Wanderer's Desert Race against Saoirse

Round 1: The Race Begins

    The deserts of Toby are some of the hottest, bleakest, and most dangerous tracts of wasteland known, and of these the Desert of Marseesh is the worst.  Its endless dunes of sand, nearly unbroken by water or life, are infamous throughout the universe.  Many a civilization has used the Desert of Marseesh as a place to maroon their most heinous criminals, as no other punishment or confinement could be crueler.

    As of this moment, somewhere in its midst, an odd assortment of objects break its tan monochrome expanse.  A folding table has been set up and upon it are maps, water bottles, lotions, bags and other sundry goods.  Beside it, a large “television” screen sits upon a metal tripod.  A red line, much like a track starting line, has been painted upon the desert itself.  Nobody is present.  All is silent.

    The quiet is broken by the low hum of a sand skimmer.  The skimmer stops by the table.  Its door opens and two figures exit.  One is a tall, olive-skinned, dark haired, physically imposing man.  The other is a woman, nearly as tall as the man.  Her long, curly hair is dark too, yet her very slender, lithe body and golden skin juxtapose his physical features.

    The skimmer takes off.  The two figures say nothing and soon all is silent again.

    The television screen flickers to life.  An elderly man with gray hair and bright, black eyes appears on the screen.  He is eating a bagel.

    The woman says, “Domumen, you crazy bastard.  What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

    Domumen chuckles and says, “Challenging you, Saoirse my dear.  Challenging you.”

    Saoirse scans the sea of sand around her and starts a cursing rant.  The man beside her remains silent, his face a mask of placidness.  Eventually Saoirse stops her swearing.

    Domumen says, “OK, let’s get down to business.  You will be foot racing across a portion of the Marseesh Desert.  Both of you will find maps upon the table which have the finish line marked out.  You have both been scanned and frisked for weapons, and so you will start this race weaponless.  You will find hypodermic needles upon the table.  I highly recommend you inject them for they have been specifically prepared to help you from getting sunburned, to remain hydrated, and to help deal with the heat.  That’s about it really.  The first one to cross the finish line wins, and goes on to the next round.  The only stipulation is that you may not physically attack one another.  This is a classic footrace, let’s keep it classy.  Any aggression directed the other will disqualify you from the next round.  There will be time enough for violence later.”

    Saoirse swears some more at the smiling Domumen.  She ends by saying, “This is cruel and inhumane, Domumen, even for you.”

    “Yes, I know Saoirse, my love.  But you’re the best.  I just had to throw the best at you.  I really hope you survive the heat and perils of the desert,” he adds and with that the television screen cuts off.

    Saoirse mumbling the whole time about what she will do the Domumen when she sees him next, and ignoring the man who stands next to her, retrieves two of the four water skins from off the table and throws them over her shoulder.  She gives herself her shots without so much as a flinch and picks up one of the maps.

    She pushes one of her stray tendrils of hair out of her face and back over her ear as she studies it.  She looks at the contour lines and studies the terrain, picking out what will be the fastest and easiest route to take.  She determines this, and calculates the distance.  It is 26 miles long.

    Without any comment to the man standing beside her she begins.  She chooses a comfortable loping gate designed to chew up ground with the least amount of expanse of energy.  After a time she turns her head around to see where her competitor is, fully expecting to see him following her.  He is not; he is still standing motionless at the starting table.

    Too easy she thinks.  Too easy.



    An hour later Saoirse is about a third of the way through the course.  The desert heat has taken its toll though, and sometime back she had to dial it back to a walk.  One of her water skins is already empty and her other is half gone.  She has tried to ration it, but the heat is intense, her thirst is ravenous.  Her lips are chapping and cracking.  Her muscles ache painfully from dehydration and fatigue.

    She looks up and sees a figure ahead of her.  It is her competitor.  “How the hell did he get ahead of me?” she says.  He is standing, not walking or running.  She stops, crouches down and watches him, hoping he hasn’t seen her and realized that she is behind him.

    He seems perplexed.  He has his nose in the air as if he is trying to smell something.  He cranes is head around much like a dog would trying to pick up a scent upon the wind.  Then he begins to run briskly…in the wrong direction.  Saoirse crouches down lower until he is out of sight.

    Too easy she thinks again.  Yet she is worried, somehow he was able to pass her, so as she begins anew she goes back to her long-legged loping jog.



