore the lives from those whom he saw.
Until not but a whimper remained from a corpse did Erek take rest from his rage. And home he would go with his spoils of war, to claim the treasures the village had left. And when an elder did challenge his claim, he killed him just as the invaders, for Erek took payment through gold or through blood, as he ended what giants stood against him.