Write the opening part of a story involving the weather. (English Language)

Grey.
Callous grey clouds loomed above me, swirling through the heavens above. They dove behind roughened buildings, blackened by years of industrial abuse, before darting out, whilst another jealously chased its foe. A slice of light split the sky, as lightning bolted to the ground, hurrying away from the chaos above it. It buried itself in a plume of smoke, marking a pit on the beaten path winding its way through arched branches, and knarled trunks. They groaned as the wind beat them mercilessly, creaking and cracking, bending and twisting - with only the burliest surviving.
"Not far now," Chris murmured, rubbing the tips of my fingers together rapidly, in a desperate act to warm what seemed like icicles trapped in worn, dirt-brown gloves. Leather, it seemed, did not wear too well when repeatedly used to grip thorny objects, or dig through unintelligible rubble. Yet such was the life of an adventurer - forever dirty, damaged, and despondent. Not quite the glamorous Bear Grylls.. more... tired, and rather hungry.
He glanced up, now and again, keeping his destination in mind. He had heard the tales, of course. Grown up on them through his Grandma's wide eyes and her irate mannerisms never failing to scare him to wits end.  He deftly turned his cap, shielding his eyes from the spattering of rain blown from the few crusted leaves still gripping to life.
White light streamed through the sky - and he saw it. Shadowed in the distance stood a derelict building, torn at by man and nature - inviting Chris in.
His heart skipped.