Dark Lord Morthisal Ebonwrath, Master of the Abyss, Ruler of the Dread Legions, Netherlord and Lich King, Necromancer Supreme, also known as Soulrender, or the Architect of Oblivion, and current occupier of the body of one Vince Logan, stepped off a plane in a too-bright afternoon in a too-hot climate, surrounded by a press of too many bodies. Children screamed, and people spoke languages around him that he could not understand.
The airport, a bizarre temple to modern transportation, stretched before him in a labyrinth of gleaming tiles and transparent walls that allowed the merciless sun to penetrate every corner.
A woman with skin burnished to an unnatural orange hue strutted past, her heels clicking loudly against the tile. Behind her trailed an assistant, or perhaps a servant, laden with bags and speaking urgently into a phone. An endless supply of airplanes landed and disgorged yet more people onto the already crowded pathways. Morthisal's lip curled in distaste.
The plane had been no better, with him squeezed between a portly man who reeked of sweat and a slight woman who sniffled the entire flight and stared out the window while occasionally sighing and muttering to herself. Morthisal had refused to engage as he had studied his phone, then cursed when he’d realized there was no signal in the air. He had been forced to pay for online wifi. Those ten dollars had been a waste since Yvette still had not contacted him. At least he had been able to watch a few videos. He'd forgotten to bring a charging cable, and now his phone's charge was almost depleted.
He looked down as a child, sticky with some unnaturally colored substance, barreled into his legs and looked up at him with wide, unblinking eyes, then at their tacky hands as if in disbelief. Morthisal’s eyes narrowed and he gave the child a withering stare. The child laughed, pointed, and was dragged away by its progenitor, who merely offered a harried "Sorry!"
As he walked, he was assaulted with signs in garish colors that hung from every surface, emblazoned with advertisements. Then advertisements for more advertisements. All he worried about was whether he should proceed to "Baggage Claim" or "Customs & Immigration."
After standing in the center of the walkway and being jostled a few times, he decided to proceed and find his luggage. A mere bag with a few changes of clothing, his TENS machine, toiletries, a jacket, and a few things from around the apartment he'd used to fill up the suitcase, which he had been advised not to carry on the plane.
The air inside the airport was an abomination, recycled through metal ducts, stripped of its natural essence, and tainted with the mingled odors of a thousand different bodies and the sickly sweet smell of "Cinnabon." Morthisal would have loved to partake in one of their rolls with extra icing, but his waistline would not have it.
Morthisal was jostled, pushed, stepped around, and, in one case, cursed out by a man in a starched white shirt, blue pants, and a number of emblems that proclaimed him to be a captain.
"Move, asshole!" the uniformed man seethed, a plastic cup of what appeared to be an iced mocha held high and clutched in his hand as he navigated the crowds.
Morthisal turned his head and fired off a thread at a large man with a long brown beard, coming from the opposite direction, to steer toward the captain. They collided, and the uniformed man sputtered even more curses as the cup of chocolate-infused coffee spilled across his outfit.
With a self-satisfied smirk, Morthisal proceeded to the baggage area through long white hallways that seemed never to end. A section of moving floor provided forward locomotion, but it was almost as slow as walking. More people streamed around him, past him, in his way, and out of his way.
"Madness," Morthisal said under his breath.
Then it was down an overcrowded escalator with humans zipping past each other in opposite directions. Another sea of people met him as he found the luggage disgorging devices. Huge tubes spat bags, boxes, suitcases, and all manner of items onto rotating belts. Though Morthisal was familiar with this concept, it was the first time he had seen it in action.
He pushed through a throng of people who seemed determined to stand in the middle of the hallway, chattering to each other in an attempt to block all traffic. Others, with frowns affixed, brushed past the group, who appeared to be oblivious.
"Would you kindly depart the center of the walkway?" Morthisal shouted at the group in exasperation.
Voices followed in his wake.
"…oh my god. Were we blocking the way?"
"…wow, fam. That guy is so rude."
"…jerk!"
Voices followed as he brushed past the idiots. He ignored them even as a smile played across his face.
