Horacio, the father of the lost son Romeo, tells a darker tale at the Blue Moon Inn. He claims the giants aren't mindless brutes. He says they are gardeners. That their stone clubs aren't for smashing adventurers—they are for tilling . For breaking the hard clay of the human world so that the forest can reclaim it.
They don’t roam the trade roads. Not yet. But every spring, when the fog rolls off the River Lum and clings to the cobblestones of Varrock’s southeast district, the guards speak in hushed tones about the thrum . moss giants varrock
They go down there because if you listen closely—between the drips of filthy water and the squeak of rats—you can hear the giants humming. A deep, earthy chord. Horacio, the father of the lost son Romeo,