Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

[🎶 Zombie – The Rock Orchestra ft. Erin Fox.]

A PALE WOMAN STOOD before him, her hair stringy thin and corpse bleach. She had the rider skirts of a Rank A [shield maiden]. Cloudy indigo were her eyes; it peered out, hurtling flecks of [Cosmo]. Her backdrop was a red earth, cracked and caked. And it reminded him of Frostholm after the first war. He smelled burning thickly and distinctly in the foul air.

He didn't know this woman. Yet it appeared only he and her were left as souls in this fragment of a dystopian realm. The skies above was shattered: a curtain of floating glass shards.

He looked from the weird heavens to the scorched earth, to the ashen-haired warrior woman, and did it all again.

Still, no clue.

"Who are you?" He only whispered it, but his voice went echoing off into the distant rust plains. This world, this [pocket], it was different. He tried to use an Influence; Peitho didn't answer. He should have known then that he was dreaming, but it all felt unnaturally real. This desert world had burning sulphur and blackdust in the wind.

This bleached woman reached out mangled digits for him. Her fingers were a fright. She quite looked like a ragdoll, her voice the same—thin and frayed when she said, "C-Come to me, n-nephew. It's me. . .auntie."

Rafel immediately recognized the purple eyes, but as for the body itself, this groteque covering was so far from Lilith's gothic transcendence she wouldn't be caught death wearing it. Rafel blinked into the reaching hands. Her palm was wide, freak wide. Her bony fingers spread over his face, just about to clasp his skull when he shouted into this acidic wasteland.

"Begone, Wilderwitch!"

And Rafel awoke with a start.

Hands fell down on his body as he sat up suddenly in bed. The hands belonged to the four females sleeping about him. Ravenna's fresh thigh was curled into his leg. And his nervousness calmed a bit at seeing them. They had not noticed his deft awakening.

"Gods!" Rafel pushed off the bed. "She haunts my dreams now?"

He was careful not to make a tousle as he dipped off the four-poster and padded for the cooler. The clay drum provided cold water for him to satiate his thirst. It was still early morning and his legs were slightly sore. Wee naked, Rafel fetched a cup of water for himself and drank long.

[DING!] Peitho rang in his head; she was back.

[Good morrow, Lord host. I trust you had a miracle of a night.]

"Good morning." Rafel greeted back.

[Shall I set water for ablution?]

[Shall I equip Gladorium?]

"That's a no on both fronts, Peitho," said Rafel. "I doubt music can salve the rattling of the vision I just had inside my skull."

[Is this the dream about the your auntie?]

"If you mean the rotting zombie with Lilith's eyes, then yes, Peitho. What does that forebode?"

[I shall begin digging into it, Lord Host. Meanwhile, what shall I do for you this pale morning?]

"Food. Just food." Rafel replied. Then he looked to the sleeping forms of his girl harem. They had not stirred in position. "I am hungry, and they will be when they awaken. . ."

[Ding!]

[Host's request is confirmed!]

[I am ordering room service to the glass chamber.]

"Thank you, Peitho." Rafel watched the morning in slow dawn as it first highlighted the peaks of the dunes.

Caer Mullhen was positioned in a mild vale, and beyond the wide crater housing the stronghold, slips of amber gold, blue blush and candor green fell upon the desert. Thinking of this, Rafel was sure that the fact that Dementa's camp was in a canyon and Lord Zaftig's in a meteor-sized ditch served to serve a selfish purpose. For the moments he waited on room service to arrive, he swept the chamber quickly; one could never be too sure in the home of a self-proclaimed desert king.

'More now that I've banged his daughter. Shh!'

Rafel smiled to himself. He wouldn't win any [soul coins] for chivalry. He had never. From everywhere in the glass-room, light was spilling in. Some areas were shut out in dark curtain, but those fore walls were pretty visible. You could make out a person's teeth in here. It was nice that the chamber was situation at the dead-end of its own hallway.

"Bonelanders are weird," he commented dryly.

Then he thought: if this glass-room had always been at Caer Mullhen, what had Zaftig being using it for?

Tap! Tap!

He was interrupted.

"Come in." He was still careful with his voice around the girls. Surprisingly caring, for a demon.

The door hissed open and he breathed a whiff of vinegar and powder. Only then did he turn. Khalifa stood on the room's other end. She had bucket sized breakfasts in her hands. The citrine Kaftan the Hijabi wore made the morning that much finer. Khalifa took one look at the occupied bed and she went very red.

"Your breakfast, sire."

Rafel stepped evenly to stand before her. "I am only [Sire] to my bonded slaves. Do you desire to be my bonded slave, Scarred One?"

"Uh!" Khalifa had a genuine puzzled look.

This man, shirtless and ripped, near 7ft and with a face for a sun god; he called her Scarred One—it sounded hella sexy. And she had never considered the jagged line sewing her cheek as sexy before. She liked it. "I... I," she stuttered. Rafel smiled full. "It's alright. I'm only teasing. Good morning. Just place the trays over there." He told her. "I thought they were going to send a wench up."

