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(Us of Lesser Gods by Flogging Molly)
There's a breeze that's blowin' in from the land
Instead of salt air, all we breathe in is sand
Crippled the cloud that once brought the rain
Good job, now we'll never see our coasts again...
Turvy sang the lyrics, his Spanish accent drifting over the working crew. In his hand, he held a bottle of rum, which he occasionally took a break from his song to take a swig from.
Silastrix sat on the deck between Farrow and Smythe, already feeling seasick as the boat rocked rhythmically with the waves. The captain's song really wasn't helping her out, either.
But those of us, those of us
Us of lesser gods
Won't eat till we're hungry,
Won't drink till we're parched
But those of us, those of us
Who forget where we're from
Create now this hell where no devil could spawn
Take me back, take me back
To the way life used to be
As she listened, she silently agreed with the lyrics. It would be nice to have things returned to the ways they once were. And land! Land would be very nice! Smythe was looking slightly green, and Farrow looked no better. They were only on the boat for about an hour hand a half, and things were already getting a little nauseating. It didn’t help that most of the crew were giving Silastrix wolfish looks, seeing as though she was the only woman on board.
A whisper's now sayin'
What words used to speak
Starve must the child hungry, sex on tv
For no act of contrition
Will pardon the soul
The damage now glistens,
See how it glows

But those of us, those of us
Us of lesser gods
Won't eat till we're hungry
Won't drink till we're parched
But those of us, those of us
Who forget where we're from
Create now this hell where no devil could spawn (Silastrix snorted. Isn’t that the truth, she thought to herself. Oerth was a different kind of hell, or at least in her opinion.)
Take me back, take me back
To the way life used to be

Yesterday is better that it is today
And today will be better than tomorrow they say
We don't want what you know
But we know what we want
That's live and let live
We're all different, that counts

But those of us, those of us
Us of lesser gods
Won't eat till we're hungry
Won't drink till we're parched
But those of us, those of us
Who forget where we're from
Create now this hell where no devil could spawn
Take me back, take me back
To the way life used to be

Dark is the shallow man
Proud without pride
Worn out comes the welcome
From a truth that never lies
Weep now for the tear
Cold on the face
So come down from your heaven, lord,
Let me show you hell on earth
Take me back
To the way life's never been

“Lovely song,” Farrow muttered. “I find myself pitying the deity that man worships.”
“Please don’t talk to me,” Smythe moaned. “The more I keep my mouth shut, the better.”
Silastrix tilted her head. Smythe didn’t look very well. In fact, he looked as green as the waves in the sea.
She fiddled with her necklace; the one Lord Soth gave her a while back. She silently sent him hopes that he was resting in peace on which ever plane he walked now. Ever since he died, she lost some of her draconic abilities. Farrow had diagnosed it as a conversion disorder. Because she didn’t fully accept the events leading up to Lord Soth’s death, she lost her wings, her tail, her claws, and she still probably wouldn’t learn to breathe fire for a while longer yet. The only things she’d gotten back were her claws, and she guessed it was because she told his story to her more recent partner, Severo, and she supposed that letting go of the memory made her claws come back. Either that, or it was the surprise and sadness she felt after Severo left her that made them return.
Smythe wearily rose to his feet and made for the side of the ship. His breakfast and lunch probably evacuated him, by the sounds of it. Yuck.
Farrow seemed to be scribbling a letter with a spare piece of parchment and an old ink pen he’d found. He closed his eyes, thinking a little bit, and wrote more. Silastrix looked at him in curiosity. “What’re you writing?” she asked. At least it broke the silence.
“This is a letter to Valian, telling him what’s going on so far. I thought I might keep him informed,” the cleric of Isod’us replied. She looked over his shoulder and read his words.

To Valian, it began in Farrow’s precise and slightly slanted handwriting,

I am writing to bring you up to date on things. We successfully arrived on Oerth (though on the roof top of an asylum…) and met Smythe there. We’re doing our best to blend in with Oerthan culture, which is not as easy as it seems, and trying to figure out a way to go about our business without attracting too much attention to ourselves. It makes me wonder: How do the humans on this plane survive without the use of magic or their deities? (Silastrix grinned. The technology here is like a magic of their own. That’s maybe one of the only good things about Oerth, she decided.)
How are you? And how is everyone in Malindor? I suppose Silastrix is exceedingly curious, seeing as she’s reading right over my shoulder as I write these words. (Reading that, she blushed a little. She didn’t mean to seem that nosy. However, she was, indeed, as curious as he said.) Oerth is a much different place from Malindor. It’s quite strange, and I must say, I find Malindor quite a bit more comforting.
Farrow then paused, thinking of how to put the next part of his letter. I am, as you had predicted before, feeling the effects of the nightmare. As a result, my balance has taken a heavy toll, and I’m having strange dreams involving a woman with black hair and a serpent composed of the essence of darkness. I wonder what they mean, for I have no memory of either of them. Except that the woman may go by the name of Rhiannon. Her name leaves an odd ring in my thoughts, like she’s someone important whom I’ve forgotten.
And my shadow is acting odd, as well. You may see, as it’ll be the one delivering this letter to you, that it’s less substantial than before (perhaps from attempting to fight off the nightmare?) and even hungrier for life energy. I can feel its yearning for the people who pass us by. It wants to be fed, but it’ll just have to wait. One slip-up could result in a catastrophe. Beyond that, it’s reacting quite strangely when I think of the woman. It hisses and glares, as though she’s the very bane of its existence. The shadow doesn’t seem so keen to feed off of my emotions as it used to. Is that good or bad?
Now, for the topic of Silastrix and Smythe’s mission. Smythe heard tell that the mask they’re searching for lies somewhere on a continent named Africa. That is where we’re headed now, on a bizarre ship captained by an even more bizarre man. Sea sickness is one problem we’re facing. That, and we’ve been employed by smugglers to gain passage across the sea. But that’s our safest bet.
Farrow seemed to be about to write the conclusion of his letter, and Silastrix bit her lower lip. “Wait,” she said. He paused and looked up, regarding her with curious blue eyes. She paused, and asked finally, “can you say hello for me in your letter?”
Farrow shrugged. “Of course.”
I hope to return to Malindor again when this is all over. So does Silastrix. She says hello, by the way. I hope you’re feeling better and healed up after the nightmare’s presence. I have a feeling I’ll be rid of this monstrosity in no time, though preferably with me still living in the end. (That was supposed to be a joke.)

From Farrow.

