Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

"IN THE NAME OF THE MARTYR, the blessing of our Supreme Mother, the fortune of the Old gods and the rites of Visha, I now pronounce you, ISRAFEL BLÜDTHÏRSTE Regent of the South. Uniter of the desert tribes. Head of the Triumvirate council. King of the Badlands." Natalya placed a crown of three gold stars on Rafel's head. Like her face, her words were beautiful. Continue reading at empire

The new king coronated knelt in front of his ivory throne, polished in the enamel metal and browned by the sands of the desert. Natalya, the virgin of the Coldflame stood behind him. His head was up to her torso, the tip of his crown just between her cleavage. She was dressed in splendid white. Rafel at her feet was in a tunic of gold.

Beside them was Indira, the Supreme Mother. She would not miss the event for the world. Her own white shawl was marked by sigils of the gods and her hair was up in a neat headgear. It made her slender seven-foot look a lot like eight. She stood with her hands firmly placed in front her, smiling all the way.

In front of Rafel's kneeling form was the Skullriders.

Dementa, Lord Zaf, and Grone.

Their clothes too were grand and shiny. They stood with big, big smiles but the Junker queen wore one bigger than most. She, like the Supreme Mother were the first believers in Rafel. And his cause. So now that he was being named [Uniter], it brought them great joy.

In the ostentatiously decorated hall of ceremony, the rest of the attendees stretched out in the vast space.

"Rise, Lord of Rebels!" Natalya commanded in her soft voice. As Rafel stood, he was still feeling a dreamlike state—as if perhaps he was locked in a realm Peitho was using to help him sleep. What else could explain him awakening three short hours later to find a procession of all tribes in the Badlands waiting in Grone's base to crown him King. Him!

This had never happened since the desert song sung. Never. No King had ruled the Badlands.

News of this will be swift to the Capital. Titans Landing will swell with gossip of the Desert King. The one and the same Kingslayer, the exiled Titan of Eragonn. Lilith would be more than furious. If even he wanted to back out now, there was no way he could do so. The Rebellion had begun.

In the words of Ian Noguri, the General Giselle had made him execute in cold blood in the arena some three years ago, "The Light of Rebellion is sparked. Watch it burn into a thousand fiery suns."

It wasn't today hot, crazy chicks had being using him to do their dirty work. But no more.

Rafel was certain his coronation was not a dream when he spotted his girls in the crowd. 'Oh, they look so gorgeous.' His heart sang out to them. His eyes roamed over them: Corazón; in her lovely dark blue pantsuit. Ravenna, her green eyes like a star of its own. And Naamah, both healer and succubus; her own abilities as [A Rank] hidden in her silent nature. Rafel thus counted his blessings.

'I have a Revenant, a Half-angel, and a Sukky in my harem. What's not to like about this coronation? Fuck Lilith. Just for tonight, I shall enjoy being Lord of Rebels.'

And his lips spread wider, giving a big, lopsided smile to everyone in the hall. It was a unity like never seen before. All three great tribes of the desert, and then a section of snow-white Vestals come from Séltand for the occasion too. At his smile, Rafel's handsomeness became divine. He'd never looked more godly. His golden eyes shined out like twin Suns in his face.

"Hurrah!" Grone cheered. In his stature, the blonde hulk towered over Lord Zaf and Dementa.

"Hear! Hear!" His own forces in the hall yelled back.

Natalya sidled close to Rafel's side. Indira on his right, both Vestals lifted their voices as one to the crowd: "All hail the King!"

"ALL HAIL THE KING! YA!" The peoples cheered.

Rafel lowered himself back and the comforting Hess of the sand throne met his thighs. As he sat he thought, 'who would've guessed him—who ran in here, parched and fresh from dank dungeons, to be the one to lead these marauding nations to war?'

[Ding!]

Peitho was in his head, her voice extra slutty today.

[Host has ascended one level in the hierarchy of the Bonelands! I have confirmed evolution.]

[NEW RANK: Mythical Survivor.]

[Unlocked ABILITIES and ARSENAL are now linking with your bloodline. Current pairing is at eleven percent...]

[11%]

[11.2%]

[Does My Lord desire to be notified when Linking is completed?]

"Certainly, Peitho. Certainly."

"What did you say, sire?" Indira leaned down and whispered into Rafel's ear.

"Uh... nothing." He cleared his throat in a reply to the slender-curved Grace and lifted a strong arm to quieten the crowd. The entire hall fell silent as he withdrew from his inner conversation with Peitho. Rafel waited until everybody was proper quiet. He raised a goblet of red wine, frothing through the glass. A sparkling mead, well aged.

"Thank you all for being here. Those who know me know I abhor flashy parties. But not even I could pull off avoiding my own coronation." People chortled in the hall. "—These fucking things!" He said; the laughs bubbled higher. "Still, I'd like each and everyone of you in here right this minute to know that for all your sakes, I endure this shit..."