    An hour later Saoirse, her robe draped over her head, sits gingerly upon the brutally hot sand.  Her pace for the last half-hour flagged and she estimates that maybe she is only little more than half way done.  Her two water skins lay in front of her upon the desert floor - empty.  She is roused from her dark ruminations by presence of another and turns her head around backward.

    Even though the blazing sun is behind him and hinders her from seeing the features of his face, she knows it to be the man.  Her heart sinks and for the first time she thinks she may lose.  She shields her eyes with her hands to get a better look at him.  She notices that both of his water skins are still full.

    So strong is her thirst that her instincts course through her she contemplates killing him for his water.  The only thing holding her back is her even more intense desire to win the race.  She knows if she kills him, she loses, as per Domumen’s no fighting rule.

    Yet she may have lost already.  She cannot go on without water.  She has no strength left.  Physically and mentally she is spent.  She is about to say something to him, but changes her mind.  She simply turns around with her back again to him, re-drapes her cloak over her head and is resigned to her fate.

    The man chuckles.  She hears a small thud in front of her.  It is the sound of a water skin, a full water skin, hitting the desert floor.

    “Drink,” the man says.

    Greedily, she picks up the skin and begins to gulp in down.  About half way through he stops her, and so madding is her thirst she almost attacks him for doing so.

    The man must have seen that violent look in her eyes and he chuckles.  He holds out a small block of salt.  “Eat this; it will replace what your body has lost.  Eat this too,” he says as he hands her a couple pieces of a strange blue fruit.  “They are Gurmice.  They are native to planet and the creatures of this desert have been eating them for centuries, as they help with the rigors of the desert and of thirst.  They will be much more helpful than Domumen’s shots in that regard.”

    Saoirse finishes her salt and begins on her fruit.  They are wet and succinct, and within moments she feels much of her strength return.  Yet she is worried.  How will she be able to beat this man?  Meanwhile, he has taken off his other water skin and in evening out the water between the two of them.  He returns the bag back to Saoirse and now it is about three quarters full.

    “How were you able to get this far without drinking any of your water?” asks Saoirse.

    “I drank my water.  My bags, not so long ago, were also empty.  I found an oasis and where I refilled them.  I found the fruit and salt there too.”

    “How did you know it was there?  It wasn’t marked on my map.”

    “Nor was it marked on mine…I have a sense for such things…sometimes.”

    She studies his face.  He seems at peace out here, and there is a calm about him that is appealing.  She notices that his lips are chapped and cracked too.  He is covered in sweat and despite his collected demeanor; she can clearly see he too is tired.  She smiles at him, not only in renewed hope of beating him, but in empathy.

    He helps her up and says, “Walk with me.  Let us complete this leg of the race together.  When the end is in sight, then we can race this out, but for now let us continue together.”

    “What is your name?”

    “Wanderer.”

    “OK, Wanderer.  I will walk with you, for a while.”



    As they walk they tell each other their stories.  Saoirse starts and tells Wanderer in full how she is here because at the age of twenty, her home planet of Druida was destroyed by the leaders of the Anthera Corporation.  She survived because she was on a diplomatic journey and not present at the time of the planet's destruction.  She believed herself to be the only survivor of her people, and if there are other survivors of the attack, she didn't know of their existence.  Since that time, she has been all over the galaxy, searching for answers as to who destroyed her home and why, making friends, enemies and leaving a tall of broken or smitten hearts behind her from all backgrounds and nationalities.  She finishes by saying recently she uncovered a trail leading to a nameless entity that supposedly will answer many of her questions.

    As she tells this story her passions become inflamed, her arms gesticulate wildly and her voice is raised in anger.  Wanderer listens to all this, drinking it in.

    “Why are you here racing?” she asks him when she is done with her tale.

    Wanderer tells his part.  He says that his reasons are twofold.  First, he has always loved to travel, and so he did not want to pass up the opportunity to see the exotic planet of Toby.  And he tells her that if he wins, he is absolved from his confinement, his arrest, from his planet.  The elders of his world have forbidden him from traveling.  If he wins, and presents the prize of the race, Anthera Corporation’s fabulous drill to his elders, he is freed from his sentence and may travel the universe as he pleases.

    When they finish telling their stories, each retreats into their own thoughts and for a time they walk, side by side, through the desert, silently.

    Suddenly, a large cone shaped hole appears from beneath their feet.  Wanderer is caught and slips down into it.  Saoirse, quicker in reacting, jumps away and is not ensnared herself.