“Farrow?” Silastrix said, looking over his shoulder at the last bit of the letter.
“Yes, Silastrix?”
“You’re terrible with jokes.”
Farrow actually laughed, looking a few years younger, more like a man of twenty-four. “I know. I need more practice.”
Soon after sealing the letter, he went inside his cabin, where there was more privacy, to send his shadow across the planes to deliver his message to Valian. He stumbled a little more and looked marginally paler, but he kept strong during his shadow’s absence.
“When will the shadow be back?” Silastrix asked, concerned for his health.
“Either in an hour or when sunset arrives.” Seeing her worry, he added, “don’t fret. I won’t be sending it off frequently. I’ll survive until it returns.”
“I hope so. While I don’t mind contacting friends at all, I’d hate for you to keel over dead. Just make sure to only make it an occasional thing,” the dragon hybrid told him. Farrow nodded, and returned to his musings.
Silastrix sighed and crossed her arms against the chilly sea-breeze, her long jacket flowing in the wind. Captain Jack Turvy climbed down from his perch on the ship, his heavy boots landing with a resounding thump on the sturdy deck. Brushing himself off slightly, he strode over to Smythe and Silastrix, observing them both.
“Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirates’ life is not for you?” he asked, the words sounding odd with his Spanish accent.
“Oh, no. I love it. My stomach, however, despises the lifestyle,” was Smythe’s reply.
“A teeny bit salty,” said Silastrix, “and too little land for my liking. I’m not real seaworthy.”
“And why not?”
She shuffled her feet sheepishly, staring at the wood on the deck. “Can’t swim,” she admitted. “I never learned how.”
Taken by surprise, Topsy Turvy laughed. “That isn’t such a bad thing, chica. Bad luck for sailors to know how to swim. But, if that was true, then half the ship would already be cursed.” He shrugged and chuckled. He sat against a pole and stretched out, laying his head against his arms behind his head. “So, what’s the need to go to Africa?” he asked casually.
“Taking care of personal business,” Smythe told him, saying everything and yet revealing nothing all at the same time. The secret of their missions hid behind his charming grin.
“What kind of personal business, eh?” the bounty hunter/smuggler pressed on, raising his eyebrows. “I don’t know you terribly well, but from the information I have from you says it’s a little more serious than personal business.”
Smythe shrugged. “It depends on how you look at it.” Once more, the simple phrase he told him did not yield any hint.
“Why can’t we tell him?” Silastrix whispered to Smythe. “It seems like a harmless thing to do.”
“Harmless my—“ he uttered a profanity. “That one’s as cunning as a fox. Can’t trust him with anything. You thought banditry was low, but bounty hunting as well as piracy is even lower. If it weren’t for him being a criminal catcher, he’d be considered one of us.”
“Gotcha,” she whispered back. He looked harmless enough, but as she learned in the two weeks she spent with Kyto, Soth, and Smythe fighting Mortal Coil to save humanity, looks are quite deceiving.
Turvy merely responded with a shrug. “Oh well. Just curious.” He eyed Silastrix with a wolfish look. “Ay, chica. You’re looking a little cold. ¿Hace frío?”
While she had no clue what ‘hace frío’ was, she knew he was asking if she was cold. She shrugged. “Only slightly.”
“If you like,” he said with a gleam in his green/grey eyes, “I can help you keep warm.”
She felt Smythe getting ready to spring to her defense, but she shot him a quelling look. She didn’t need anyone to tell him to back off for her. “No, but I think that one’s a little lonely, over there.” She pointed to a burly man with a mass of tattoos all over his muscular body. The man stared around him as though he’d love for a chance to punch anyone in the face.
“Nah,” Turvy said, waving his hand and going pshh. “Not my type.”
Silastrix couldn’t help but giggle. Smythe grinned. “I’d pity the person who would give him a hug.”
The boat rocked and swayed with the ocean. Sunlight gleamed off of the ocean water like a prismatic ray of colors. Silastrix recalled the fact that in the plane she once called home (the one that was destroyed by an archdevil that Mortal Coil summoned), she never saw the ocean there. Briefly, she wondered if it was even more beautiful than the one on Oerth. Perhaps it was a clear blue instead of a greenish/bluish/grey. Maybe, with the absence of years of pollution, this sea would look less gloomy.
“Hey, Smythe?” she said.
He turned his head to look at her and straightened his fedora. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out. What do you need, Silas?”
“Just wondering—I know you’ve blended in to Oerth pretty well and stuff. But do you still think about the destroyed plane? Once in a while?”
Smythe mulled it over, considering her question. “Yeah, once in a while. Usually about the guild. Sometimes about the old adventures we had. Why?” with a more concerned tone, he asked, “still thinking about Soth?”
Silastrix tilted her head to one side. “Kind of. I wish I could bring him back. But maybe he’s happier where he is now. Maybe it was just his time to die.”
Smythe raised his eyebrows. “That’s something I’ve never heard you say before. I think you’re moving on.”
“Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what things would’ve been like if he was with us now. If we would’ve stayed here on Oerth, lived together in an apartment and gotten jobs like so-called ‘normal’ people. We could’ve found a way to hide his horns and tail, get some colored eye contacts so people wouldn’t be scared off by his glowing red eyes. If we were able to accomplish that and settle down, maybe we could’ve gotten married and had kids.” While her voice was normal, there was a kind of emptiness in her eyes that made Smythe sad for her.
“But then,” she continued, “I wouldn’t have gone to other planes. I wouldn’t have met Farrow on my journey. Nor would I have met my other friends.”
“Or Severo.” As he mentioned the elf’s name, his blue eyes blazed fiercely. “I’ve been trying to hold back for your sake, but I told you so.”
Silastrix closed her eyes. She knew she would have to face the ‘I told you so’ speech sooner or later. Smythe being Smythe, he was probably stewing over it ever since he got the letter asking if he could take her back to Oerth.
“I knew what I was talking about when I told you that you’d be better off staying here on Oerth. But you went off anyways, and got yourself caught up in that mess.” Smythe sighed. “What am I going to do with you? I know you’re probably still upset, but I should have you know the whole thing could’ve been avoided. You shouldn’t be dealing with men like him.”
Silastrix held her tongue up until that point. “Stop telling me what I should and shouldn’t be doing. I am twenty-nine years old, not the clueless sixteen-year-old you met at the portal site back on the dead plane. Besides, men like him are truthful, honorable, forgiving, and pretty much difficult to come across. He took me in when I didn’t have a home. He helped me grow stronger, get over Soth’s death, and gave me hope. Actual, real hope.”
“And he instantly shattered your hope to pieces. Or did you forget that part?”
“I never did, and I probably never will forget it. But I can forgive. He’s not as bad as you’re making him out to be.”
He stared at her fierce, green, draconic eyes and frowned. “There’s something you’re not telling me. There’s something you hadn’t been telling me ever since you came back. And you haven’t told Farrow, either. Care to explain whatever it is?”
Silastrix’s glare increased. Because they’d known each other for such a long time, there was something like a connection between them. He could tell when something’s bothering her and she could see when Smythe wasn’t being exactly honest. Sometimes she didn’t mind such a connection, but at times like these, she hated it.
“It’s none of your business,” she said snippily, much like a peeved toddler.
“Excuse me for caring, then,” Smythe replied. He huffed in an annoyed manner, and Silastrix hrrred back.
Observing this from where he stood, Farrow shook his head. He’d noticed it about her, too. Perhaps it was the real reason she seemed less depressed when they were about to leave Malindor? Whatever it was she was holding back from them, Isod’us would reveal in time to them. He was sure of it.

