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Disclaimer: I don't own Maya. At least not the software. That's copyright of Alias|wavefront. However, I do own Maya Dandelo
Italics, unless in quotes, mean thoughts. Stars, unless orbiting a persons head, mean sounds or actions that I was too lazy to actually write about.
Stumbling through the wilderness was not Maya's thing. "Damn Brush. Damn mosquitoes. Damn directions. The woman at the last village… two lefts, a right, and straight for three miles….or was that four lefts, three rights and straight for a thumbslength," she wondered. Or ranted, depending on your willingness to keep your head. Directions were also not her thing. It reminded her of one of those radio-dramas. Something about water…and a pig…and bandanas? No, that couldn't be right. She was losing her concentration to the heat. Ah, up there, she thought. A cave! Not the best place for a rest, but… Exhaustion, humidity, and the shock of what she had done today that had seemed so dull when she was without destination cought up with her. She half-stumbled, half-ran to the little alcove. Just a tiny little nap…
And she was asleep.
* * *
Indiana Jones emerged from the Temple of the Chachapoyan Warriors just in time to notice a large group of Hovito fighters approaching. He knew he had to get away, and get away fast. The golden idol in his sack was testament just that. Damn Brush. Damn posse of enraged barbarian warriors. Damn Belloq. His surroundings were deceptively peaceful—A lush jungle, filled with trees, humidity—and the friendly locals. How generous in their use of poison with him! A bourbon would be nice about now…. And maybe that village mystic a few leagues back... But there was a certain place and time for these thoughts, Indy told himself valiantly, and it most certainly wasn't now. He forced the thoughts out of his mind as he trudged down some random path.
Funny, though, how worn it was. Like everyone had been using it. *Blink. Blink.* Too late. Two Hovito Warriors in full battle paint and loin cloths are carrying long blow guns menacingly. But the only white man in the group draws Indy's attention—A tall, and impressive, dressed in a full safari outfit, accompanied by the ever-cliché Topee. He raised his own deadly-looking revolver to Indy's head. "Hand it over," he said. Indy looked defiant. "or else?" Belloq just looked flame-ish. "or else you have to come play hubby-wubby for bellie-wellie."
A/N: was going to write more, but…Well, its 11:00, and my parents are yapping about setting alarm-clocks for 6:50 in the morning. And yes, Belloq is a flaming fag.