Morthisal located his carousel by studying a large reader board filled with text that was eye-squintingly small and made for it. He finally located his number and stood among the other passengers, who were an interesting mix. A man in what appeared to be expensive attire, a finely tailored suit with gleaming cufflinks, stood shoulder to shoulder with a youth whose pants hung precariously low, exposing undergarments adorned with cartoon characters. The youth's hair was sculpted into unnatural spikes and dyed an electric blue that hurt Morthisal's eyes.
Morthisal found Vince’s bag among the many that fell onto the baggage claim belt and once it was in hand, he slid it to the side, flipped it over, and extended the handle. The squeaky wheels followed as he headed for the doors. He kept his eyes peeled for his escort.
Betty and Marty had assured him they would send a car, and a driver would be holding a sign with his name. Many such individuals were waiting. Some were dressed in sharp suits, while others looked bored and wore t-shirts and jeans. Morthisal, of course, expected the diamond treatment. His hosts were going to treat him as a true celebrity; however, there was no one there to greet him.
More than a few people stopped and stared at him. Some squinted, but none approached. He was already wary of strangers, thanks to his run-in with the man in a wide-brimmed hat who had tried to kill him in front of Yvette. The man had known who he was!
Morthisal had spent more than a few minutes over the last week contemplating how someone could have recognized him, let alone tried to shoot him in the face, until the realization had dawned like ice through his chest. His heart had clenched.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
They knew him because he had spent the last month shooting a movie in which he played his old persona from Mythralon, and had insisted on using his own name.
"Fool," he muttered to himself for the hundredth time.
How many of them were in this world? He was an anomaly, but so was Thalindra. At least he was out of Seattle and would have time to collect himself and consider his next move.
He walked to a small store in the airport and bought a pair of cheap sunglasses with reflective lenses. They would help to keep him disguised. He considered picking up a hat as well, but the Seattle Seahawks ballcap Yvette had given him rested inside his suitcase.
He went to the waiting area again and squinted at the many names. None were for Vince Logan. Morthisal pulled out his cell phone and checked the display. He opened his messaging app, but there was nothing from Yvette.
How he missed her. Those steely eyes, platinum blonde hair, and how she looked in and out of clothes. She was a billionaire who had developed feelings for him. Now she was keeping him at a distance. He had also, as the saying went, caught feelings for her, a sensation he’d believed had long ago departed his shadowed heart. He had courted dozens of women. Only Thalindra had come the closest to stirring emotion in him.
He had messaged Yvette a number of times, but none of them had been read. He wondered what he would even say if she did acknowledge him. Yvette was used to people using her. She'd hinted at how past boyfriends had treated her, and most of them had not been kind. What was she to make of him? He had exposed his powers to her. There was no way around it. She would have questions, if she ever contacted him again. With a sigh, he deposited the phone in his pocket and moved on.
Another fifteen minutes passed and Morthisal's phone battery dropped to eight percent as he watched TikTok videos. He had discovered a creator called DarkLord_Cosplay who crafted elaborate fantasy armor and performed dramatic monologues in character. The man's attention to detail impressed Morthisal. His foam weapons looked almost authentic.
Morthisal sighed again and called Marty.
Marty answered on the sixth ring. "Hello? Vince? What's shaking?"
"Me. I am at the airport. Where is my driver?"
"You're here? Now? I didn't know you were coming in so early."
Irritation flared. "We talked about this a few days ago. I told you the date I would arrive."
Marty paused, and a paper rustled. He came back on and exclaimed, "Is that the date? Sorry, Vince, baby. I lost track of time, is all. You can catch an Uber while we figure out the situation now that you’re in Hollywood. Get a hotel room for now. We'll talk tomorrow."
"Wait, Marty, I thought you were going…"
"I have a call with a distributor in a few, or I'd help you. We'll talk tomorrow, Vince. Okay, then. Bye-bye." Marty hung up.
Morthisal looked at his phone in disbelief.
