Steady as a metronome, the beat of metal clanking against stone echoed down the pathway, Gigue scaling the mountain in large, sweeping strides. Muscles rolled tightly under the fabric of his suit, body moving like clockwork, yet with none of a machine's stiffness, a myriad of twitches, tensing fibers weaving together to form the fabric of a predatory flow, running down from head to spine to feet. A snow leopard on the prowl in the frigid realm of ice and jagged cliffs, he'd make this place his hunting grounds, calloused hands with beaten knuckles clenching onto brass and eyes set on the road leading to the battlegrounds, averted from the wintry beauty laid beside. Unlike many others, who came here for the prize, he was in the tournament only for the competition, the very mind that took it as a sworn duty to protect the defenseless also housing an unexpected appreciation for bloodsports.
Challenge and hardships had always been part of his life, and Gigue was never afraid to roll his sleeves up and take his problems head on; no matter whether it required a sharp wit, perseverance or reckless bravery - the latter one day earning him his first scars. Since then, his relationship with the art of violence grew, as it tangled over his soul like an ivy, flourished - and blossomed, yielding generous harvests of its perilous fruit. A burning passion for the primordial clash of wills paved his career in professional boxing and wrestling, some his most prized memories being that of fights in the ring, and it was there that the ruffian streetfighter honed his skill to become a true warrior. However, he abruptly retired to become bodyguard, returning to his vigilante roots just a few fights short of the title of world champion: long ago, when he was still a youth, his father, a merchant, was a victim to racket, and standing up to protect his family was what had pushed him to it in first place, so while mastering combat, Gigue vowed that his skill would be used for the same cause once again. At that time, it meant all to him - but now, with many years passing in arduous, routine work, blood boiled in the veins, a long forgotten yearning for adventure, thrill and glory awakening from slumber.
The Black Mountain gave opportunity to experience two great pleasures: that of a worthy challenge, and that of a victory. Gigue Lagace was here to savor both.
A sharp turn around the corner led towards an opening, through which he could see a flat, rounded cliff, which he reckoned would be an arena. One might hesitate at this point: draw their weapons, check their equipment, or try to quell their sudden rush of fear, but Gigue stepped right in - he had his brass knuckles already on, why bother with anything else? With a thunderous boom, the pathway closed, the mountains rocks shifting on their own to block his exit. The man smirked - as if that was necessary. Blood would be spilled, the spirits of the mountain needn't doubt that.
Challenge and hardships had always been part of his life, and Gigue was never afraid to roll his sleeves up and take his problems head on; no matter whether it required a sharp wit, perseverance or reckless bravery - the latter one day earning him his first scars. Since then, his relationship with the art of violence grew, as it tangled over his soul like an ivy, flourished - and blossomed, yielding generous harvests of its perilous fruit. A burning passion for the primordial clash of wills paved his career in professional boxing and wrestling, some his most prized memories being that of fights in the ring, and it was there that the ruffian streetfighter honed his skill to become a true warrior. However, he abruptly retired to become bodyguard, returning to his vigilante roots just a few fights short of the title of world champion: long ago, when he was still a youth, his father, a merchant, was a victim to racket, and standing up to protect his family was what had pushed him to it in first place, so while mastering combat, Gigue vowed that his skill would be used for the same cause once again. At that time, it meant all to him - but now, with many years passing in arduous, routine work, blood boiled in the veins, a long forgotten yearning for adventure, thrill and glory awakening from slumber.
The Black Mountain gave opportunity to experience two great pleasures: that of a worthy challenge, and that of a victory. Gigue Lagace was here to savor both.
A sharp turn around the corner led towards an opening, through which he could see a flat, rounded cliff, which he reckoned would be an arena. One might hesitate at this point: draw their weapons, check their equipment, or try to quell their sudden rush of fear, but Gigue stepped right in - he had his brass knuckles already on, why bother with anything else? With a thunderous boom, the pathway closed, the mountains rocks shifting on their own to block his exit. The man smirked - as if that was necessary. Blood would be spilled, the spirits of the mountain needn't doubt that.
