Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

Inside the Lightlark was distinctly colder than the grandiose and golden environment of the Sunling castle from which Rafel had just boarded—though these days people didn't call it 'Sunling' anymore. Not since the Griffin queen had been deposed as the last Van Imperia and the Dark Dowager risen the four Erebusian black towers, which even now reflected the dawn sun in Rafel's eyes as the great flight-ship rolled away.

Some clouds away in the skies, still he could feel the warmth of the Empress's eyes, more than the sun on his face.

He shut the vermillion curtains after a minute.

"I'll be back, my dears." He promised the gorgeous girls he could no longer see in the depths of his mind; Cora's long legs were fresh in his [Third Eye] as he mused on this. "Once I complete this grave mission and unearth the sponsor of the Swamp killer, I'll be back in my harem's arms. Roa be damned; I can be a diplomat from the capital."

He watered his bottom lip with a long tongue, already dreaming of Aya's front avoirdupois—how nice fucking peach her breasts had become. His sukky slave was rounding into a woman nicely.

Rafel was still by the closed maroon curtain when a baritone he presumed was the Captain's drilled to him from above:

"Good morrow, Lord Bludthïrste. Welcome aboard the [Lightlark]. I am honored to be your escort on this vessel. The travel to the Republic shall be two and half short hours. Please be aware that the ship has been loaded with whatever and whomever pleasures my kind Sir may so desire. A Halo portal has already been provided in the north plate to bring in fresh hostesses that may serve. Once again, thank you for boarding the Lightlark, my Lord.

Enjoy the trip."

Did he just say WHOMEVER?

The man's voice was gone but Rafel was in a daze.

"I CAN ORDER BITCHES?!"

Fucking A, man!

In his minds eye, he saw Peitho's lascivious smile clearly. His system fell more in tune with her Host seeing he still had the lecherous side of himself. "I guess Ravenna must've taken Aya's suggestion to make providence for consorts on the way. That they consider I might need to NUT in the space of two hours makes them the most attentive harem in the Underworld. Even Uncle Asmodeus would be jealous." Though the Captain of the Lightlark did not say this through the pulse, Rafel guessed it was the Empress who had emptied the entire flight-ship for him.

Hostesses to be only available, if he needed them.

How the girls had come to understand him so, he wondered.

'I am really the only one aboard. And this vessel seats what. . .two dozen?'

It was a private vessel so, maybe less.

[DING!] Peitho filled his head.

[So shall I order, my Lord host?]

[A courtesan? Two?]

[I'm sensing a latent deprivation in your lower regions, my Lord host. It will surely behoove you to engage in at least one romp before landing. If you prefer, I could make Augmented Reality Matrix.]

Rafel didn't fail to hear the subtle plea in Peitho's sweet voice. She really was begging to blowjob him—virtually.

'Hmm. I have never had android pussy before.'

He quickly quit his lewd thoughts; Peitho was literally in his head. She could see and hear everything.

[So...?]

"I'm afraid, Peitho. That's a no. But rest assured, your time will come."

Oh yeah! The time I'm gonna pound that poon like a fucking trigger.

Rafel had seen Peitho's animate form once; and oh boy! He could swear she was one hot Mami. Plus she was foreign: for sure those spread curves and blush lips belonged to the ancient Sumer tribeswomen. And she was too a kindred god. He said since they were alone. "Do not fret, woman. I have plans for you."

[BIG plans?] Peitho flirted.

Rafel did a growling laugh. "Yeah. You bet your fine ass! REAL BIG plans."

Hahahaha! They laughed together. Peitho was only amused by her Host. Through the long years of his battle, sorcery, and women, Peitho still hadn't fully come around to his harem. He loved it. She was a little crazy. HELL! Who was he kidding? A lot crazy. Just like fucking Nadya—his wife's wife—and he loved it utterly.

They were still laughing when a new throaty cackle joined their private concourse.

HAHA HAHA HA HEHEHE HEEEE!

The voice didn't at all sound sane.

[Who's this crazy person, Lord host?]

"Dunno, darlin'." Rafel shrugged.

HAHAHA HA HEE HAW HAHA!!!

It sounded like the person was wheezing, but could not seem to stop himself. Damn! Rafel mused. What I said was funny, but not that funny. Who's this maniac! He was in the main area of the Lightlark: which really looked like an elitist coven. "I thought I was alone in here." He looked around at the private couches, colored mulgrave and dusk. Very expensive. Very chic. Very murder-ish.

He only now noticed that the space had gone...

Poof!

Considerably colder.

Like winter in freaking Avalon cold!

[Lord host?] Peitho enquired gently.

He could almost feel her ghost arm on his, even though nothing was really there.

The crazy laughing turned eerie. Like a crow choking on something.

SKRR! SKRRR!!

Rafel heard the sound of a heavy object scraping on metal. Thudding of giant feet.

BOOM!

SKRRR!!

BOOM! SKRRR!

Rafel raised his voice. "Who's out there? Are you okay?"

BOOM!