"I was close by. . .and who says I'm not a wench." She winked.

"You smell like the dream of a lesbian." He winked right back.

"Who knows, Lord of Rebels? Who knows?" Khalifa was grinning as she pushed out of the glass chamber. She just had to have the last jibe.

Rafel had to say goodbye to the sweaty morning session he had planned with his four hot broads; his tomboy was not too happy about it—because a missive had come from Hosanna's father. Lord Zaftig wanted to talk. "We'll always have my [Hel pocket dimension] if you girls become so hot and desperate for my cock." He promised.

The others laughed. Cora tossed him a cake crumb, knowing she would hold him to it.

The sun was halfway up the bright clouds of the Badlands when Israfel and his troop of first loyalists were ushered into the presence of Zaftig. The man even had a throne room. He was really serious about his titulary: the Brass Lord. Warden of the South. The Desert King. Rafel wondered what Lilith would do the poor man if she found out about his little name rebellion. It hadn't gone well for the last Usurper.

Giselle had massacred an entire bloodline to preserve her hold on Frostholm. And though blond [Yandere], Giselle Van Imperia wasn't half as crazy as his auntie. Or possessive.

The shit she had done to keep Israfel at her side?

There were no fucking words!

But he needed Zaftig's help, so he didn't piss on the man's sorry version of a kingdom.

"Welcome, my friends!" Lord Zaftig rose to greet their entry. He pulled his regency robes closer to his body. In his small-boned statute, he damn near floated in the thing. Hosanna stood quietly at his left, standing also at the rise of her father—she had slipped out through [Hollow World] after breakfast.

Zaftig sat again and beckoned them closer to his coppery dais. The man owned metal, and he liked to show he did. Rafel hadn't seen an ounce of wood since he entered the 'throne room'. Just brass and glass. It hurt his fucking eyes.

"My daughter..." Zaftig touched Hosanna's hand softly over the armrests, "tells me you had a wonderful night. I suspect the Emporia meets your usual standards."

"Standards?" Israfel eyed the tall guard standing too close to his ladies.

The guard adjusted his spear and hurried off to the rear. Flowing out from Rafel was Damnamenaeus and Khalifa.

"Yes, standards," urged Zaftig on his copper throne. "It is not everyday we get the presence of a Rank A [Principality] among us. The Apollyon. I mean your [attributes] speak for you. You conquered the land of the blue Giants. You control [Hel Influence]. Your Aunt is a god. You are the Kingslayer—"

"So this means you'll consider my offer?" Rafel cut in; he had no time for sycophancy.

Zaftig did a doubletake, clearing his throat. He did try to hide he was offended. But from obvious strides, the demon before him didn't care.

"What offer?" Zaftig growled.

"My offer to unify the castes of the Badlands into a single utopian [Terraforce] that will claim back the entire realms—not just the South, but the plains and the Capitol: from Rocasus to Titans Landing, from the rule of the Fallen. I assume you're familiar with the Fallen?"n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

"Yes. I know who the Fallen are." Zaftig had given up on flattering his unwanted visitor. His voice was chalky. His real voice; when he wasn't kissing every body's arse.

He held his breath and fumed. In his mind, Hellions were pricks. No fucking demon deserved to be trusted. Zaftig's mouth opened in his graying head but a new calmer voice entered the fray:

"That is hardly an offer."

It was Hosanna. She sat very queen-like on her own smaller loft. The other girls around Rafel were surprised at her rebuttal; they expected her on their side, you know... greasing the wheels. After the night they'd had, certainly bitch! Cora fisted her fingers. But to Rafel, he wasn't perturbed one hair. He never expected to use his cock as a tool to convince princesses.

Although it had definitely worked on the Queen of the Night.

Rafel took one step on the dais. He said bluntly to Zaftig. "Well, that's the only offer you're gonna get."

Before her poor father could speak up, Hosanna injected coldly. "Like I said earlier, that is hardly an offer. You want us to change the traditions older than the sands. To forsake the ways of our fore-mothers and the Shakra shamans, and Visha. To leave our lands and risk a curse. To go up and fight a battle we'd definitely be outnumbered in.

YOUR BATTLE!

Skullriders haven't ever being unified. NOT ONCE. What makes you think you can just come up here from your fancy castle at Titans Landing and hound us all into fighting a family feud? Our men and women, bleeding on foreign soil so you can wreck the Titans and have your vengeance?

Pfft!" She scoffed, her pretty head adamant. "I don't know about my daddy here, but I wouldn't risk an integration with those other smelly cunts out there without something in it for me. And it has to be a pretty big thing!"

Silence reigned in Caer Mullhen. It was like even the winds knew not to blow too hard.

Rafel was considering one option—[Spell Compel] this little man to do what he fucking asked.

Like—who the shit do you cunts think you are?

. . .