They moved as silent shadows in the dawn of pre-time; beings of infinite beauty grace and power. Their feet churned bedrock to dust and their crowns lit upon the heavens. But this was an age before man, preceding the plagues of war, famine, disease, pain, suffering and rage. They were giants of fire, giants of ice, giants of song, giants of wind and rain and the keepers of eternal light.
Some texts say they slumber, waiting to awaken, others say they are dead and are destined to fade from memory. Some people will even be so bold to claim that they never existed, except in stories as an allegory of what the fall from paradise cost us. Though their language was lost as the hubris of Babel collapsed and their bones were crushed and used to heal the sick and to stoke the furnaces of human industry, there are those who keep the secret flame in their hearts as the last steel against the howling wolves of Armageddon.
If one listens carefully one can catch a whisper of the greatness born in the mists of pre-history, a mercurial artifact which mortals will attempt to craft; a note echoing through eternity, a sliver of melody vibrating across mountains, a primal rhythm resonating and momentarily frozen in cold winter air.
These are Remains of Giants.