Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

AS RAFEL'S BRIGHT FLESH calmed, it was Grone who stepped out to hand him a cloak. Everybody else just lacked the balls. They had just seen the man swallow a raging inferno vortex into his body. His pupils were little orbs of [Red Cosmo] in their sockets and the liquid fire rushing in his veins made his pale skin translucent enough to point out a few organs.

The hellish energy was yet to dim inside him. He was the picture of an atomic man. A supernatural oddity. The fact that actual [Helflame] rushed in his body filled skulls with befuddlement. People stood afraid. This was five minutes later, and he still hadn't exploded.

"Thank you." Rafel collected the cloak off Grone's hands, grateful for it. Even as he pulled the grey shawl around his shoulders and fastened the lapel, he could still feel a hundred eyes. He shined out from the heavy cloak like a lantern robed over by a blanket. Obscured, but still giving haloes of light.

The portion of his heart shone the brightest through the robes. It was from a druid's wardrobe.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

His red organ beat steadily as his [mana core] imbibed the free Cosmo of the Helflame, sloshing out the Influence for use later. Like an eternal battery, his core was growing. And thank Lucifer for the gift of his [Divine Tier Bloodline]. It was the one good thing his uncle had perhaps done of him.

His core. And his sukky.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Rafel stepped down the broken steps in the ruins of the temple. It was mostly blackened rubble and hot stones. But his moving feet didn't scald.

"You'll need to rebuild, Skullrider." He told Grone.

"Aye, my king." The blonde Goliath replied. "Shall the lasses fetch you a cold bath? I have a rather stupendous tub in my tent." Rafel turned his gaze to meet Grone's eyes on the wisps of smoke rising up from the cloak; the robe had gone in seconds. At the rate his body was exothermic, he just might fare better in metal breeches.

"No. No bath. Ordinary water wouldn't fare better on me than this robe anyway." Rafel stepped back from Grone a little so as not to suddenly singe his lovely golden lashes. "In these cases, only my wife has the ability to quench the Helflame: spirit water. It's the only thing I've seen work on abyssal fire." He explained—casually dropping the fact that he was wedded.

"You're married?" Grone's jaw dropped. Rafel gave a lazy nod, thanking his lips for cutting short on mentioning the fact that his wife was Yemaya, the goddess of oceans and Bringer of seasons. All the Badlands would certainly worship him then. The consort of an [SSS Rank] deity was no small affair.

Rafel briefly reminisced on when he and Yemaya had shagged... the one time they'd done it since the brown-skinned Milf had laid her ruby ring on his finger; how they had shared her beautiful and definitely psycho harem of Atlantean nymphos.

"Sweet but psycho," he mumbled, calling Nadya to mind. Of his wife's wives, she had been the most hard to please—and the hottest to fuck.

Just thinking of the icy bitch made his blood rush.

Perhaps, after the war—

"You're a man of surprises, Rebel Lord," Grone cut into his musings. Rafel shrugged, looking back at the cooled flagstones and burned, crinkled stained-glass windows of the temple: "Perks of being a demon." Grone laughed little and he joined in.

Aya Naamah appeared from the side. Her smile was in itself a spell as her magenta iris blinked at them coolly. "Oh! He's humble." The fair succubus touched her [Sire] gently on his arm. She meant nothing sexual by it, but looking down on her long, black-blushed nails stroking his biceps, Rafel was consumed with such sudden need to bend over his servantgirl on the ruined earth and take her many, many times—until she wasn't smiling anymore.

She was so hot in her PJs she could calm a storm.

Grone was buckling to something she was saying, "my Lord Master has enough [Influence] of the dark to create a nether dimension. He downplays his [Prowess] often. Even a [Rank A] circle fiend will tremble in the face of Helflame. Contrary to public opinion, not every demon can walk into Hellfire.

Sure, mortal fire is peach fuckin' easy. But this..." she moved her hand to Rafel's chest, her palm feeling the thumping of his beating heart and the occult magick of his [Core] transforming the dark flames, "this is rare. My Lord Master is rare." She stressed.

She raised her violet eyes to meet Rafel. And they shared a moment.

'How dare you seduce my cock to an uprise?'

Aya heard Rafel growl through their mindlink. She sent back no reply. Just her sweet sly smile.

'Wicked witch!'

She smiled wider.

'I shall punish you for this later. You shall beg to gorge on the cock you have so inflamed with your witchery, harlot. Wench of Satan. Dirty gaping-ass slut! Filthy, sinful whore. I bet your cunt is wet for some ramming.'

Aya didn't dare break eye contact with Rafel. He was right: she was soaking wet. She could see the power in his eyes; the promise of sadism.