    Wanderer begins to descend into the hole, the sands slipping beneath him.  He splays himself out, face down, spreading his arms and legs.  Thus, he stops his descent.

    Saoirse, crawls to the edge of the giant hole.  Wanderer looks up at her and says, “This is not the most dignified moment of my life.”  Saoirse chuckles.

    Violently, the sands from the bottom of the pit of explode.  The maw of a giant creature appears, snapping back and forth.  Slowly, a thick, long tentacle extends out from the bottom of the hole and starts to feel about blindly for its prey.

    It seems to not know where he is at first, but then, unluckily, Wanderer slips a little further down the hole and the tentacle flys over in his direction.

    Just as quickly Saoirse reaches beneath her cloak and her hand shoots out flinging one sparkling silver streak, and then other.  Wanderer looks down to see two small throwing daggers embedded in the creatures open mouth.  It emits a shrill scream and then retreats back into the sand pit’s hole, taking its menacing tentacle back with it.

    As Wanderer continues to lie there, as still as possible, so as not to slip further down, Saoirse contemplates leaving him.  This may be the only chance she has to beat this man.  She is conflicted.  Also, Wanderer is too far down the hole for her to help him out by hand.  Her face disappears from his view.  All is quiet for some time.

    Just when Wanderer begins to think she has abandoned him, he feels the edge of something hit him on his head.  It is the end of a makeshift rope.  He grabs it and Saoirse, with more strength than he believed her slim body possessed, pulls him up and free of the hole.  As he exits the hole she sees that she is bare, for she has used every article of her clothing to make her “rope.”  Her toned muscles glisten with sweat and she is beautiful.  She feels Wanderer’s eyes upon her and is strangely embarrassed and demur by this.  These are emotions Saoirse Dwyer is not used to feeling.

    “Thank you, Saoirse.”

    “Now, we are even.”

    Wanderer offers some of his clothing (somewhat reluctantly, it seems to her) to cover herself up.  They walk for a time until Wanderer eventually asks, “Where did the two knives come from.”

    “From my person.  They were made a special type of resin, specfically designed to not show up on a scan.”

    “But we were hand frisked too.”

    “I know.  I hid them from that.”

    “But, where?”

    Saoirse smiles at the Wander’s naivety and says, “Think about it.”

    Wanderer seems perplexed for time and then a smile crosses his face and he chuckles.

    “Hey, a girls got to do what a girls got to do,” she says then adds, “What can I say, I’ve been around.”  After a time she says, “Hey, what happened to that special sixth sense of yours back there?”

    “My mind was elsewhere.”

    “Oh yeah, where was it?”

    The Wanderer smiles and says, “I would rather not say,” and this time Saoirse definitely notices that his eyes are upon her.  She laughs and thinks, good, more proof that he is just a man.  She sneaks a look and the exposed parts of his fabulous body in return.  No doubt about it, he certainly is a man she thinks, he certainly is.

   

    Two hours later they stand on the top of a large sand dune from which they can see the red finish line.  It is about a mile away.  Saoirse’s water skin is empty.  Wanderer sloshes his around, drinks what he thinks is about half of it and then passes it to Saoirse.  Saoirse gulps it down, belches loudly, and then comically curtsies in thanks.

    “This is it.  Now we race it out, right?” she asks.

    “Indeed.”

    “OK,” she says.  “On the count of three.  One, two…” and with that she takes off running, giggling at her own sophomoric joke.  Wanderer chuckles and begins to run as well.

    Saoirse is fast as a gazelle.  Her long legs scissor gracefully back and forth as she chews up ground.  Wanderer is fast too, but he runs differently.  His powerful legs pound the sand with heavy thuds, while Saoirse seems to skim over it.

    He labors to catch her and does, but does not have the strength to surpass her, so for a time they run side by side, their breathing loud and hard, their muscles flexing, and their bodies glistening from sweat.  Wanderer, even in his exhaustive efforts, cannot help but cast appreciative looks at Saoirse’s beautifully toned, golden thighs as they flash and then disappear from beneath her makeshift shirt.  He recollects the Earth myth of the Greek Heroine Atalanta, the story of a virgin-warrior-maiden who didn’t want to marry, but was forced to by her royal father to do so.  She vowed that to the man whom could beat her in a footrace, would she become his betrothed.  To deter suitors she added the caveat that any that raced against her and lost, also lost their life.  So exquisite was her beauty that many tried, despite the dire consequence of failing.  None succeeded for quite some time.  Eventually a young man named Hippomenes came along.  Knowing he too would fail in a fair contest against the fleet Atalanta, he prayed to Aphrodite, the goddess of love, for aid.  She answered his prayers by giving him three golden apples.  During the race Hippomenes cast each of these apples aside, far off the path and Atalanta could not resist retrieving them.  Thus he won the race and her hand in marriage.

