Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

• THAT SAME NIGHT, THE CASTLE AT DARKWAKENôv(el)B\\jnn

BACCHUS, THE LORD OF WINE and Patriarch to all indolent, whorish, drunken bastards sat in the grandiose Banquet Hall of his friend and divine counterpart, Lord Asmodeus Lustfyre. His scarlet royal robes undone, he beckoned to a wiry boy not more than thirteen winters seen. As the lad filled his gold goblet for the umpteenth time that hour with rich mead, Lord Bacchus lazily crept his hand up the gangly legs to feel for the spindle penis that was not so young.

The attending lad crunched his toes in his simple sandals and fought flame-hot fury; his cock was not some god's recess toy. The urge to hurl the icy contents of his jug over Lord Bacchus's fat face filled him with deep hunger. But he didn't.

A groom of demon gods—and the devil himself sat with Bacchus even at this moment of his unbridled pedophilia in the Banquet Hall. The boy let the Lord of wine feel away under his skirts, cooling his vex with thoughts of murder and imagining it was the Head Cook, Miss Briganza's hand that was up there.

He finished serving the ale but remained mutely by the side of Bacchus. And then the second the wine god dropped his chubby fingers to take a sip, the lad skipped the halls faster than if a deer were in his sandals. Lord Bacchus watched his hurried exit with unconcerned eyes. He told the Vizier of the occasion: a 9ft Mauler with a permanent ball gag for a mask, "next time bring me a younger girl, will you? These boys are already broken in."

"Hahaha!"

"Hehehe!"

The hall of Eldoria's horned Nobles laughed. Just two years ago, this ill chamber of debauchery had been the place where faeries held their monthly tapdances. A gentlemen and ladies club, not a plaza to serve the interests of demons. With the forced overthrow of their Queen from the throne, so were the rites of the luminous spirits. These days, the fae didn't even leave their tents of white.

Refugee camps had become for the blond godlings a better choice for them than the palace where their Queen—who should be ranting for her golden seat had become a glorified sex toy.

In the Banquet Hall, Lucifer, the ole dragon with his [blood rune] on the banners of Eldoria laughed the loudest. "Ha! Hark now, Bacchus and Belbys share the same fetish. Should we incubate twelve year-olds to suit your tastes alone? Haha!"

Belbys, the Alexandrian goddess of depravity and mania was well away from this spurious, male-dominated room, else she would have denied to the extremes of having to share anything with the sod, Bacchus. The man couldn't even wipe his own arse. And he was a god! Imagine if he wasn't. The robust demon rose in a stagger, his robes dropping further on his exposed pot-belly...to the scare of a flaccid, albino weiner. All the other devils crunched their noses and turned away.

"For fucks sake, Bacchus!" Tephos, Lord of sea ails and fevers yelled.

Hahahaha!!! More laughter rang out in the circle of underworld sprites. "Hmm, incubation. Why didn't I think of that." Bacchus staggered back down with shivering loins. He plopped to his cushion again unceremoniously. "—they just keep on growing," his lazy eyes narrowed, "but not if they're kept in stasis right after I'm done with them and until when I need them again. Huh! Thanks, Luc. Great idea. Get on it!" He commanded the dumb Vizier.

Only Bacchus could think of something so sick: of incubating children so they wouldn't age, so they would be young forever to attend to his vile desires.

Lucifer stopped laughing to say, "shit, my brother. I was only kidding."

More deep and evil cackles rang out. In the shaded halls had to be about thirty ageless demon lords, of immortality parallel to their immorality.

"Shh!" Six-armed Arachios, god of politics and the greed web of its partakers advised. "We'll wake Lily. You know much she likes her face whore to sleep peacefully."

The men burrowed down to snickles. But it was too late. The Dowager had heard and was by their ears, in the shadows. The high veils of the Banquet Hall rippled in a sudden gust of wind and— "Oh shit! Here she comes." Asmodeus inferred of his sister. And it came just as Lilith emerged from the umbras in such a beautiful goth vibe. She was like a walking mural of the Underworld—if it were female. And who's to say it wasn't.

All the males, despite being gods, shrivelled into their seats a little more as she approached. She clicked in her stiletto heels easily for Bacchus. On this night, she rocked their world with the palest moonshine for hair. Lucifer mused he should've fucked his sister more when they were little. Lilith on the other hand reached Bacchus... and grabbed him to standing ovation by the balls.

"Oow, please, Li-Lily," he wailed.

