Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

[Warning: #necrophilia #horrorporn #cannibalism]

ADANNA'S DRAGON, a gargantuan Redtail with gin-colored quartet horns whistled through the sky in a crimson streak. Orleans, the Lady of the House of Iron called the great beast. Rafel was glued to the elongated spines on its rugged back; an alligator-hide saddle provided good seating. From Orleans' rump to his slashing python tail was the crimson of oozing blood.

Rafel looked behind as they parted the wintry aft.

The noon sun was gracious.

At half past three, the clouds looked calm as the dawn firmament in Rhobine. Rafel smelled the soft flakes of snow in the air. Some hundred feet below, the [shuttle wagon] Moira and the girls were riding in hurtled after them. Orleans was a mightier beast than the Cosmo machine and could withstand the cold air pressure at mountain level.

The shuttle could not.

Not yet.

It flew just above the rise of the skyline.

Rafel petted Orleans, brushing one large vermilion scale. "Dragonback, how I've missed this. Reminds me of days at Corynthia." The plutonic creature did a purring that made the flock of gulls flying closeby scatter; it sounded like [Wülf] growling.

As the band flew together, their riding—on dragon and in shuttle both—was rushed.

They were rushing over there... to the swampy lair of the Antler Killer. With [Echolocation]: a vampiric ability Rafel had unlocked from his days as blood Earl, he could see the runic magic guide them in the clouds and hear Moira in the shuttle dozens of aerial feet below as she assured Cora that her team of zealous Agents were already treading through the marshes of Nokmaar.

She said hollowly. "Not even the shadow of great Ganesh can offer haven for this sicko. Not today."

• NOKMAAR, THE BOG

South of the River Sana'a was not a good place to be. It had never been in fact, across history.

The hatefulness of this place was not a myriad of many annoying things, as the case of the Badlands, but just one huge fucking annoying thing:

The swamp.

South of River Sana'a was a sinkland. The marshes of the darned places could swallow a bison whole and still seem as if nothing had gone under. Clay dark as peat and smelly as tripe. Because of the River alone, people built homes around the more safe areas of the bog. Fishing villages. No ordinary miracle it was that River Sana'a itself was sparkling white and crystal clean.

The river's brooks that winded from the main rush that cut right into the mornings steam of Rocasus' rainy weather. The Republic claimed the slithering water as national treasure.

The [House of the Griffin] had let it be. These days, envious merfolk were just waiting to see what the Empress – in effect House of Raven – would decide. Either way, no one wanted the fucking bog.

The contest was all about the River.

In this despicable sinkhole place, a thin mud path led into the marshland. The road was barely there and lonely. Near invisible. Fat gators infested the still dirt streams off at the sides, their ugly armored head hidden under long water grass. The places that were mostly swamp with no foothold breeded the worst crocodiles in the Continent.

Piranhas that merged hunger and shudder.

No mermaid dared cross in from River Sana'a. And as if Nokmaar meant to do you one worse, the peat along that singular mud path had real big creepy-crawlies. The heebie-jeebies. And it was flammable.

The bog had only one insane inhabitant.

Slivers of sunlight cut through the red Mangrove in wan strength. The light itself was weak. In this bog, everytime it looked like it was evening. A few bats danced above. Baboons swung on low branches. The lonely mud road led on. It winded snake-like around a giant spooky Oak that looked older than the swamp around. Its roots sank in and drank the bronze-colored water like the essence of [Gold St. Annika].

Beyond the mighty grappling roots, the mud road came to an end: a ramshack cabin.

Rusty brown and leaning on termite-eroded stilts, it was clear the person living here was FUCKING CRAZY!

The door hung off one shingle. The windows were hammered in. Tape held in openings. Rot in the roof. Animals bones scattered in the front yard.

Tall bamboo surrounding, making the wind into strange yawning noises when the breeze passed.

CREEAAAK!

The door suddenly came open from the inside.

A very old, scraggly man with a mild hunch-over lumbered out in only a loincloth.

It was brownish. But an observant eye could tell it had been white once. Pee stains dotted the front, and one tired testicle swung out of the confine, like the old man's underpants were no fun.

SLAP! SLAP!

His balls smacked against his thighs.

Ignoble, the old man scratched both his stringy off-white hair and behind at the same time. The ugly motions of the latter revealed a pasty, wrinkled ass. He stood for a moment on the broken steps of the slasher-style cabin and scratched his bottom as his sharp dark eyes cut across the array of bones and decaying leafs littering his frontyard.