    A rueful smile crosses Wanderer’s face as he remembers this tale and he too begins to pray (to every culture’s goddess of love he can recall) for divine help and intervention to win not only this race, but also the heart of the beautiful Saoirse.

   

    And this is where the story ends, for if you think about it, it doesn’t really matter who will win the race.  If Saoirse wins, Wanderer will assuredly continue on his path of seeking to know what he wishes to know.  If Wanderer wins, it is equally certain that Saoirse will continue her quest seek vengeance upon the Anthera Corporation and to find those responsible for her parents’ death.  Perhaps they may even join up and help each other with these tasks.  Perhaps not.  Perhaps it will take them years upon years to achieve what they wish to achieve.  Perhaps not.  It is even possible that neither may get the answers they want before they die.

    One thing is certain though.  Both Wanderer and Saoirse will run, and run hard for want they desire.  And so long as they have breath in their bodies and blood in their veins they will not stop running for what they wish and need.

Character Reference

Name:  If asked his name “my character” will sing three musical notes in a soothing tenor voice.  He says this is his name and it translates in the language of his people to “one who needs to travel.”  If asked to write his name he will draw a rune of a man in a sail boat.  He will go to say that he is known by many names by different people, all of which translate loosely to “one who needs to travel.”  For the purposes of this exercise we will call him “Wanderer” which, he claims, is the name some of the people of earth know him as.

Occupation:  Wanderer is a historian and teacher among his people, although when visiting other worlds he has been known to “make a living” at any number of jobs including; healer, guide, art dealer, etc.  However, he often chooses menial tasks for his work and has even been known to beg for his material needs, from time to time.

Passions:  Chronicling the cosmos, traveling the universe, seeking art and beauty, delving in philosophy, studying religion, learning biology etc.  He is particularly fond of objects of aesthetic beauty and will go to great lengths to view a masterpiece of art, to hear a virtuoso singer/musician perform, to witness a natural scenic wonder etc. 

Age:  Eons old.

Race:  Unknown - although it is possible his people are an advanced form of the human race who now possess unheralded powers.  Anyway, when he fills out the application to Ja Domumen, Wanderer misunderstands the question and puts, “Yes, with your grace and permission, I will race, indeed.”

Height:  6 feet and 2 inches.

Weight:  215 lbs.

Gender:  Male.

Appearance:  Human in appearance, handsome, muscular, curly black hair, dark-deep set eyes, medium brown skin.  He is very Mediterranean in appearance.

Garb:  Usually dressed in toga type wrap, although if caught alone and unaware he may be wearing only a loincloth, if anything at all.

Weapons:  Wanderer possesses no (lethal) weapons of any sort, although oftentimes he carries a staff covered in black symbols, runes and hieroglyphics.

Abilities and Skills:  Legion, and too numerous to list in their entirety, but some include the ability to; read minds (depending upon the person), conjure material objects from nothing, change his appearance, communicate with different races, beasts etc…Wanderer also has limited powers of clairvoyance, weather control, teleportation, telepathy, telekinesis and hypnosis.  Additionally, his physical prowess is impressive and he is capable of performing inhuman feats of strength and can move with astounding celerity.

Speech:  Wanderer, when speaking a native language, tends to use erudite vocabulary and perfect grammar (he picks up full languages in mere days).  Sometimes he lapses and sings while speaking (without realizing it) as is the custom of his people.  Ironically, he always retains an odd distinctive accent when he speaks any language, and no amount of practice on his part can eliminate this.

Weaknesses:  Wanderer is not an open book and so any weaknesses he has aren’t just going to be aired out for you to take advantage of.  He has them though, to be sure.  Perhaps you should reread his character reference, and then read his introductory story to glean what you can on how to out race, defeat, or even kill him.  Keep in mind that Wanderer is not a deity, nor is he immortal; he bleeds, he hungers, he tires, he craves, and he has needs.  He himself is only too aware of his numerous flaws and he is not as advanced as he wishes he were.

