Gateskeeper, as has been elsewhere noted, was an accomplished runner. In his former occupation at Dorktank he had become expert in keeping ahead of deadlines, beating around the bush, dancing around issues, jumping to conclusions and outdistancing disgruntled armed customers – all of which kept him in top condition. Thus it was that he was soon out of sight and hearing of the rest, and making good time down the sandy beachfront. Likely he would have quickly discovered the hapless sailors-on-hold (poor old Hap having perished in an unfortunate accident involving an overripe tomato and a blunted knife, but I digress) if it had not been for a sight that brought the reformed raconteur to a dead stop. (Stop’s death was not related to Hap’s in any way.)
There on the edge of the tree line stood a woman whose beauty rivaled that of Merisuwyniel herself. She was in strange garb attired -- though why her fatigues should be thus fatigued was not immediately apparent from her apparel. Unless perhaps it was the warfare being waged against her summertime wear by the stare-sparing pair-without-compare, which was wearing bare the apparel that was despairing of bearing the fair pair without tearing beyond repair -- a true battle of the bulges.
A (ahem)
form-fitting tunic left her arms and midriff uncovered, which met with Gateskeeper’s approval – as a supporter of the right to bare arms. Very short shorts left as much of her long and shapely legs bare as her arms, except for the black straps encircling her thighs that secured what appeared to be twin scabbards for some kind of black weapons. Long dark hair tied back in a thick braid topped a face of perfect, computer-generated features, with glinting brown eyes and pillowed lips in which an unwary wizard could get very lost indeed.
She beckoned to him with a playful come-on smile, flashing enamel whiter than his own pasty skin. Gateskeeper walked up the beach to the statuesque vision (stumbling only twice). From his mouth came something with the suaveness and intelligence commensurate with every knowledgeable, self-confident man of his stature and capabilities in this situation.
Drool.
Something in the back of his mind kept trying to remind him that something was very much amiss here…that she couldn’t possibly be after him for his looks…that beauty and geeks don’t mix…that this had to be a set-up…that the square of the hypotenuse of an isosceles triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. Something in the front of his mind kept ignoring it though -- namely, his eyes. The voluptuous vision held his gaze for a moment, then draped her arms around his neck and leaned in to kiss him passionately. Gateskeeper closed his eyes and waited for the touch of her honeyed lips…and a name came back to his benumbed thought processes.
Tara Kraft, Catacomb Plunderer.
Long ago, in the days before Gateskeeper had branched out on his own, when he and
Nintendo the Blue were still working in the recruitment department for the (late) wizard Sauerkraut in the Networkgaard of Dorktank, many were the geeks hypnotized and lured into the service of the International Brotherhood of Magicians (IBM) by the alluring and ultimately addicting puzzles and quests they designed. And one of the most effective baits that could be dangled before the socially-challenged intelligentsia of the day was the seductive wiles (and the animated, er, anatomy) of Tara Kraft.
With a shudder of realization he ducked and spun away from her just in time to hear a voice of sweet poison begin to intone,
“Thank you for using Môgul Bildûr Temptations, Inc…” Scant seconds before the dreaded Music of Holding would have begun, he swung his staff around in-between them (no, not *
that* staff!) and thundered the word of power,
“Mutebutton!” Instantly the voice was silenced, though the villainous vixen continued mouthing her spiel uncannily, since cans had not yet been invented.
With the danger past, he approached her again, examining the alluring automaton’s fine, er, workmanship. “Magnificent,” he reflected. “Back when Nintendo and I designed her, she was so blocky and angular. They’ve radically improved her, er, visuals since then, but perhaps I can still hack in if my old back-door is still in place.” Walking around to her back (while she continued to act as if he wasn’t there, the way most girls treated him), he pressed two spots on her left shoulder blade with one hand while simultaneously tapping her 5th thoracic vertebra with the other. To Gateskeeper’s relief, the access panel in her neck popped open.
Connecting a hair-fine wire of twisted mithril from the head of his staff to the open panel, he accessed the inter-succubus network within. Gazing into the crystal atop his staff, he directed the network to locate other units on hold. After a few moments he was able to make out (no, not *
that* kind of make-out) the images of several frozen sailors via the eyes of the scarlet-clad Watchers of the Bay. Quickly he ascertained the location of the sailors via O-GPS (similar to O-mail).
A short time later, back in the company of Meanderin, the motionless mariners were about to descend into complete catatonia. Suddenly, several loud reports echoed down the beach, and the monstrous Music of Holding was silenced as the Bay Watchers crumpled to the ground. Almost as one the dazed deck-hands fell to their knees and shook their heads as if to cast off a nightmare with a disturbing soundtrack. When they could look up again, there on the crest of the dunes was the Gateskeeper and Tara, with her black weapons still trailing a thin smoke. Gateskeeper had designed her to be deadly accurate. “Well done, my dear!” said the gleeful genius, noting with satisfaction that she still had the coy smile he’d loved way back in the day. He marched with Tara in tow down to meet captain and crew.