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There Will Be (Were) Giants

Chapter 1. The Marksman?

He doesn't remember.

His yellow eyes narrow, while he aims his trusty rifle. He shoots something – what? – and gets to the next thing. Works alongside some...one – who? – who has enough raw power to snap him in two like a toothpick and leave a trail of frost and corpses in their wake. He remembers nothing else, except of a feeling of morbid fascination and sounds of gunshots echoing all around.

He doesn't remember, and, as far as he concerned, he can't. Each time he starts asking himself these questions, it leaves him with nothing but a head-splitting migraines. So he stops, untill the pain goes away. It gnaws and eats at him, that he can't recall anything at all beyond those snippets. He tries his best to ignore this feeling of irrational guilt. It's hard, because there's not much to keep his mind occupied.

He wanders around the seemingly broken world with nearly nothing on his person, except for a slightly torn wide-brimmed hat, a fairly tattered but still wearable poncho, a slightly singed set of clothes, and a very familiar, despite being partially splintered, weapon. It actually hurts to see this familiar rifle in his hands damaged so badly, that it renders it nearly completely useless. It actually causes something inside of him to twist and cause pain. It's just... He probably could shoot it fairly well, but he isn't really sure that he can fix it.

He survives off what he can get when he can get it. Berries, roots... Sometimes, when he's particularly lucky, it's meat of some twisted creature, caught in a makeshift trap. He sleeps when he can find shelter, usually below trees or in caverns. He drinks from streams, boiling water when he can. This is how he learns, that his survivalist skills aren't nonexistent, although they are nothing spectacular.

He bandages three of five his eyes as well as he can, with bandages made out of torn off parts of his clothes. The ugly wound that mars a better half of his face begins to scab, becoming a scar. Somehow, his strange luck makes it so he didn't lose his eyes. He's endlessly thankful for that, because his eyesight is mostly the thing that saves him these days. The realm he's inside of has no shortages of various beasts or disasters to throw his way. Even though with two eyes he can see fairly well too, it's the other three that help him really pick out details on further distances and see much better in the dark. His face wound still heals, forcing him to bandage himself, but he still can see through the gaps in between wraps, always staying vigilant.

If he spots danger, he runs away, because there is simply no way for him to take on any one of encountered monstrosities in a fight. He doesn't stay in one place for long either. Not that he has any particular destination in mind, but camps attract attention, and he wants none of that. He feels like there's enough of it concentrated at him already, from all the creatures here. All the eyes... He's got trouble sleeping, and that's an understatement. Maybe that's why he has these migraines and hallucinations...

Sometimes it's a pipsqueak of some sort, in clothes with tears from claws and teeth, staring at him with his only good eye. Sometimes it's a hulking giant figure, partially covered in beaten and worn metal armor. Another one looks like a kid with spidery legs made of spiky vines and treeroots, sprouting all kinds of leaves and mushrooms as something that looks like a hooded cloak. The fourth is actually fancy, with his clothes looking akin to a rich pirate captain, but this one slowly crumbles into dust before his eyes. And the last one, the only woman among them, even though tough and brutish, looks like she had something searing-hot explode her into pieces, and then was sewn back together. Whoever did that, wanted it to hurt as much as possible, because the stitches were ugly and very much poorly-done. She wore a hat, made of a head of a wild boar, and both she and the dead hog looked at him. Thinking of them made his head hurt again.

Even more disturbing was that he had the same stitches as that woman. Gruesome, visible and stretching along all of his body. He couldn't help, but see some sort of connection between them, despite her being his hallucination and making his migraines spike.

That's the reason for his reaction to actually seeing another someone, not something, alive... Is both disbelief and relief. The fact that he can see them with his limited vision is so relieving, that his knees nearly buckle. Nearly. He regains his composure, a bit suspicious yet, while making his way to the... Man? He shouts at them, using his trusty gun as a prop to hold himself upright – he feels worn after long hours of trekking through the torn-apart world. He waves his hand at the person and can't help but smile. It's gonna be alright. He found somebody!

He is met with a look of shock and bewilderment on other man's vaguely familiar angled redish face, partially hidden under the wide-brimmed hat. Two yellow eyes look at him with a mix of interest and disbelief. The instrument in his hands, something that looks like a guitar, but isn't a guitar, lays forgotten, as a man stands from his place at the encampment, his dark clothed sillhouette a stark contrast on the unkept background of the surrounding world.

— Marksman?.. Is that you?

He stops himself, now only a few paces from the man. His throat hurts, because shouting after who-knows-how-long of not speaking to anyone would do that to you, of course. So, he opts to instead tilt his head quizzically, while looking at the known-unknown musician.

Is he? Isn't he? Who is this Marksman?

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