"Ha! He's so funny." Grone's belly shook. Those in the hall, formerly solemn were hiding behind snorts and giggling. Rafel made the gathering just about fall in love with him.

He circled the rim of his wine flute with his thumb. "Yeah. Nothing worse than having a big-chested priestess place a crown on your head." Natalya bowed her head low to hide her red face. He had just made an open comment to the size of her tits. The ceremony hall was in a ruckus. Women and men belching laughter. "Wow. I love that you guys laughed at that." Rafel raised his goblet higher.

"What I'm trying to say is that I'll take no other place in the Continent right now except fucking here. EXCEPT FUCKIN' HERE! You guys are the best crowd in all the South—"

"WHOO!!!" A woman cheered among the masses, shaking her melons, screaming excited. Upon a closer look, Rafel found it was the Critch he had saved. The one-horned butcher with breasts too succulent to ignore. Mama fucking Mia. Rafel met her hazel eyes with equal sin in his before toasting on: "we all know this war looms now closer than our shadows.

The Blackguard from Titans Landing are already in the Bonelands. In our caves and our mountains. In our fucking lands. We have just made our rebellion open treason. The Titans of the Capitol will come for us. But first... just for tonight, let us forget our own troubles. Concerns of battle. Blood and sword. For tonight, we go batshit wild!"

"Yeaaah!" Some inked dude yelled at the back of the hall. Rafel laughed, saluting in his throne.

"Now, how 'bout some fucking party!"

"YEAAAHHHH! PAAARRTY!" Grone roared. "Oi. You, lassie!" He grabbed the nearest wench. "Fetch me my largest lager goblet, eh?"

The girl hurried off and the entrance of joyful folk music drowned out the patters of her running feet in the hall. The naming of the King was conducted in the only stone building in the base, a temple for the devout. The rest of Grone's camp was riding tracks, tar for mud wrestling, and commando tents.

Rafel only stayed on the throne to shake a few hands. His title as King was war-borne. Nothing more. It did not extend beyond the Badlands. In fact, he was being called the King In The South. He had no qualms about wholesomeness to his reign. As soon as the Rebels War was fought, he was tossing the darned crown. To him, the Empire only had one Queen. She was called Ravenna de Vríes.

Once his Auntie was ousted from the throne of the Faerie and her council of despots beheaded, he knew his Little Raven would be free to sit the throne and rule in peace. Only then would he allow his [Redeemer] to live in that political city.

He had not forgotten the real reason that made the Fallen want them so badly; their joint ability to control the [Creation Influence]. Put simply, he and Ravenna could remake the world.

Rafel only stayed in the hall to shake a few hands, before he slipped from his throne and headed out a side exit. The sun was dipping in the horizon. He could see clear across the camp, for everyone was in celebrations in the coronation area. He headed for his tent. As he walked, he found two women in carnal knowledge of each other as he passed by a mud pool. Truthfully, their passion was a mix between fighting and fucking.

He wanted to stay and practice voyeur to their nubile, black-painted bodies. But it wasn't lost on him that his harem had gone missing from the halls right after his toast.

Come to think of it, so did Natalya, and Indira, and the curvaceous [Critch], and Khalifa—and even the leggy blond Chieftain of the Skoatl Mountain tribes; the coronation was a hard excuse for the girl to see again her crush. Rafel had become something of a sex god for all these women. Even when Khalifa thought of him, the picture of that naked, horse-cocked bronze god entered her mind.

Rafel reached the tent and pulled the flap. He was met with the surprise as soon as he entered.

All the women he was looking for. . .

They were here, in his tent, waiting. The girls and the Milfs. The bosomy ones and the skinny models. Ravenna and Corazón. Naamah, Khalifa, Mama Mia, the blonde Chieftain. His goth samurai with the indigo eyes and piercings. In total, Rafel counted thirteen very attractive females. And if he read the room correctly, they were all horny.

"Damn!" He tweaked.

"Welcome, sire." Indira crossed her long legs and watched him. Her words were like a breath. Barely spoken. A sinful invitation, barely masked. A high seduction. Rafel doubted he could please them all. But he would sure as hell try. There was no time for foreplay. All of that had been done already.

"Give me a minute, y'all." he said and ran into a near dressing room.

Hearing the women laughing as he changed, he hurried on his hands. He applied the necessary ointment for his roleplaying, looked into the mirror and slapped himself a few times, getting into character. He intended to relieve his heavy balls, but he wanted to give these many women their pleasure too. But to do that he had to heighten their imagination and libidos to work with him.

Putting on a smooth black mask, he said to Peitho.

"System, equip COCK BILL Role."

He stepped out naked, covered in bronze paint, his face no longer seen. And dangling from his ridged torso was a ten-inch black cock—fat, throbbing, and unnecessarily veined.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om