And behold, the able-bodied barbarian, bustling with might, weathered by battle, sat upon a crate, his hands before his face, pensively regarding Delver.  A beautiful exotic woman stood beside his hulking seated figure, one hand upon his taut, bulbous shoulder.  Her hair, dark -- like the gloomy precipice below.  Her eyes, green -- like the verdant fields that belonged to the ancient nomadic tribes that sired one Aronax Nier.<br/><br/>"My Lord and Master wishes to know if it is very cold at 11,500 feet, sir," the woman said in a gently accented voice.  She had not moved.  Aronax Nier did not appear to care if it was very cold at 11,500 feet.  He had not uttered a word.