Sign In
Register
Help
Add Reply
He was a tall man, standing an inch or two over six feet, and very muscular, with a V-shaped shoulder structure, though his powerful muscles were not so large that they threatened to engulf his head. He had curly hair, thick, rigid and black, with brown eyes that peered out from a face that looked as though it had been carved out of a block of wood and then bludgeoned repeatedly by the blunt half of an axe. With a bear shaped ring hung around his neck by an old boot lace (for the ring was far too small for even his pinky fingers), he trampled the maroon sand under his leathery boots, in dust covered blue pants with a belt that sported a bronze belt buckle forged in the face of a bear, and a brown vest with a chest harness attached to it, and a medium sized bag slung over his shoulders.
The only sound other than the wind in the maroon colored desert was his voice, a bass voice thicker than his dark hair, absentmindedly singing to himself.
“I’m woven in a fantasy; I can’t believe the things I see. The path that I have chosen now has led me to a wall, and with each passing day I feel a little more like something dear was lost. It rises now before me, a dark and silent barrier between all I am and everything I would ever want to be. It’s just a travesty towering, marking off the boundaries my spirit would erase.”
He was coming upon a rockier part of the terrain, adorned with boulders and small, barely there hills, leading into a valley so small it would hardly be classified as one.
“To pass beyond is what I seek. I fear that I would be too weak, and those are few who’ve seen it through, to glimpse the other side.”
For a moment, he thought he saw a shadow pass over him, not large enough to be a monstrous beast but much bigger than any bird that might dwell in the maroon desert.
“The promised land is waiting, like a maiden that is soon to be a bride. The moment is a masterpiece, the weight of indecision’s in the air, standing there, symbol and sum of all that’s me. It’s just a travesty.”
He thought he saw the shadow a second time, but ignored it.
“Towering, blocking out the light and blinding me, I want to see.”
The shadow seemed to appear a third time, but again he ignored it. He would have continued his song, but he became distracted by the sound of another song, a falsetto.
“I want to break free, I want to break free. I want to break free from your lies; you’re so self-satisfied I don’t need you…”
Liking the sound of the song, he decided to follow it.
“I’ve fallen in love. I’ve fallen in love for the first time, this time I know it’s for real, I’ve fallen in love…”
The sound of the song led him to what appeared to be a person half submerged in the ground, arms up in the air, head obscured by what appeared to be a black hood with a green tint to it.
“It’s strange, but it’s true. I can’t get over the way you love me like you do, but I have to make sure before I walk out the door. Oh how I want to be free…”
He set down his bag of belongings intending to step forward, not expecting the sound to be loud enough to attract the singer’s ears, but it did. The singer turned around, spotted him and, in a distinctly feminine voice, forgetting the song, “Stop short you idiot!”
He did that much, and corrected the half singer “How un-courteous.”
“Better un-courteous than to have you walk right into the quick sand!”
“Quick sand?” He looked down at the sand that was directly in front of his foot and followed it out to where the singer was stuck, and while it didn’t look any different from the sand he was standing on, it would explain why he was only seeing half of the singer. To be sure, he picked up a rock and dropped it directly in front of where he was standing. It immediately sank. “Well what do you know, it is quick sand.”
“I told you as much!” shouted the singer indignantly. “Would I have warned you of it if I were some supernatural creature inhabiting the sand, pretending to be caught when my real agenda is to lure you to your doom?!”
He chose to venture his own question rather than answer hers. “Are you in peril, girl?”
“Not at all,” she replied haughtily, but sinking ever so slightly into the sand. “I’m perfectly capable of getting myself out of here, thank you very much. It’s very rude to assume that I’m a damsel in distress just because I’m waist deep in quick sand you know.”
“It’s also rude to assume that I’m an idiot just because I wasn’t aware that there was quick sand before me, girly girl.”
“And don’t address me as girl, I am legally a woman!”
“So you want me to just call you woman?”
“No, but I would prefer lady or ma’am, if that’s perfectly alright with you!”
“Girl, ma’am, woman, lady, female, it’s all the same genealogy.” He opened his bag and began to take out miscellaneous items ranging from water canteens to what appeared to be a cast iron tree branch and asked mildly “What’s your name?”
