Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

• THE UNDERCITY, TITANS LANDING

THE COLD WIND HAD RAILED the City now for four crazy days. Winter rushed into Titans Landing as if expecting spring to come in early. The minds of the masses of the Polis could not even conceive what horrors of blizzard whipped their border neighbors.

Frostholm was an empire of white, forever bleak in the scape of snow.

"At least here it rains," one [Critch] man said.

It was Mir'sday – and while Rafel was locked away in a literal [Chrono-phobia] dimension, his harem were not. Aya Naamah couldn't feel her [Dominus] pegging some random blonde bimbo from the past. Ravenna was too distracted by Damnameneus and the rest of the fucking Councilpeople. And Corazón; her light voice could be heard in the quarters of Fort Sandringham—whipping soldier boys into the nature of Smither.

They were busy. All of Titans Landing was a parade of activity. Since after the War, demand for surplus food had skyrocketed. Everybody wanted to share dinner, a picnic, a roastlamb, a beach, a sunset; do something nice with the people they loved.

"Because who knows when those fuckers might be freed? Yes, the [Hyperion Cell] is an improbable prison for supernaturals... but we're talking about Lucifer here. And the other [Sss Rank] devils!"

Ravenna, queen of the kingdoms had heard this more times than she wanted to admit.

Many times she also wanted to reassure her people. To tell them it'd be fine. But then she'd only worn the Royal crown now for three [Midlar] moons. And her father: the King-for-a-Year wasn't exactly good profiling. They'd hate her just as much if not for her dear Lord, Israfel the Bloodrunner and the role she played in the imprisoning of the Titans. Being no secret lover of the Hero of Titans Landing came with perks. Like Ravenna was now the Empyrean of the citizens. The de Vríes family tree had a shot.

Rafel had vanished from Titans Landing for four nights and a day now—since the freeze first came in. Not the rains. Those had started months ago.

In the Seely Realm, he was in there but few hours, of golden-haired pleasure. In the city, he'd been gone almost a week. The soup Aya had promised him—of which he'd been eager to return to... that was four days ago. His [Bond] succubus had sipped with Cora and Ravenna that night, after long hours of awaiting his no-show. But then the girls went on unperturbed daily, convinced Rafel was probably in the Freelands. With Dementa.

Who could resist the Junker queen?

"I heard she's got a cock now. A fat one too." Aya told Cora and Ravenna. "Perhaps our Lord went to see," Aya had said. "I hear [Futanari] dicks are real big."

"Big as Rafel's?" This was Cora.

"I'd say not!" Ravenna vehemently came to rescue of her day-one crush. Rafel was her Adonis. Two times he'd been inside her. He was all she could think about before getting in bed. "Seconded!" In a beat, Cora affirmed. Aya clapped and said with a yippee: "Dominus has the fattest, tastiest shaft in all Eldoria. In the Abyss, red succubi would play at death sports to milk his man-meat down their idiot faces. The stingy bitches. I cannot wait for him to get home. He sure would have a lot of stories to tell about futa Dementa."

"—That's assuming she has a dick," Cora put in.

"Of course she does!" It was Aya again. "Have you seen that woman. She's become desert myth since the transfiguration of the Badlands. For sure some bitches would wanna climb that."

"Mhmm," Cora pursed her lips like she was going to say something useful, then she went, "she can only take Rafel up her ass now."

The three girls all looked round at one another. A second later, they burst into liquid laughter. This was the extent of their talk about their shared dark darling. The girls thinking he was off in the exotic South, ramming [Futanari] lesbos, or endangering his liver with Grone and his habitual alcoholism, said nothing again. Never would they imagine that since Rafel had stepped out several mornings ago to Eragonn, he had never set foot on Eldorian till again.

Never his adventure with the soul of their long-lost friend—shut up in a faerie god's body.

This cold was harsher today: the fifth eve of Rafel's disappearance. His harem was still none the wiser. The chill swept up every living thing, turning the bodies of those who dared a bucket of water over their heads to leprous white. The Harmattan winds stung open eyes and crowds hurried in the cobbled streets. Handmaids secured glass windows in the gallant standing homes of the Lords District. The kids that played down below were of traders and silk merchants packing up for the day.

Those slumbering down arches of taverns and the gazes of tapsters were fools of the country.

The subzero weather spared not Eragonn, nor the castle. In the Undercity, like everything down there, it was worse. Rain tough as nails, bulleted the coal walkways. The streets shined of both water and hot urine. Passersby huddled and hopped, fastly on to their corners of domicile. The smell of gutter pits was heavy like horse musk in the air. The darn sewers! It had to be a horror this wet season.

In falling shadows of dusk, a simple silhouette of a small man could be seen hurrying across flooded streets. He crossed from corner to corner. A hyena yowled at the front of a dirty pub, going off on this little person.

There were many things about this man that didn't fit. Almost imperceptible, weird thing.

First, his overcoat was taller than he; it crawled on the glittering pavements after him. Threadbare. It was frayed, the cotton gray. The garment was old as a widow's toenail. Ancient. Tailors didn't make such cloaks anymore. The sheer heaviness of the trenchcoat wore down on his shoulder. His ribs were slumped, his back caving in. His head bent, his beaver eyes hidden out, this man ran through the rain.

He ignored the fat and cold tears pelting his figure, trying to make him even more small. The streets of the undercity were empty—everyone locked off indoors. In winter, days of trading ended early. As such, merchants of the city did the selling when it could be done. And on evenings like this, hurried on home to waiting pots of bouillon or porridge.