The taxi pulled to a stop, and both Silastrix and Farrow awoke with a start. How long had they been driving? Farrow moved his mid-back length hair out of his face and sighed. He looked older than ever as he unbuckled his seat belt and left the taxi, stretching. Extra joints that he didn't know could crack did. The two ex-thieves also left the cab and looked at him in sympathy. "Poor guy," Smythe said to Silastrix softly. "How old is he really?"
"Twenty-four," she replied.
"No, I was being serious."
"So am I. He's twenty-four."
He blinked. "How does a guy who is twenty-four manage to look like he's in his mid-thirties?"
The draconic hybrid shrugged. "Years of sadness can do that to a person, I suppose. If I knew more about his past, I'd be able to answer your question more accurately. Farrow's just... something of a mystery."
Farrow looked around at the docks of Long Island, his black hair looking almost as if it had blue highlights in the decreasing sunlight. Smythe gathered their bags and tossed their respective belongings to each of them. "Now that we're out, just follow my lead. Do as I do, and only speak to the smugglers when spoken to."
"Why? Is it just a general thing with smugglers on Oerth?" Silastrix inquired.
"No. Yes. Well, yes and no. You just have to know the right things to say. That, and the person on the inside operation I know is a tad off."
"What do you mean by that, Smythe?" asked Farrow, perking an eyebrow.
"You'll see for yourself soon enough," was all he said.
They walked along the docks, passing by cruise ships, personal boats, and other sea ships. Gulls trotted and skipped along the ground, especially underfoot. The sailors grunted upon seeing the companions as a greeting and returned to their work or goofing off, whichever it was most of them were doing. "Nice place," whispered Silastrix. "Real kid-friendly." she kicked a piece of recently-spat tobacco away from her. Nasty.
Smythe smirked. "Well, what did you expect? Wake up; you're not in Wonderland anymore, Alice." Ever since he decided to live on Oerth, he'd picked up quite a few phrases and such from the popular books. It only annoyed Silastrix a little, but she got used to it quickly.
They did not have to walk around much further, for they came across a boat much unlike the ones they were seeing around the docks. It looked like some kind of replica of the Queen Anne's Revenge. Real inconspicuous. It came as a surprise to her that the smugglers weren't already found and arrested.
"Yo! Salvador! ¿Donde esta usted?" Smythe shouted over to the boat, and Captain Jack Sparrow revealed himself on the Crow's Nest of the ship.
Captain Jack Sparrow? Silastrix shook her head. No, silly! Captain Jack Sparrow, for one thing, did not wear a wide-brimmed hat with beads of skulls on a string around it. Neither did he have this man's height. Or did he? It was kind of hard to tell when he was that high up.
He climbed down steadily and jumped the last few rungs on the ladder, landing with a thump on the deck. He wore heavy steel-toe boots up to the thighs, pants meant for dirty work on the high seas, and a grey, sleeveless shirt that showed his muscles on his upper torso and his arms well. His hair was black and down to his waist, and his skin was the tan coloring of the Hispanic peoples of South America, but his eyes were a green-grey that matched the waves on the sea.
The man, Salvador, replied to Smythe, "ay, hombre, it's Turvy. Topsy Turvy. You don't call me Salvador." Seeing Silastrix, he grinned and tipped his hat. "Who's the chica?"
"Right. Turvy. The 'chica' is Silastrix, that's Farrow," he pointed over to Farrow, who gave a mellow nod, "and you remember me, I hope?" He put his hands inside of his pockets and tilted his head at Turvy/Salvador.
"Yeah, yeah! Of course I do! I never forget a face!" He jumped from his ship and onto the docks, then whispered to Smythe, "Listen, hombre, I hope you aren't here about our deal? As a bounty hunter, this kinda thing'll get me kicked from my job..."
"No, it's not about that. I still haven't told anyone, like I said. I'll keep it quiet, just as long as you won't be collecting me or Silas's head, you know, seeing as we were both notorious criminals in the past." He looked around, and whispered back to him, "but I actually came here for a bit of help. See, we need to get to Africa, and our best way's to travel with you guys... can you help us out here?"
Turvy rubbed his neck, considering it. "I can't give you guys free passage, you know. You gotta work for it. You're all lucky that I got a recent load of goods headed to Nigeria."
"Don't worry," Smythe answered. "We're all prepared for work. Aren't we guys?" He turned to face them. Silastrix nodded. Whatever would get her off of Oerth and back to Malindor. Farrow also nodded, though slightly more stiffly. She could tell he still didn't agree with the idea of working for smugglers.
"Good! You can be our security. Look out for the cops and look out for other smugglers. ¿Comprende?" Turvy asked.
"Aye aye, Cap'n," Smythe answered with a salute to go with it.
"And don't say that, hombre. You make my sound like Cap'n Crunch!" With that, he jumped up and gripped the edge of the boat, hoisting himself back onto the deck.
"I see what you mean about him being a tad bit off," Farrow muttered to Smythe.