“Imogene.”
“Sounds kosher.”
“It is. What’s yours?”
“I have three,” he said, holding up his hand and counting them off. “Leon Conrad Maciste.” (pronounced Ma-Chee-Stay)
“Leon, Conrad and Maciste?” Imogene repeated sounding a bit confused, sinking another inch into the sand. “Which name is your name, or are you giving me an option?”
“They are all my names, but most call me by the third name of Maciste.”
“Maciste… Are you some kind of egomaniac that you’re not content with just one name, you have to have three, Maciste? Or are these the names of heathen gods who imbue you with great strength and/or power?” She sank two more inches into the sand.
“No, they were just names that my parents liked and since they couldn’t decide on just one, they gave me all three. Leon is from the king of Vadis, Conrad after my mother’s father, and Maciste…” he trailed off a moment, then resumed “you know, I actually don’t know where that one came from. I’ve been told that in some languages it means macho man or male chauvinist.”
She sank in another two inches. “How proud you must be. And did your parents have three names as well?”
“Nope, they only had one name between the two of them. My father called himself Dolph, and Ma called herself Miriam.”
“I see,” she said, up to her chest in sand. “And what brings you all the way out here?”
“Nothing much, really. I’m just one of those happy wanderer types. What brings you out here?”
“Just looking for solitude,” replied Imogene, sinking ever deeper into the sand.
“Ah, solitude,” said Maciste, nodding his head wisely. “Solitude is a terrible thing to waste. Now where is that- ah, here it is.” From out of the bag he pulled out a black chain that seemed too long for the bag he was carrying it in.
Imogene was up to her neck now in sand.
“Sure you’re not in peril?”
“No, I told you I am perfectly capable of getting out of this myself. I don’t need some barbarian’s assistance.”
“Now see, that’s also rude, assuming that I’m a barbarian just because I happen to stand over six feet and possess a statuesque physicality.”
“Well what am I supposed to assume you are? A philosopher? A poet? An artisan? A wizard? A sorcerer? A mage? A king? A demigod?”
“I’m a fixer.”
“A fixer? What’s a fixer? How are you a fixer?”
“I make problems go away,” he replied simply, swinging the chain over his head. “You appear to have a problem, and it appears to need fixing.”
With that, he launched the chain out in her direction; the cuff of the chain latched onto her outstretched wrist, and he began to pull her towards him, hardly breaking a sweat.
“Where did you get such a bag?”
“Blind wizard,” answered Maciste. “I gave him one of my claymores, and in return he gave me this wonderfully endless bag.”
“How much can it hold?”
“As much as I need it to hold and then some. It’s been quite a boon to me; makes traveling much easier. Don’t know how I ever got along without it.” He picked up the chains and started to swing them over his head, building himself up.
“What did a wizard, blind or otherwise, need with a claymore? I thought wizards just used wands and staffs.”
“Well, technically, you can channel magic through just about anything, so said the wizard. He’d lost his staff and needed a new beacon to be the focal point of his magic and also his director, and of the many blunt objects in my possession, the claymore seemed to work best for him.”
As he pulled her up to the edge of the quicksand and pulled her out, he noticed something unusual to her face – she had bright yellow eyes, basically human, not catlike, but just being yellow in and of itself was unusual. Her hood also fell back from her as he pulled her out, revealing that she had long, fluffy blue hair.
“Thank you,” she grumbled, embarrassed. “But I still could have gotten out of there by myself.” Then, as an afterthought, she asked “You’re not going to try and molest me, are you?”
Rolling his head around his shoulders, Maciste blustered “What is with women that they always have sex on their minds? They think every man has nothing better to do than bed down with them.”
“Well excuse me for checking to make sure that you’re not the molester type! And why am I not worth molesting?! Do I not look good enough to at least merit the notion?!”
“You’re very molest worthy, I assure you,” replied Maciste, “but I find it offensive that so many of the women in peril I encounter assume that I’m only assisting them because I’m looking for sexual rapture. You don’t know how sore a man gets when all he does is- by the way, how’d you get into that quick sand in the first place?”
And it was about here that I hit the brick wall of writer's block.
This post has been edited by Lord Aquaman: 10 April 2006 - 09:01 PM
MultiQuote