The girl is custodian of a full suit of plate armour. On her seventeenth birthday, she puts on the armour and walks to the marsh. For a long time, she waits, sling shot in hand for the marsh giant made of mud to lumber forward out of his boggy mess. His bewitching song comes first, lulling her, calling her forward through the swamp sheoak and mahogany and into his rotten nest. But she holds her ground. Even as he looms up above her dripping and revolting, she bides her time. She waits and waits for him to expose his throat so she can take her shot. Now.