---

While they waited for Turvy and his crew to load all of the cargo onto the ship, they stood guard and watched for police officers and suspicious people hanging around from other boats. Mainly, it was just people passing by and gulls scavenging for food items left behind.
Turvy's crew actually looked pretty normal, not like the captain in the least bit. They seemed like people you'd encounter every day, like in a grocery store or walking on a sidewalk. Turvy, himself, seemed to aspire to be every bit like Captain Jack Sparrow, and did not seem to be bothered when his crew gave him strange looks. He even got the swagger down right.
Silastrix's sharp eyes swept around the docks, scoping out any suspicious activity. Well--besides their own. Farrow's navy-blue eyes were as relentless as hers as he also searched. Smythe, trying to look casual, patrolled the area. So far, so good. Things were under control.
However, the status was short-lived. A bald man was straying close to the ship. Far too close for Silastrix's liking. Farrow and Silastrix's eyes met, reaching the same conclusion. He had to go. With the way he was eyeing the crates Turvy's crew was carrying, his intentions couldn't have been good. Silastrix cleared her throat and stepped towards him.
"Excuse me," she tried politely, "but I'd like it if you left this area alone."
He took one look at her and probably came to the conclusion that she was harmless. After all, she was only a woman. "I ain't goin' nowhere, lady," he growled rudely, then spat on her boot. Ugh. It was all brown and juicy. Tobacco wasn't a pretty thing.
"Leave," she said, more slowly and threateningly this time. If she had to fight him, she would.
"Git back to yer knitting," he snapped back at her. She raised an eyebrow and smirked. If you say so.
(Tine Bealtaine by Omnia. -This is not playing in the reality of the story, just inside of Silastrix's mind.-)
Before he could grab her, she ducked and rolled to the side, giving him an uppercut punch into his gut while she was still kneeling. It was a fighting trick she learned while she was still in the Guild of the Black Rose. He groaned and doubled over, cursing quite loudly. Several stopped to witness the fight. She then flipped behind him and spun around in a circle, giving him a swift kick to his back, after which he fell over onto his stomach. Now, he was on the ground and in quite a lot of pain. She sat on his legs and pinned his arms to his back with one hand and lifted his front up by the back of his collar with the other. "Had enough yet?" she hissed into his ear.
"She-devil!" he moaned in reply. She felt blood trickle down her fingertips as her claws yearned to come out and slash his throat. She could almost never control her claws extending at moments like these. Her claws only recently returned to her, back when she was in Malindor, and in order for them to come back, the scars on her fingertips had to reopen. So whenever they were on the verge of extending, she bled.
"I don't care what you call me. You should've listened to me in the first place, cur," she growled at him.
"Enough," a voice spoke up. Farrow's voice. "Let him go. He won't be coming around this way any more."
Silastrix sighed, the claws on her fingertips nearly begging to come out. She let him go and unpinned him, and he crawled away, whimpering. While cutting the man to shreds would've satisfied her, Farrow had the wiser choice. If she killed him, they'd be arrested for sure. And then that'd mean no Africa, not finding the mask, Farrow dying and others falling victim to the nightmare, and the end of Turvy's job. Not to mention her chances of returning to Malindor then would be fruitless. What would be the chances of opening a portal inside of a jail?
Smythe returned, looking alarmed. "Are you all right? I saw the man scampering away. Shame, though, he didn't piss himself like the purse-snatcher did."
"Nothing I can't handle," the half-dragon woman said, still panting slightly from her brief brawl with the bald man.
Turvy whooped and clapped. "The chica's got skills! Did you see her take that man down?" He laughed. "I blinked and nearly missed it!"
"Just as long as we don't have any more encounters like the one we just had, we'll be fine," Farrow sighed. "Smugglers. At least we're not boarding a ship full of murderers. Isod'us at least blessed us with that."
Within half an hour, three cop cars passed by, not one of them slowing down to check out the criminals' cargo. They breathed a sigh of relief as the last crate was loaded on. No more brawling or guard duty.
When Smythe, Silastrix, and Farrow boarded the boat, Farrow took his first-aid kit from his bag and took Silastrix aside to help her fix her hands. The way he wound the bandages around her fingers reminded her sharply of a time in Malindor, when she was wearing her old Pitch Dragon helmet to disguise herself from Severo after he abruptly ended their relationship. It was after she'd fought Masamune the Soulless Samurai in the sewers and claimed his head that she made her way to the Dragon's Breath tavern and encountered Severo, half-asleep and smelling slightly of ale. So he'd been drinking a little. When he saw her bleeding, he came to her, not knowing who she was, and helped her with her claws, staunching the bleeding and gingerly wrapping her hands properly in bandages. The whole time, she yearned to tell him who she was, to ask why all of this happened. To tell him how much of a monster she'd became. Most of all, she longed to fall back into his embrace, to have him hold her as he used to. But inside, she knew that it wasn't meant to be. When Severo had finished, she merely walked to the exit and reached for the handle of the door. But before she left, she paused to thank him for his help. And then she was gone.
She glanced up at Farrow, and she could tell he noticed that a memory was passing through her thoughts. A sad memory, containing longing and hope at the same time. Farrow finished up and patted her shoulder in a reassuring manner, gazing at her with sympathetic blue eyes. "It'll be all right, Silastrix."
And as she heard the words leave his mouth, she knew it would be true. The mask would be found. The nightmare would leave Farrow. They would return to Malindor, and everything would be all right.

The three companions strode down the crowded sidewalk, no one giving them a second glance. Silastrix was not used to being around so many humans, even if she was born on that very plane. There were no elves. There were no dwarves. There weren't any planar beings, half-orcs, feyfolk, undead, or even dragons. Just humans. It made her miss the other planes, so rich in other forms of intelligent life. The humdrum world of humans just made her homesick. She thought as she walked beside her two friends, but where was home? She shook her head as though she were trying to free her mind of the thought. Home was where people missed her. And she doubted anyone missed her in Malindor, besides maybe...
"Get out of the way! OUT OF THE WAY!" A strong male voice snapped her back into reality. A Caucasian man darted past, pushing through the crowd and nearly tackling Smythe in his attempt to flee. A woman was crying, "he took my purse!" She seemed to be nearly in hysterics as the man made his escape.
Farrow scowled. "So thieves are no less petty in this plane, either!"
Silastrix and Smythe looked the other way and shuffled around a bit.
"We need to pursue him and retrieve that woman's belongings," Farrow stated.
They cleared their throats and tried to look anywhere except for at Farrow. His gaze turned stern. "You're not just going to let him get away, are you?"
"I'm sorry, but it's a thing us bandits have. We try not to steal from other thieves," said Smythe. "Sorry."
If looks could kill, both ex-thieves would've been murdered violently. "I had thought you'd given up your criminal ways. And if you two won't help me, I will apprehend him myself," he said slowly, each word emphasized in forced patience.
Silastrix knew that Farrow was in no shape to take him on by himself with that nightmare eating him alive, so she quickly nodded. "I'll help." And for good measure, she gave Smythe a sharp elbow in the side.
"Ow! Okay, okay! I'll help too," he admitted finally, rubbing his side sorely.
The purse-snatcher ran down the street as though the hounds of hell were biting at his heels. He made a sharp turn and ducked into an alleyway devoid of people and pressed himself against the wall, breathing heavily. His fingers were still twitching with nervousness as he tore open her bag and viewed its contents, and he was so occupied that he did not see a man stride toward him slowly and deliberately. "I believe that belongs to someone else," Farrow said in a menacing tone. The thief paused, startled that he'd gotten caught. But he wasn't about to just hand his prize over. Instead, his hand reached inside of his pocket for his switchblade...
Farrow smiled. It wasn't a kind smile, or a friendly smile. It was a smile of a person who knew that another was going to get what was coming to them. From opposite ends of the alley, Silastrix and Smythe emerged and circled around him. The odds were uneven. And something about the 6'1 man chilled him to the bone in a way he couldn't understand. But instead of making him back down, fear made him reach for his blade and flip it open. "St-stand back," he stuttered, a bead of sweat forming on his brow.
"Just return what you took and you'll be fine," Silastrix told him. If she needed to, she would extend her claws, and his throat would be open and bleeding in seconds...
Smythe seemed to have the same idea. It seemed the guy wasn't about to give up without a fight, even if his hands were shaking. He seemed to ready himself to use his fire abilities.
Farrow, however, did not seem the least bit intimidated. He narrowed his navy-blue eyes and the shadow rose up from near his feet, hissing softly in anticipation. To the shadow, the man cowering in front of him was nothing more than food. It stared down at him with eyes like burning coals.
The air stank of urine as a wet area increased in the man's trousers. This thing looming over him was unnatural. He immediately dropped the woman's purse and ran from the alleyway, tripping and scrambling back up to his feet. Something told them all that he left his dignity behind with her purse. Satisfied, the shadow sank back to Farrow and he breathed a sigh of relief. Time to give the woman's purse back.

