Dijwar swung his pick for hours, his muscles screaming, but the stone barely chipped. He was the unstoppable force, but the mountain was the immovable object.
"The water hasn't vanished," Siyar said one evening, his voice steady. "It has been blocked by the shifting of the Upper Peak. I have seen the eagles circling a new dry patch where the waterfall once began."
"Step back, brother," Siyar whispered. He didn't use a hammer. He spent the night watching the rock, feeling for the hairline fractures where the frost had begun to settle. At dawn, he pointed to a single, jagged point near the base of the blockage. "Strike here. Not with your strength, but with your rhythm."
Adjust the of Siyar or Dijwar to fit your vision.
With a sound like a thunderclap, the granite split. A torrent of icy water erupted, nearly sweeping them both off the ridge. They clung to each other—the Watcher and the Warrior—as the lifeblood of their village roared back down toward the vineyards of Rez.
One winter, a deep, unnatural silence fell over the valley. The springs that fed the vineyards of Rez dried up, and a cold mist settled over the ridges, refusing to lift. The villagers grew desperate.
"Then we break the peak," Dijwar declared, grabbing his heavy iron pick.