With little battery left and little choice in the matter, Morthisal summoned an Uber. It requested a destination, but he had no idea where to go. He would need to rely on the driver for assistance. He randomly picked a location in Hollywood. He followed the driver's progress on the app as his battery level faded. He hoped the driver had a cell phone charger.
The doors parted, and Morthisal was struck by a wall of heat so intense it momentarily stole his breath. The air scorched his lungs with each inhalation, dry and laden with strange chemical odors. What truly perplexed him, however, was the natives' response to this climate of the damned. Women glided by in minimal coverings that left little to the imagination, yet wore boots that reached their knees. Men sported thick beards while simultaneously wearing sleeveless garments, as if unable to decide between warmth and cooling. A pair of locals passed, both wearing black despite the punishing sun, their skin glistening with moisture, yet their expressions betraying no discomfort.
Perhaps, Morthisal mused, these Angelenos possessed some inherent heat resistance that other people lacked. He looked up, dark shades protecting his eyes from the sun, and inhaled. The air might be putrid, but it wasn't all that bad. A little sulfur would do wonders for the quality. Perhaps hints of decomposing corpses to finish it off.
Dozens of cars streamed past the sidewalk. Some pulled in and were quickly filled with people and luggage. Children dragged wheeled suitcases behind them. Adults clutched plastic cups filled with drinks. Morthisal would greatly enjoy an iced vanilla mocha right now, with an extra shot, of course.
While watching for the Uber driver's arrival, his phone dropped to two percent.
"Curse this device," Morthisal muttered.
A woman bumped into him without apologizing. A man in a tank top shouted into his phone about missed connections. Three children dashed around and screamed at each other in excited voices, while their parents stood obliviously to the side, their eyes fixed on their phones.
On the interactive map, the little Toyota Corolla finally arrived and slowed as the driver's eyes scanned for him. Morthisal waved. The driver rolled down his window.
"You, Vince?" the driver asked in an accented voice.
Morthisal nodded. "Yes. Ahmed?"
"That is me."
The driver hopped out and helped Morthisal with his bag. "You're going to MGM studios?"
"No. I am not sure where to go. I picked a likely location. I need a hotel."
"I see. Um. This may not be so easy. Are you sure you do not want a taxi?"
Morthisal studied the man. Ahmed wore a simple, light blue polo shirt and clean jeans, yet even more noticeable was his neatly trimmed beard and the careful shine on his well-worn shoes.
"You seem to be an honest businessman. I'd prefer you."
Ahmed shrugged and said, "Okay, but we'll have to get out of the way, pull over, and figure out where to take you. Then we can update the destination."
"That is okay?"
"It is no problem," Ahmed said flatly.
As Morthisal settled into the car, his phone buzzed. The driver adjusted his rearview mirror.
"Where to?" Ahmed asked.
"I am not sure. My plans fell through. I need a hotel. A nice one."
Morthisal dug out his phone from his front pocket, but it slipped out of his hand and dropped to the floor. The device slid forward under the front seat.
"Curses," he muttered, leaned forward, and felt around.
"Everything is okay?" Ahmed asked as he pulled away from the curb.
"Yes. I dropped my phone. It is almost out of power. I don't suppose you have a charger?"
"Sure. Sure. One moment. You said you want a nice place. There's the Beverly Hills Hotel. The Chateau Marmont. Both very posh. Depends on your wallet size."
"Take me to the least expensive posh hotel."
Ahmed pulled away from the curb and merged, stopped, merged again, and gave way to a huge black SUV. A pair of smaller cars screamed ahead, then both laid on their horns.
"Least expensive? You know, I am not a tour guide. You are not from here?"
"No. I am from Seattle, and I am an actor."
"Ah. I see," Ahmed said and nodded sagely. "We should shoot for something much less posh."
"Very well. I trust your judgment. I am a stranger in this land."
"You will like it here. There is always something happening."
Morthisal finally got his fingers on the phone and picked it up. The battery showed one percent, but what was even more alarming was the name on the display. Yvette!
Morthisal answered quickly. "Hello? Yvette? Hello?"
His phone's screen dimmed, and it died.
here if you have editing needs.
Does Morthy need a new minion?