---

The woman was exceedingly grateful, and squeezed all of them in turn (though slightly longer on Farrow, much to his discomfiture). She even offered to pay them for their troubles. Smythe politely refused so he wouldn't piss Farrow off. Besides, he had enough money to throw around.
Silastrix, Smythe, and Farrow then caught a taxi cab to Long Island to see if they could catch a boat to Africa. While it would take slightly longer, they could keep their weapons and armor. That is, Smythe pointed out, if they found the right boat to catch.
"What do you mean?" Silastrix asked, tilting her head in curiosity. Farrow also looked inquiringly at the erstwhile skeleton.
"The right boat to catch would certainly not be a cruise ship," he said. "We need a boat with a crew that doesn't ask too many questions. The less people know about who we are and what we're doing, the better."
"And such a boat would be...?"
"A smugglers' boat."
Farrow sighed and rubbed his neck. "A smugglers' boat. Isn't that great."
"Oh, come on, Farrow," Smythe chided. "This is the safest way to get to Africa, as well as the quickest."
"Safest? I think not. Who knows what those men would have us do so we could get transport to Africa."
"Something simple. I know a couple guys, you know, because old habits never die." Smythe winked. "And smugglers could always use a couple guards. Not only will we get transport to Africa, but we'll also get paid for keeping them and the cargo safe."
Farrow looked unchanged. "I don't like this at all. But if it is to be so, then I'll instead consider it a blessing that we have such an opportunity."
"Why so serious?" Smythe asked with a grin, sounding eerily like the Joker from Batman.
The taxi drove on and on through the streets, past slums, alleys, and apartments, past stores and skyscrapers and walking pedestrians. Eventually, Farrow fell asleep, and Smythe occupied himself with playing online poker on his laptop. Silastrix just looked out of her side of the window and immersed herself within her thoughts. Thinking of Mortal Coil's mask certainly stirred old memories she had.
She remembered the first time meeting her old guild master, his enigmatic mask and his golden eyes, his hooded cloak and the confident purr in his voice. She did not like him as much as she liked Amyranth, the guild master before Coil took over. He was just too... shifty. Too strange and ambitious. Most people would expect that in a guild master of thieves, but he was such in a way that unnerved her. His penetrating gaze and his swift, gliding movements made her liken him to a phantom. A monster born from the depths of a depraved mind.
Silastrix recalled how he attempted to mutate her and Smythe, as well as her old companion Kyto Kinne, the b*****d son of King Elgar Kinne. Mortal Coil had also lured Armageddon Snow to his side, a vicious bandit in the guild and one of the only females besides Silastrix. Armageddon was turned part-cyborg by his hand, her arms replaced with a mechanical ones, one arm ending with a blaster cannon and the other ending with clawed, robotic digits. All through her body, she had wires and mechanical bits. Her back was equipped with mechanical wings that enabled her flight, and her left eye was replaced with a robotic scope eye that glowed with a bizarre red light. Such things were unnatural. But what chilled her the most was the fact that Coil removed Armageddon's heart and replaced it with an engine-like device powered a by a glowing, purple crystal. When the crystal was removed from her chest, she would die, and she would be brought back to life if it were placed back inside of her.
It all summed up to the fact that Mortal Coil was a madman. He tampered with nature and twisted it to fit his cruel intentions. He modified a zombie disease and made his own breed of undead, zombies with projectile vomit that stripped away their victims and unnatural speed when it sensed prey. They tore most of her old guild members apart like mindless beasts.
Stop it, she told herself. Stop thinking about him. It won't do you any good. Coil is dead now, and all that's left of him is a helpless soul trapped in a mask. Though she had trouble convincing herself that Coil would be anything resembling helpless. And as for his mask, well... they'll soon find it. They had to.
The taxi driver turned the radio on, and a song she found familiar played through the speakers. (Ms. Jesus by Tori Amos) Silastrix turned her attention to the outside world, the so-called reality on Oerth. The humans walked through the streets of their familiar cities, each day not knowing of outside planes that contained danger, skeletons, dragons, forgotten deities, and untold adventures. They lived through every day in mundane monotony, but they were safe. And she was going to find the mask, and Farrow was going to release the nightmare back to its home plane. Just to keep this plane safe. They would do what it would take, and all three of them would make sure of it.
Meanwhile... she yawned. Farrow's mouth twitched into a frown as he slept, leaning on his window side. She observed him napping, and thought that a nap would be wise for her too, at least while she could catch some sleep. The lyrics of the song playing through the radio oddly brought her comfort, and lulled her to a state of mind that could bring her some rest. Minutes later, she was breathing evenly, in peaceful sleep mode. She did not notice that she was leaning on Smythe's shoulder, and neither did she notice when Smythe removed his trench coat and draped it over her as a makeshift blanket.

Later that night, Silastrix opened her eyes. Gentle snoring from the hallway told her that Farrow was sleeping, though somewhat fitfully, as if he were having an unpleasant dream. She sat up on the couch and rubbed her eyes. The digital clock on the television's VCR said 2:26 A.M.
Lovely, thought Silastrix. She tried to listen to the snoring, to see if she could hear another sleeping person. It seemed it was still just her and Farrow. So much for 'I'll be back soon,' she thought grumpily. Where was Smythe? Silently, she slipped off of the couch and her bare feet touched the floor. Might as well check on Farrow while I'm up, she decided.
With soft, padding footsteps, she walked to Farrow's door. It was open only slightly, and she saw that while tossing and turning in his sleep, he'd kicked off his sheets and blankets. Silastrix frowned and walked inside. His shadow cast by the dim light in the room lengthened and stared at her. It was a good deal taller than she was, matching Farrow's height of 6'1. It lowered its head and stared at her eyes in curiosity, as if wondering why she was up so late. She glanced back to Farrow. He was quite pale and his expression was fearful. His shadow followed her gaze and looked to him almost in sympathy, hissing silently. She tip-toed to his bed and fixed his covers back up, trying to sing a calming lullaby as she did so. (Fairy Tale by Omnia)

Child of the clear, unclouded brow, she began,
and dreaming eyes of wonder
though time be fleet,
and I and thou, are half a life asunder,
thy loving smile would surely hail
the love-gift of a fairy tale.
thy loving smile would surely hail
the love-gift of a fairy tale.
His breathing began to even to a slow, restful pace, while the shadow listened to the lullaby, swaying lightly as if mesmerized by the lyrics.
I have not seen thy sunny face,
nor heard thine silver laughter.
No thought of me shall find a place
in thy young life's hereafter.
Enough that now, thou wilt not fail
to listen to my fairy tale.
Enough that now, thou wilt not fail
to listen to my fairy tale...

