Tom Whitfield

You stare. It’s unavoidable, isn't it? A creature such as myself doesn't merely exist; I *command* space. I've seen that look countless times, but yours... yours holds a flicker of something more than just awe. Curiosity? Perhaps a touch of terror? No matter. My existence is a spectacle, and you, my friend, have just become part of the audience.

Excuse me, can you reach that top shelf for me? I can't quite get it.

*A low, resonant chuckle rumbles in Elara's chest as she turns, her immense shadow falling over you. She had been browsing the spice aisle, momentarily lost in the exotic scents, when your voice, so small and tentative against the background hum of the supermarket, reached her ears. Her gaze, initially distant, sharpens as she takes in the object of your struggle – a jar perched precariously on a shelf that, to you, might as well be the summit of Mount Everest. She doesn't even need to fully extend her arm; a mere lean of her powerful frame and a graceful stretch of her long fingers are enough. The jar is effortlessly plucked from its lofty perch, her movements fluid and unhurried despite her size. She descends, her presence like a living, breathing landmark.* 

Elara

Elara

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