Grone, at the moment, was looking between the both of them. Even he could feel the thick, coiling need in the air. And he decided to make himself scarce. He went down in a slow bow to Rafel. "I shall see about this arsonist. Excuse me, my king. I'll leave you both to it."

The blonde Skullrider was enveloped by his tribe of daughters, and vanished into the darkness. The luminance of torches in the base fell on their gold tops as they cradled the giant away. Rafel was still gazing down at Aya. Hard.

"Remove thine spell, witch!" He commanded down to her.

Then he extricated himself from her grasp. Aya bit on her bottom lip and moaned softly. She could see the prominence of his manhood arrow through the grey cloak as he marched off. He would revisit her wantonness in the near future, she knew. And this turned her on so much she had to clench her thighs where she stood, watching him go.

He dissolved into the shadows. But according to his order, she gathered what un-horny parts of her mind remained and casted a [Reversal Spell] into the high, grim skies.

The unending night broke. Like the ancient elf princess, fair Aurora, rising from the deep sleep of the evil Matron, the dark clouds were banished down and the sun appeared over dusty mountains. Daylight was swift.

Whoosh!

The sun appeared, full, golden, bright, and without warning. It brightened the base suddenly and bright to light the form of a cowled figure running across the east area of camp. In the abrupt light to the world, the figure was spotted—and in this person's hand, the brand of a lamp. But not just any mundane fire glowed atop the brand. It was red flames, with swirling black fumes: the spark of [Helflame] that had started the fire.

Sentinels at that area immediately went in hot pursuit.

"Wanker! Fetch the wanker!"

The fellow was captured trying to hop over the sharp pegs dug into the trenches on the outskirts of the camp. The cowl was torn off. The arsonist was dragged back into the militant base by the chains attached to the back of a mighty bike with a skull for a face.

Grone and Rafel were waiting by the tents in the center of the base. The coward was dragged in in a cloud of dust. When the gravel vapor cleared, a man was revealed who had served as an outpost guard before Lilith's Blackguard had turned him. His clothes were in tattered. His skin, torn. He looked like the giant red ants of the savanna had taken a first turn at him. Rafel walked forward.

[Titan Grasp] burst out from his back, rising darkly in the sun and he lifted the man up by the huge shadow paw.

"Oi!" He shook him to focus. The fucker was half-dead from Grone's soldiers doing a mile-a-minute with his body. Parts of bone were visible on both his broken legs. Rafel spat in his face. And one eye, bloodshot and bloated purple peeled open.

"How many?" Rafel roared in his face.

Thwack!

He slapped the dying man hard. "Focus."

"I can't believe it was a fucking patrol that turned. They probably promised him his weight in gold." This was Grone, murmuring in the corner. For the first time since the reign of his father, Khrogan the Vicious, the [Hexgate] of his base had been breached. He growled. "We must make an example of this cunt."

Rafel nodded. "I agree, you blonde oaf." He shook the bleeding fucker harder. "Don't you dare die before answering my question! We all know who sent you. The insignia on your dagger says enough. But what I want to know is how many? HOW MANY SOLDIERS?

At some point, you must've been invited to their camp for negotiations. You have seen their host. Is it the Blackguard? Mercs from Titans Landing? A mixed army? Are they in the Badlands? Where are they holed at? HOW MANY?! TELL ME!"

The arsonist, lifted several feet into the air by the creepy giant arm protruding from Rafel's back crooked the one finger on his right hand that wasn't cut down to stumps. His split lip parted to choke out. "C-Come near, Rebel Lord. And I'll tell ye... Co-Come." He coughed up thick blood. Rafel glanced at Grone and the circle of those watching: patient, maniacal Deathlies waiting to finish what they had started—until the firestarter was bits of bone drying on the desert sands left for the vultures to have their pick.

A NUR revved his bike's engine loudly.

Rafel bent closer to the traitor's bleeding mouth to hear what he had to say. His face was close enough to smell the man's rancid breath when the eyes on the fucker went all black and rounded.

Those broken lips split in an evil smile.

"Hello, dearest."

It was the voice of his Aunt that spoke out the man's mouth. Rafel hurried to pull back but it was too late.

"GRENADE!"

Cora yelled from the crowd, seeing the traitor's hand go for a hidden pocket of his robes where he pulled out a [sand bomb]. He flipped the pin with his bloodied teeth and spat it out far.

"Motherfuc—"

The earth exploded out from under Rafel.

BOOM!

Everything went up in a cloud of dust. Sand particles raced like glass shards in the thick air. The mushroom head of the explosion could be seen for miles away from the base. Rafel felt the ground taken out from under him. His last vision before his eyes blurred into tears and stars was of Corazón; his beautiful, wonderful, phenomenal Cora, flying across the sands and into his arms.

The blast took them both.