"This weather's shit." A sailsman smoked pipe with his friends under the extending roof of a pub. He still wore the green and silver colors of Ravenna's fleet. "Aye!" His mate, a long-bearded Rocasian in black doublet replied, puffing his own cigar in nice circles that ascended up from their tiny alcove into the colf downpour, "the storm's fierce out there. Not even the [Kala Domoni] will try to sit it out. My balls are fucking shrivelled."

The sailor joined his mate's laughter. This far down in the Undercity, one could not hear the roar of the Cold Sea. But River Sana'a was closeby, and gave off its own riparian wrath. Large parts had frozen over, with fishes in it.

The two men drew long puffs under the shade of the whorly lamplight and like the stupid hyena, they too eyed the enigmatic hobbit daring the rain.

"Oi! IMP!" The sailor's matee called.

The short cloaked man hurried his legs.

In the Undercity, men raping other men was a tasty feature in the gossip lines.

"Hahahaha..." the sailsman slapped his brother on the back, "fucker thinks we're fags. Come on," he drew one last puff of his cigar and tossed the butt on the floor, kicking it to the cobblestones. It was instantly extinguished by the patters. "—my friend! Let's go find a place to warm our balls."

His mate nodded too fast, butting out his pipe with his own boots also.

Together, both sailsmen turned and headed off to the glittering Madamé Tonka's: a popular brothel.

In the distance, under a clutch of spiny shadows, the little man in the bogus overcoat watched them leave with his black eyes. He then looked around to make sure no one else was watching as he did. It was just for a second before he banged on the hard steel door in front of him.

BANG! BANG!

A metal plate at eye-level was pulled open and a single eye stared out at him.

"Password?"

"HAIL THE SERPENT!" It was the first time some light entered the dwarf's midnight eyes. His gaunt shoulders rolled in fresh warmth. Quickly, the cold was forgotten. As he said this to the person behind the steel gate, he lifted his hand and curved five fingers into the head of a Cobra.

SCRATCH!

The latch was slammed back in place and a swift beat later, the steel gate began to roll open with a loud grating sound.

The little man was shocked at the bald giant just behind it.

A woman.

She had gray skin and mighty breasts. Her stare looked like she went around slaughtering chicken farms. She had runic tattoos up to her scalp. That had to have hurt, the little man wondered, looking way up several feet just to meet her eyes. She took his bedraggled, soaked coat easily—like it weighed nothing at all. And she smiled like an Evangelical monk. "Welcome, brother."

The little man didn't need guidance to navigate the place; it was just one big Silo. He meandered around heaped pyramids of grain, bypassed carts and cartons and descended a [frigidarium]. But he eventually leveled into a bunker that made the cold outside completely vanish.

Another two dozen people stood in this bunker.

As the little man climbed down into the basement floor, he saw the people already inside turn to regard him. They all had weird smiles waiting for him. They touched his shoulder as he passed. They kept urging him on until he was in front of them all. Above the throng, on a bloodstone dais, only one woman stood.

She was the weirdest bunch of them all.

Her hair was a black sea.

It cascaded down her back, covering down the dais in shiny, damp ebony, like an exotic carpet. It was so dark the waves looked colored. This woman was kneeling. He beheld her slowly rise with her back to him; it was the ascension of Durga. She was even taller than the Amazonian at the door. A good head above any man the little man had ever seen. His first thought was that she was enhanced. Or a [Nephilim] descendant.

At full height of 2.73 meters, this long-haired deific woman turned.

Her eyes were slitted red.

And she was holding a golden cup—in the center of her alabaster white palms.

On her head, framing that perfect hair, was a mitre cap. Like the kind the Highfather wore in Vespers veneration, but hers was the proud head of a green Cobra.

Flamboyant. Spread flat. Reptilian.@@novelbin@@

She looked like a female [Pharaoh].

The snakeskin cap fit her crimson eyes, so much that staring at her felt like staring straight into the face of Pytha, the snake goddess.

The little man shivered as she beckoned him closer to the dais with a little finger. When her bloodshot orbs leveled on him, he flatout began to shake in fear. He had heard stories about this woman, this giantess before him...about her followers. But in this world, nothing could prepare him for meeting those infernal bloody eyes of hers. She had black tear dots, dripping down her cheeks—like viper poison.

She began to speak to him. Her voice thinner than a Gramercy silk thread. Completely serpentine.

"You have been scorned, BROTHER. Called the Imp. Dwarf. The Hobbit." She held out one hand to him, keeping her grasp on the brass cup with the other, "but no longer."

She helped him up on the dais with her. And even then, he still only came up to her waist.

Her slitted eyes pooled in something of kindness as she offered him finally the brass cup.

"I am RACQUEL. Mother of Serpents. Drink of my blood. Taste my venom. And you shall be saved."

Without even thinking on it a second, the little man grabbed the goblet from her hands. If she had put her blouse to the side and ordered him to suck her enormous titties – even better.

GLUG! GLUG! GLUG!

He gulped the contents of cup. As he drank, he felt a surge of power in his body. Lightning in his veins. Fire, in his bones. She was right. It was real blood. Her blood. His serpentine savior. Behind him, the small crowd were chanting: "HAIL LADY COBRA! HAIL RACQUEL SERPENT!"

"HAIL LADY COBRA!"

"HAIL RACQUEL SERPENT!"

The little man felt himself began to rise.

His body. He was growing. . .

Growing tall.

From a shallow 4ft. To 5ft. Discover hidden stories at My Virtual Library Empire

Then 6. To his utter astonishment, 7ft. And he was still enlargening, his muscles gaining bulk. Before walking in here, he was Camerlengo, the forgotten painter of a fallen Kingdom. Now. . .now, he was tall. He fell to his knees in front of her, "MOTHER."