Means of travel: Wanderer, it should not surprise you, has numerous means of travel.  He can teleport himself (under very specific conditions and he needs to meditate to prepare) relatively short distances.  However his usual means of transport is his ship, The End’s Means.  It is an ethereal, floating, sailing ship which is capable of traveling to other worlds (perhaps by magical means, or maybe through alternate dimensions).  The End’s Means primary mode of locomotion is its translucent, glittering sail which can catch sunlight, gamma rays, cosmic rays, etc to propel it, although it can also harness your common wind if need be.  When all other types of propulsion fail, Wanderer will sing into it from his rudder in his ships’ stern, causing the sail to billow forth and carry the End’s Means to his desired destination (as whether it is the sound waves or if it is some sort of unexplained mystic magic that fills the sail is uncertain.)  Wanderer has also been known to travel by means of a wheel-less, floating, chariot pulled by twinkling will-o-wisps.  At times he has been seen riding atop a large, beautiful, brown stallion with a black mane and tail.  However, Wanderer’s preferred mode of transportation (once he has arrived to a new world and when time is not an issue) is to simply walk.

Introductory Story

Wanderer walks into the middle of the posh, marble floored, columned chamber and stands before the High Council.

“Re-Mi-Do,” sings the Exalted Minister of the High Council.  “What is your desire?”

“I request permission to participate in a contest of wit, strength and speed.  The infamous, maniacal, genius, Ja Domumen, is pooling together a cadre of the most heroic, fearless and sagacious beings that currently grace this vast universe to compete in a contest of fleetness around the exotic, perilous and tumultuous planet of Toby.  I wish to participate.  Omens portend that not only will this race be of great historical significance, but that knowledge and power of great import will be gained by the victor.  I wish to take my place among those that will be evaluated as fit to race.  Fate be willing, I hope to one of the honored few selected to “run.”

“But Re-Mi-Do, you are under world arrest for your recent grave infractions and transgressions, and the resulting sanctions you incurred thereby, are still in place.  Your suspension from travel has not been lifted.  You know this.”

“I was hoping that my good behavior of late, not to mention the knowledge our people would gain from the mysterious secrets of the fabulous drill of the Anthera Corporation, the prized trophy of this contest, would grant me a stay from my sentence.”

The High Council gathers, confers (and do so in stereotypical, hushed tones High Councils take when a story needs dramatic tension added to it by such a delay) and weighs this request for some time out of ear shot of Wanderer.

Eventually they finish and the Exalted Minister says, “We have agree that you may race, yet there will be parameters.  Firstly, we have decided that the time has not yet come for us to return your extraordinary powers of your mind and will, and so if you choose to race, you will not have those at your disposal.  You will have to rely on your mere physical skills and wit when you compete.  This will make the race particularly dangerous, for without your supernatural talents of the mind, you will be subject to many more risks than you would usually encounter.  Injury, even death, will be very possible outcomes for you.”

“I understand the perils.  I still wish to race, even with this rather non-sensical and capricious, albeit interesting, caveat you’ve shackled upon me, which I’m sure will provide lots of dramatic story development.”

“Then go.  Take the End’s Means and run.  Run Re-Mi-Do.  Run from your sentence.  Run for the knowledge you hope to gain.  Run for the sake of running.  Run for your wanderlust, and if you win and deliver this drill of fabulous unknown magic to us, in gratitude we will return your powers to you in full and your sentence will be commuted.  You may travel the universe again as you please, as you always have, as you’ve become accustomed to, and as you seem to need to do above all else.”

And with this agreement struck Wanderer smiles, turns on his heel, and strides from the chamber, his vermillion cape billowing behind him.  He puts his fingers to his mouth and blows, crisply issuing forth his unique melodic whistle.  It is a call that never fails to summon from afar his sailing ship, the End’s Means.

A Not-Quite-So-Exalted One (but still pretty exalted, mind you) says to the Exalted Minister.  “It will be amusing to watch the mighty Re-Mi-Do compete in this contest of speed, especially with his vast powers stripped.”

“Yes,” replies the Exalted Minister.  “I too look forward to watching the sport and excitement to come.  And who knows?  Perhaps we will let Re-Mi-Do have modicums of his power back at certain times during the contest - just to make matters all the more amusing.  But not too much power, for what is the point of watching entertaining tale of action and adventure if the hero you are rooting for cannot perish at any moment?”



For more backstory and information on Wanderer feel free to read;

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