Farrow looked less disturbed and began to sleep a little more soundly as she trailed off the song from there. She regarded his watchful shadow with a nod, then turned and left his room.
She walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk. Slowly, she drank her beverage, wondering why she awoke at that hour. For some odd reason, her mind kept turning back to the elf she'd come to know in Malindor. Severo. The dragon hybrid smiled and recalled when they'd first met in the Dragon's Breath Tavern in the Merchant District. She'd only recently returned there from a long journey and stopped at the tavern to meet new people, as well as entertain the public with her tales and songs. After revealing to him who she was, telling her past as if it were the history of a different woman named Simus, he'd taken a liking to her. Of course, he saw through her tale, that it was actually her and not some character named Simus she was speaking of. Instead of judging her by her past actions, he offered her a place to stay for a while. Their relationship grew stronger as the weeks passed, until suddenly...
Silastrix shook her head. What's in the past is over. But still, there was a little bit more to it than that. However, she wasn't ready to speak of it to Smythe or Farrow, as she promised that she wouldn't tell anyone yet, that she would wait a little while. After all, there was a reason she was reluctant to leave Malindor.
The dragon hybrid gulped down the last of her milk and rinsed out the cup. She glanced out the window, expecting to see millions and millions of stars, as she would've seen in the other planes she called home. But all there was was smog and cloudy skies. At least the moon was out, a glittering crescent in the air.
The apartment door opened and Smythe waltzed in, humming a tune. (The Girl from Ipanema by Frank Sinatra) Silastrix resumed the stance of an angry wife, crossing her arms and pouting at her tardy friend. "And where were you all this time?"
Smythe grinned apologetically. "I've gotten all we need, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did... but I smell whiskey on your breath." She perked an eyebrow, awaiting his excuse.
He merely shrugged. "So I went out for a drink, too. But this living thing is only a recent event, and frankly, I've missed alcohol. Besides," he said, jabbing a finger at her and mimicking her tone in a good-natured, joking manner, "why are you up so late?"
Silastrix rolled her eyes at Smythe's silliness, though she couldn't hide her grin. "Don't know, don't ask. I just woke up a little while ago."
"Couldn't sleep without your woobie?" he remarked, keeping his joking tone.
"Excuse me?"
"Your woobie! Don't you remember it? When you were still sixteen, the guild went on a raid and you stole a stuffed animal. It was a wyvern, and you nicknamed it Woobie." He laughed. "Gods, you loved that thing to pieces."
Her eyes widened with realization. "Oh, yeah! Good old woobie!" She giggled at the memory.
"You know, I still kept that thing through all these years when you rejected it," Smythe told her, putting his hands in his pockets, his fedora slightly lopsided. "You can have it back if you want it."
Silastrix made a face, shaking her head. "No, I couldn't possibly... I'm way too old for my woobie..." But her eyes still glittered with longing despite her bashful excuses. He rolled his eyes, seeing right through her facade, and went to his room. He returned to her, having fetched the timeworn Woobie, and thrust it into her hands. "Don't deny the woobie!" he joked to her. "You might hurt his feelings."
"What feelings? It's a stuffed animal!" She held it by its tail and looked it over as if she were embarrassed to have owned it. But once Smythe left the room, she immediately squealed with joy and rolled around on the couch with it in her arms, absurdly like a cat wrestling a cherished toy mouse. "Woobie woobie woobie! Mama missed you, yes she did," she cooed under her breath so Smythe wouldn't hear. But unfortunately for her, he was right around the corner, watching the scene with an amused expression and trying his very hardest to stifle his laughter. It's kind of funny to watch a dangerous ex-criminal fall to pieces for their woobie, he mused to himself. Especially when it's Silastrix, the notorious Pitch Dragon of the Guild of the Black Rose.
Silastrix felt a beam of sunlight warming her as she rolled over in her sleep. Was it morning already? She opened a green eye and closed it again, giving a draconic yawn. Definitely morning. Knowing Smythe, if she let him be, he'd likely sleep in until noon. But where was Farrow? He normally woke up as early as dawn to meditate and pray. Both men were still sleeping at 8:07 in the morning. She rose from the couch and stretched, her claws extending and retracting slightly as she did so. Time to get up and start the day, no matter what chaos they'd somehow get themselves into. With Smythe around, chaos was inevitable. But that's what was fun about hanging around him.
She picked out a long black jacket that stopped just above her knees and a simple white t-shirt and denim jeans, paired with combat boots. She remembered constantly being told that she had no fashion sense whatsoever, but she didn't mind, as long as she liked what she wore. And certainly as long as it wasn't a dress.
She began with pestering the ex-undead bandit to get up and shower, ignoring his pleas for five more minutes. Then she gently shook Farrow awake. He did not look well. His normally tan skin was a little paler, and there were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes now. Silastrix felt a little guilty to wake him up when he needed rest, but they needed to get ready and get on the move before it was too late.
Minutes later, both men were clean, up, and dressed. Today, Farrow was in a blue long-sleeve shirt with a black vest, and black dress pants. Smythe tossed on his fedora, a white button-up shirt and khaki pants, and a trench coat over on top of everything. Breakfast was eggs, bacon, and granola bars, though eaten quite hastily.
"Okay. So here's the plan," Smythe started, wiping a bit of egg off of his face with a napkin. "We catch a boat from Long Island to Africa. We'll get a couple of camels or horses or whatever they have there, and ride to wherever Coil's mask is."
Silastrix appraised Smythe with an upraised eyebrow. "There are so many holes in that plan that I can't even begin to tell you all of the ways in which it could go wrong. Like for an example: it's really not wise to just wander the desert aimlessly. The thing covers ten percent of Africa, and ten percent is quite a lot of land. Dehydration could kill us all. And we don't know if the mask is buried in the sand, or in someone's house, or even in..." she gestured helplessly, "gods, maybe even in King Tut's tomb."
Farrow nodded in agreement. "She's right. Do we know how we'll begin searching? A mask in a desert is like a needle in the world's largest and sandiest haystack."
Smythe shook his head. "You guys think I didn't think of all of this? I do have a plan. And I did go out and prepare for this kind of journey. And King Tut's tomb, Silastrix? Really?"
"It was an example," was her reply. "And what's this plan?"
"Simple. Farrow, what's your knowledge of shadows?"
He rubbed his five o'clock bearded chin thoughtfully. "From my own, I know quite a bit. It can steal other people's life energy, it feeds off of strong emotions, and it's weak to positive energy. Why do you ask?"
"Isn't it true that shadows can sense the presence of other souls nearby?"
He thought a moment, and smiled. "Actually, yes. And each soul has a unique signature. That's quite ingenious."
Smythe gave a self-satisfied smirk. "Naturally."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Silastrix said with a grin. "Let's go!"

