How's this for an opening to a novel? No idea where it will go.
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As the lightening flashed and the rains sliced down, as the clouds moaned and the thunder roared, as the moon lay tranquil in the sky and as the tribe watched, they fought.
It was ritual. Their damp cloaks of animal skins whirled around them as they danced each other's swords. Physically and mentally they were matched, but he knew he was more. He could feel it by the raindrops on his skin, by the cold in his bones and by the smouldering in his eyes. He was more. The gods, the spirit, karma...they would line up to kiss the ground beneath his feet.
He slew the other there, in the clearing atop the hill, with the tribe gathered for all to see. With the light in his father's eyes barely gone he slew his own brother, in the clearing atop the hill. The tribe was his. This ritual, the first of many, was done.