Remnants of little animals. His doormat was a fox's red fur. From the little opening of the hanging door, stuffed animals in many stages of terror stared out with glassy eyes at the hope of a savior that would never come.

A rattlesnake. A bleached seal. A white marsupial.

The strange man stepped off the step, white hair shooting out his ears. He was huge, almost seven feet tall. One could tell he'd have been very strong in his youth. Psycho strong.

His huge feet stepped on carcass of a stray cat as he walked for a long shed in the near sight.

"Stupid pussy!" He stomped the carrion's bowels, causing maggots to ooze onto his legs. He ignored the rot. Like he couldn't smell the stench.

It was disturbing. Everything about this man and his home was abnormal.

Twisted.

Lizards were grinded on a rock. And a rottweiler's head was impaled on a sharp stick. Flies buzzed in its open brain.

The large old man was potbellied as he marched for the shed. Still in only his dirty loincloth, he put out his long, thin leg and kicked in the shed's door.

Right there, on the first table in sight was the head of Major Midas Azubuike.

It was pale and missing an eye. . . but it was Midas alright.

"There you are, my friend." The old man walked in and patted the open-mouthed head. He began to speak to the head that sat on its neck, staring at nothing. The severed cut was clean. The old man let the head rest on the table like a trophy. "—You know, you're the fanciest cunt I've got in a while. I would've done you anyway, even if I wasn't paid."

He laughed, cackling loud. "Hahahahaha!!!"

The table where the head rested on was a butcher table. Above it was an array of cutting knives, a mechanical saw, cleavers.

Just beside it, a photo of this withered old man in his prime: a young naval soldier of Baeleon's force.

First, soldier. Then, assassin.

He opened a tin box and looked over the contents: bones and bones. The tiniest parts of his victims over the years that could fit in his toolbox as fun relics of his legendary years. Yes, he was; a legend. A dark legend. He'd evaded Marshals of the Council. Witches. [Truthfinders]. The fucking noose!@@novelbin@@

SIXTY FUCKING YEARS!

They could never catch him.

"Invincible!" He praised himself, clasping to Midas' head and the oily hair strands. The skin was sour. It was the formalin he'd doused it in right after the fresh kill that preserved it till now.

The old man raised the head by the hair, looking in the one eye left to the head. He chuckled crazily, "I think I'll keep you. Mummify you... Oh yes! Ha!" He jumped like a child. "I will! And this is all thanks to my DEAR, DEAR PARTNER." He fished up the next item on the blood-rotted table: a branching of deer horns. That which had earned him his fear in the hearts of the damned.

His great Antlers.

"Partner," he whispered and planted it on his head.

"It still fits, after all these years."

PLOP!

The old man dropped Midas' head. He sang. "Now don't go anywhere, Major. We're going to have some quick fun, my partner and I.

Come on, partner!" The old man bounced away in his antlers, but not too far. Just in the corner, yet another body lay.

A woman.

No, a girl.

She was in a flattering nightdress that would have been immaculate but for the large stain of dried blood on its midriff area—where the old man had plunged his scythe into her intestines. She too had been dead for days now in his murder shed. But her corpse was next to a block of snow. She looked as fresh and pretty as the day she was killed.

The old man touched her rosy cheek, her sleeping charcoal hair, loving the smoothness of her milky skin even in death. He kneeled in front of her.

"My partner and I need you, darlin'. We need you."

He pushed up her nightdress and put apart her off-white panties.

LAAAAP!

He licked her cold neck, tasting the death on her skin. "Fuck, you taste so good. Doesn't she, partner? We can't wait to be inside you, darlin'?"

The old man hastily pushed down his own soiled loincloth and leaned over her smaller corpse. He licked her again, oiling himself. Smiling very much like a madman, he practically frothed at the mouth like a bulldog as he tunneled inside her.

After some seconds of hard jerking and panting, he shuddering, emptying those slappy balls inside of the dead girl—the one he'd killed with his hands.

"Ahh, yes!" He heaved.

And then he tore a little piece of her belly fat, at the site of her fatal wound, and he popped it into his mouth. And chewed.

"Sorry we can't keep you, darlin'. The gators got to feed too. But I guess you can't be pretty forever either. Ahh... here we go."

He stood and hefted her onto his shoulders. And started out the shed. Explore stories on My Virtual Library Empire

BAM!

He immediately came face-to-face with thirty four [C.S.A] Agents. They had his horror cabin of death surrounded. Moira was just landing in the [shuttle wagon]. Up above, the old man heard the screech of a dragon and the shadow of great batlike wings.

"Oh shit." He gulped.