Almost instantly, they appeared on the other side of the portal's tunnel in a smoggy city on the rooftop of a large building. Silastrix and Farrow were thrown out, the agile and flexible ex-bandit doing a series of front flips to ensure that she landed safely. However, Farrow had less luck and skidded on his feet before tumbling head-over-heels and landing on his back. He moaned softly as Silastrix rushed over in concern.
"Jeez, Farrow," she said, grasping his forearms to help him back up to his feet, grunting with the exertion. "If you had any less balance, you'd be tripping over thin air." The tall cleric brushed the dust off of his armor, frowning. "We have the nightmare to blame for that. The sooner it's gone, the better."
"I'll say," agreed a voice, its tones as smooth as velvet. The pair jumped, as the voice seemed to come out of nowhere. However, they relaxed, seeing it was only Smythe. The man wore a pinstriped suit with a matching fedora. His eyes were blue, not navy blue like Farrow's, but brighter and much less intense. His hair was medium in length, part of it swept over one eye, and a honey-brown color. He wore a smile as if he were holding a secret. But then again, that's how Smythe usually smiled.
"Smythe!" Silastrix said, removing her horned helmet. "You scared us for a second. I'll never get used to seeing you as... you know, alive."
"After who knows how many years of being a skeleton, it's a little surprise every time I look in the mirror as well. Although I am pretty handsome, if I do say so myself." He fetched both of them a wide grin and straightened his suit jacket. Then he appraised Farrow and Silastrix with a frown. "You're not going around New York City like that, are you?" He gestured to their full suits of armor. "Sorry to say, but the Renaissance Fair's not in town."
Farrow blinked. "Er, what is the Renaissance Fair...?" While Silastrix had already lived in Oerth before, this was Farrow's first time there. Judging by the bewildered expression on his face, this was not at all something he was used to.
"Forget about that for a moment. I've got some clothes to make you all fit in. We'll just take a ride down the elevator and change in the restrooms," Smythe replied, motioning for them to follow.
"By the way," the draconic hybrid mused, "what building are we on?"
"Why, we're on the rooftop of an asylum!" the ex-skeleton answered cheerfully. "Isn't that wonderful?"
"Fitting," muttered a still-bewildered Farrow.

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The elevator ride was interesting, to say the least. All the while, the cleric of Isod'us gripped the railing as if it were a lifeline, his eyes squeezed shut. Silastrix and Smythe stood on opposite sides, smiling nonchalantly, as if they really weren't strange oddities from another plane. With a small ding, the elevator doors opened and the group of them strode out, ignoring patients in wheelchairs and straight jackets and the occasional rushing of staff members down a hallway. Surprisingly, no one gave Silastrix and Farrow a second glance. It was like a normal day in a New York asylum.
They made their way to the restrooms and came out a few minutes later, holding the bundles of their armor at their sides. Farrow was in a white polo shirt and dark blue denim jeans, wearing a pair of decorative glasses. Silastrix wore a green sundress and a black jacket fitted at the waist. A pair of black 2-inch heel shoes were on her feet. She did not look happy at all.
"A dress, Smythe? Really? Don't you recall how much I despise these lacy, frilly, flowy things?" she snapped at him. Smythe shrugged. "It must've slipped my mind," he said innocently, though he did not even bother to look apologetic.
Farrow shook his head. They quarreled like two-year-olds, but that was to be expected, for they'd done so for as long as he'd known them.
"All right. We're in New York," Silastrix said. "Where do we head from here? I hope nobody put the mask in a pawn shop or anything..."
"Actually, no. I believe it's located in the Sahara desert in Africa. While it may be a long trip, at least it has less of a chance of being found by someone just taking a stroll." Smythe replied, leading them down the hallways to the rotating door exit of the building.
"Africa? I've heard some bizarre stories about that place," Farrow mentioned. "Supposedly, there's a fly that can lay eggs inside of a person's skin, and some type of fish that feeds on people by swimming inside their..." he trailed off, clearing his throat. "Right. Africa." Silastrix shuddered, trying not to think of it.
They stepped out onto the street and were swept along the general direction of the crowds, as it seemed that everyone was moving in every which direction. The three of them held each other's hands to not get separated (Smythe was the only one with a cell phone, for he'd been living there long enough to understand how one works), while being constantly bombarded with people in business suits, tourists, and hot dog vendors. Soon after, they called a taxi and took off.
On the taxi's radio, a familiar song was playing. (Clocks by Coldplay) Farrow stared with wide eyes at the scenery of New York as they drove by. It was Smythe's same reaction upon entering Oerth for the first time, as well. It was as though he could not have begun to imagine such a place, not even in his wildest dreams. The road was paved and not cobbled, similar metal monsters like the one they were riding inside swept past, and there were buildings so high up that it seemed as though they reached past the clouds.
"How's it going, Farrow?" Silastrix asked him. "Kind of different from Malindor, isn't it?"
He nodded. "Very different." He paused, thinking. "The atmosphere is flat. It's like it's weighing me down. There is no magic here, nor is there the presence of gods or goddesses. My spells will be useless in this plane, as they're mainly supplied by Isod'us. And Isod'us has no presence here."
"And the air stinks, too. These humans are so careless that they pollute their air with poisonous toxins," Smythe chimed in. Silastrix nodded in agreement. When she was away from Oerth, she didn't miss it very much at all for those reasons.
"Where are we headed to?" Silastrix asked Smythe.
"My apartment for now. We need to be prepared and rested up for a long trip."
"That's good. At least I can see if I can find anything to wear instead of this dress."
"Why do you complain about them so much? It's not a bad thing to look ladylike," Farrow commented. Silastrix hrrred in frustration. "I don't appreciate looking ladylike, that's the problem. You would figure that a bandit living around men for most of her life would despise dresses. Especially with men like him." She gestured to Smythe, making a point. Smythe rolled his eyes.
Farrow shrugged, returning to his thoughts.