The heavy thuds abruptly stopped. The red drapes fluttered a second. Nothing seemed to move. Rafel breathed frosty white oxygen. Then a huge hand appeared from behind, clutching to the edge of the restricting curtain. The fingers on it were mangled and gigantic. An enormous limb. It pulled. And the fine curtain abruptly ripped in two. And behind it was the very Captain of the Lightlark—with the snarling smile of a Jester.

But this wasn't the clown you wanted near your children.

He looked like he'd come right out of an acid pool.

THUD! THUD!

The monster put two steps in front, crossing the sheared curtains in tatters at his feet. It's legs were retch-green and large as tree trunks. One eye was completely bloodshot; the other radiated a weird purplish glow. The head was bald save a few mangy hair. Because of his unproportioned growth spurt, the acromegaly, and the fucking poison in his veins, the Captain's former decorated suit was in patches of fabric all over his body. Like peeling skin. He was the most odd kind of Hulk. An abomination.

A heavy broadsword hung limply like a club down one colossal arm.

Both Rafel and Peitho were thinking the same thing.

"WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO OUR PILOT?"

"And if he's here... a freaking mutant beast, who the hell is steering?!"

Rafel rose steadily from his FirstClass booth.

"Hey, dude. You okay?"

The man just began laughing again.

HAHAHAHA HEHEHE HA—

He actually coughed this time. And a slob of green bile hung from his loose lips.

[I don't think he can stop laughing, Sire. It must be part of the Injectant.]

"The fuck!" Rafel cussed.

But Peitho was right. Whatever this guy had swallowed, it had shut down most active parts of his brain, leaving the rest as sludge leaking out his nostrils. Which speaking of, the man's nose flared out.

RAAARRGHH!!!

The mutated Captain leaped, causing the great ship to lean in the skies, breaking off its skyward path. It began to descend. And fast. With both massive arms, he dropped right on top of Rafel.

"DEVIANT ARTS! DEMON DWARF MANEUVER!" Rafel parried the hit. And slid right under between the monster's legs.

GRRRHH!

The green giant turned in a swoop, hitting out in a backward arc. The ship bent to the left. The chairs of the private lounge broke off and toppled. Rafel managed to maintain his stance and swept out with his own hand to match the giant's hit.

"Kong Arts! Fist of Fury!"

His closed fingers ripped out with orange flames, upending the monster in his jaw and causing the man to stumble backward. Once more, the ship swerved. Red lights were blinking. Objects hurled here and there. But Rafel couldn't pull his eyes from the beast in front of him, lest he get his head smashed in by the pilot, stupid enough to fire off [Venom Eight] in his blood.

Rafel saw a break in the man's defense and made his move. He coordinated with Peitho.

"Activate BLOODTHORN!"

[DING!]

[Bloodthorn Equipping—]

[DIVINE RANK/UNHOLY MERCY LONGSWORD]

[Permission to evolve Shikai?]

"Do it!"

Rafel felt the long katana pulse into his hand, in a blood pattern he knew all too well. He anticipated the monster's attack with his own sword and put in a double arc elevation, just as Peitho expended his mana core to level-up his [divine] sword.

[Ding!]

[Second Upgraded form of Bloodthorn achieved!]

[DEVIL BANKAI]

[Soul Reaper enchantment.]

"Good. SPIRIT! INFLAME!" Rafel kept hard yellow eyes on the demented flight-ship pilot.

RIYYAAAH!!!

Rafel heard, and saw the ugly spirit of Bloodthorn roar in a crimson plume of smoke and light. He saw the mutant lunge and roared too—the spirit consuming his physical form as an Avatar. Together, enhancing his speed and strength impossibly, both demon spirit and man roared:

"DEVIL ARTS: BANKAI FORM! Spinning Steel Technique: BLOOD TUNNEL! LAUNCH!!!"

Rafel flew out in a blur, smashing right through the broadsword the monster put up to block out his attack. Like a needle, and tornado, he pierced in, whirling and spinning, making a thousand cuts, slashing through flesh and bone in loud wrath.

"RAAARRGHH!!!"

He came out on the other end, his move less than a second. He landed soundlessly.

And the next second, the pilot of Lightlark dropped down with a thud to the floor, his mutated bulk of a body oozing filth and puke. He was cut up like mince. Like a hundred samurais had gone through him at once. Human meat piled up frighteningly against the plush seats, leaking cold rusty red.

Rafel still clutched to dripping Bloodthorn.

He looked down at the wet blade.

"I don't think this is V-8."

[You're right, Sire. I've already accessed the blood banks of Eldoria. The venom that made the Captain so apparently is the blood of a Gentle-born woman called RACQUEL SERPENT.]

"Yes... Racquel. That rings a bell."

[But I'm afraid, Lord host, that is not our main problem right now.]

Rafel looked around the bloodied mural of the [Lightlark] FirstClass; the soaked seats and scarlet wipes, and the fact that the whole flight-ship was still plunging 10 000 feet at three miles per minute.

And the pilot was skewered pig on the ground.

"Shit."

[To be continued.]