In the Shadow of Giants -- Duel Intro

The road twisted between the mountains, hard-pack trodden underfoot by thousands of people before, perhaps millions, or even more. There were no toll booths to keep track, but the steady roar of the old-age wheeled vehicles and the much more modern hover-craft blitzing along the highway wafted up the craggy heights of the age old monoliths that stood watch. Great boughs of jutting granite lay crawling and bulbous hands along the valley floor, making for a convoluted pass, and many smaller valley's hidden in the waiting arms of the larger mountains.

It was up a trail that switchbacked several times. A steep trail set near forty-five degrees with large trees canvasing the overcast sky, clawing away with thick branches and a just-after-rain stench. It was about five kilometers, that a lake stood. It was small, with reeds dotting one edge, the other framed by a towering face of granite and sparse pine and hemlocks. A thin mist blanketed a corner of the lake. The only indication that there was a waterfall was the sound, but beyond the roar and gurgle, there were more trees and rocks. The trail circled the small lake, scrambling up the large building-block-like rocks even higher into the ridge-line.

The weather was in a foul mood, overcast in a belligerent frown and blustering out an even fouler wind. The day had started with a light drizzle, but with a kind of cold that infiltrated bones and set about an inner freeze that made everything especially lethargic, like time slowing. It began to sleet. The rain and snow mingling in a perverse near coitus act, sloshing into the ground in a rough-and-tumble play as they moved in and around one another. Mud began to bubble up as the cold ground rejected the skies urination. A curse and a ruffle of clothing followed as a hood canvased a head and arms pulled in tighter around a body. He danced a short jig, blood flow warming extremities that began to chill. He reminds himself why he's here, and why he feels cold instead of warmth.

"Stupid, bloody, cold. Just had to pick the worst spot, didn't you."

Nobody answered; he didn't expect anyone to answer, not now.

Amarouk turned dead eyes at the sky, then turned them on the waterfall percolating at the far edge. It seemed to always have a renewed sense of vigor, like crystal-clear coffee--nothing but a warmth and a feeling of wired purpose. A jazz that tingled the nerves. He barked out a curse at the cold again, which normally never affected him, and at the waterfall, and at his opponent, who had yet to show his, or her, face. What a rout.