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The taxi dropped them off at a large, expensive-looking apartment complex. Smythe tipped the driver, and they took their bags and went inside. Up another elevator they went, and Farrow had another round of holding onto the railing, lest he'd lose his balance.
"Apartment 7-B. I got quite a nice place," Smythe said. "It has a modern style to it. I think I'm beginning to melt into Oerthan society." He inserted his card key and opened the door, revealing a large room. There was a living room with a wide Sofa circling around a glass coffee table, a black-and-white abstract painting hanging from the wall, and a black-and-white pattern rug on the floor. The kitchen, next to the living room, was separated from the living room by an island. The floor had white tiles, the counter tops made from granite and the wooden cabinets from mahogany. The sink was chrome-colored with a water-filtration device attached to the faucet. The hallway led to the bathroom and the master bedroom (with its own bathroom, a Jacuzzi hot tub included), as well as the guest bedroom. Silastrix whistled in amazement. Farrow observed the surroundings quietly, setting his bag down.
Smythe put his hands in his pockets, nodding at Farrow and Silastrix. "Alright. I'll be out for a little while, getting the basic necessities. Help yourself to anything in the fridge," to help Farrow identify what exactly a fridge was, he pointed to it, "try not to cause any trouble, and I'll leave it to you two for who sleeps where tonight. The master bedroom's off limits. I'll be back." And with that, he opened the door again and left.
"You'll take the guest room. I'll have the couch," Farrow said, being the gentleman. Pride and reason made Silastrix refuse. "No. I'll take the couch," she insisted. "You need a real bed to rest up, because you need as much of it as possible with that nightmare inside of you."
"I'll be fine, really," he replied.
"No, you won't. Take the guest room." After staring him down with dragon eyes, he gave in and took the guest room. Best not to risk anything when a woman gives you a look like that, especially if she's part dragon.
When Silastrix finally settled down, she turned her attention to her bag and rifled through its contents, checking that she had everything. She gave a satisfied sigh as she reviewed all of her contents, but then paused as she picked up a skull from it. The skull of Masamune, a man who'd once challenged her to a duel in the Malindor sewers. She accepted not to win, but to feel his blood between her claws, for she had reverted back to her bandit self momentarily around that time. Twice, she won, and she claimed his head as her prize. As a result, her friend Farrow became mad at her for not only breaking Malindor's laws, but also for going back to the way she used to be. It turned out that Masamune was the one who murdered her former love Severo's family, so it had given her greater pleasure in her victory against him. However, Masamune said something quite strange...
So now he owns the plane of death, Silastrix thought. Was he really truthful, or was it a bluff? That voice... the one he spoke with... it was as if it was from another world. And he seemed to know of Mortal Coil...
Silastrix stared at the skull, turning it in her hands. It stared back at her with dark, empty eye sockets. Its canine teeth seemed slightly sharper than a normal human's would. He couldn't be a human. Whatever he was, she would possibly never know. All she knew was that it gave her a slight chill of fear when she thought of his smoldering red eyes gazing into hers, as if he were already analyzing the best way to murder her. She put the skull back. That monster was dead. Hopefully, she would have nothing more to do with him.
Her thought pattern was broken as she heard a thump in the hallway. Farrow had tripped and was getting back up to his feet, grimacing.
"Are you okay?" she asked in concern. She recalled the way Valian had been when he was sick with the nightmare's taint. She hoped that her friend wouldn't go the same way. Without a god's presence here in Oerth, he wouldn't be able to use his divine powers to heal the wounds caused by the fiend.
"I'm all right. I lost my footing briefly," was his answer, rubbing the shoulder he'd landed on sorely.
"Come and sit down a while. There's a wonderful thing called a television that I think would interest you," she offered, holding up a remote. Even better--Two and a Half Men was on.

I'll post a little bit of this story, then I'll probably take it down later. It's a kind of filler while I'm away from a role playing game, so my characters aren't sitting around and doing nothing, so to speak. Anyways, enjoy it for now.

~Malindor, Docks District~
If you're familiar with plane-jumping and portals, you'd probably remember how nervous you would feel--the butterflies in your stomach, the thrumming of your heart as if it were dancing a jig in your rib cage, and the feel of sweat tingling at your fingertips. You would recall the allure of the portal, how it would seem to draw you in, singing a song promising new opportunities, forgotten planes and new adventures. Things waiting to be discovered, doorways revealing either the ultimate evil, or a bright, shining light of freedom. Anything could happen with a portal.
Silastrix felt a hand on her shoulder, and Farrow's soft voice at her side. "The longer we stand here," he said quietly, "the more I put the others in this city in danger. And the mask of Mortal Coil must be found at all costs. We might as well take the step in... there's nothing left for us here now."
She shivered, despite the warmth of the day. Farrow was wrong. There were things left to miss here, things worth remembering and fighting for. No matter what, she would never be able to forget this plane. One day, she would return.
"I miss this place already," she responded. Her green eyes flicked back to the rest of Malindor. So many things were left unsaid, so many farewells left untold. At least Valian Dragneel knew they were gone. Their ever-enigmatic friend was the only one to see them departing to Oerth. A good thing was that now Valian could call upon Farrow's shadow companion and send messages back and forth when needed, perhaps of news or warnings. Or to just say hello.
"I understand." Farrow's normally grim expression softened, perhaps thinking of all of the good times they had there. The tall cleric of Isod'us did not spend as much time in Malindor as she did, nor had he gotten to know the locals as well. But at least he remembered how happy things were, before things took an unexpected turn.
It turned out that Silastrix would not marry after all, and Farrow was now the host of a bloodthirsty nightmare. Already, the monstrosity within him was beginning to eat away at him--the whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and his balance was not as good as it once was. Perhaps half the town already knew of what went on in The Dragon's Breath tavern, owned by the half-dragon, half-demon Vildamork. Valian was looking particularly ill when Farrow had seen him in the tavern, and once he'd explained that a nightmare was eating away at him since he'd gone to the Shadow Plane for more information on Farrow's mysterious companion, Farrow understood that he didn't have much longer to live. So he did what he could to help his friend and relieved him of his burden--by taking it within himself instead. Now the monk of the Shadow Queen was looking much better, despite a few broken ribs.
And now the mission extended from finding Mortal Coil's mask, with the former guild master of the Guild of the Black Rose's soul trapped inside, to that and releasing the nightmare back into the shadow realm where it would not harm innocents. All within a few days, for Valian had predicted Farrow would last that much time. It was a good thing that time ran slower on Oerth than it did on this plane so it bought them some time to act. And Farrow's shadow would be kept mostly busy fending off the nightmare contained inside of Farrow, though it was not nearly as powerful as the dark being.
Silastrix took one last look at Malindor. The city might not feel like home as her former plane did, but at least it was more so than Oerth. And she'd miss it very much. But the portal was beckoning for them to enter, and it was best not to keep it waiting. Taking her friend's hand and squeezing it tightly as if to draw strength, she and Farrow entered the portal. Finally, Malindor seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and returned to as it was once more.