Her purple eyes stared daggers into his. "Never call my lady a whore."

Bacchus nodded with shifty eyes, praying for the first time to God that Lilith didn't put her six-inch nails into it. He severely loved his scrotum. Lucifer was thinking something else. He voiced: "Lady?" he questioned Lilith. "Sister, when did a simple bedsharer graduate to the position of your LADY?"

"When I darn well say so!" Lilith released Bacchus, and in disgust, wiped her palm on his Pilate robes. "With the way we've been fucking, she could well whoop all your arses. And it's Giselle to you. Her name's GISELLE, get it?!" She waited for the men to mumble and nod. But mumble and nod they did.

Lilith added. "Good. Now that we're done with that. You all get some water in ya, and sober up. By the morning, we're going to war."

"War?" Baphomet stood on his hind hooves. The Armenian goat-headed devil was shocked. "What useless cunt in this realm would dare?"

Lilith didn't need to answer. The dark gods all got it when blood rose in her cheeks.

"Our nephew." Asmodeus volunteered.

The great red dragon, Lucifer Morningstar joined Baphomet on his feet. This handsome devil was distinguished from the satyr demon in his fitting three-piece suit. Shadows of three billion souls filled the Banquet Hall. It became deep vignette. And out of the thick darkness, Lucifer's voice sang out musically.

"It's a good thing we don't get hangovers then."

He smiled. A [Tartarus] talisman and seal of the [Fiery Pentagon] bloomed to infernal light behind his head. . .like a halo, on a demon. How weird?

• COMMAND BASE, GRONE'S TERRITORY

"Burn! You stupid motherfuckers! Liquefy in the flames of Hel. Burn!"

Grone the Grievous, [Indomitable Survivor] and Skullrider spat at the great inferno raging twelve feet away from his battle boots. Before him was a heap of dismembered flesh. Bodies. And bodies. It was a mighty carnage, the host of Lilith Firstborn. The one thousand troop of soldiers she had sent in from Titans Landing.

The Deathlies had given them a good Badlands welcome. The joint task force of armed mercs and the elite Blackguard made a small mountain of corpses. On the pile, these garrison smoked in one huge pyre.

Grone looked upon their steaming, blackening bodies, and he smiled.

"They were stupid," came a deep voice from his right. It was the leader of the rebellion, ruddy and bloodied, Israfel Blüdthïrste. "Yes, my king. They were." Grone nodded. They could build a wall with the slaughter. Both men looked to the heat of the carnivorous fire, struggling with the red desert earth for who could flay the corpses ash first, and thought back to the events that led up to this.

Six hours ago, it was morning, and these frying lot were still living and breathing soldiers then.

Six hours ago, Rafel had sent a select squad round the base to rouse the sleeping camp quietly. He had known scouts of thr Blackguard would be watching for when they would awaken. Using this strategy, he awoke the whole base without these 'scouts' ever the wiser. His people were quick to comply and adapt to [Chameleon] warfare.

It was to great advantage when they successfully evaded the eyes of the Blackguard scouts perched atop the small hills roundabout.

That morning, [180 000] host of Rafel's rebellion army assembled into four legions. And still, the scouts thought it was a far-off herd of wild bison rising in the east. It was even more luck from the mistress [Fortuna] when the sun rose late.

Of Dementa's camp, four thousand of her meanest, biggest and craziest, scorch-borne bastards rose to the battle formation. They had arrived in little squadrons over the days leading up to the Rites of Issus, traveling in small bands scattered all over the place that made any watching eye wary. But as they stood together in company that morning, the force was by no means little.

The Junker queen led her force as Captain.

Nicknamed the [Battle Angel], Dementa in her rash ivory combatant armor was quite the sight. Her silvered broadsword was a showstopper.

"Let 'em come get some of this," she'd roared.

Of the battalions second formation, Lord Zaftig came in with three thousand defenders.

The metal-shrouded fighters glowed like rain sleet in that dawn six hours ago. From their brass helms and plates to shields of bronze and copper spears. And then their true manifest: the [Bottleworm] fire cannons—that could explode a target 2km away.

The militants of Caer Mullhen came in strides of armor made wholesomely of Ore and [magic metal] with Mechas among the ranks. Those with machine arms that transformed to guns. And those with legs that were literal Guillotines. And those with neon eyes that could see further than the bald eagle that roamed the vulture country. Thirty thousand of this [Iron Force] stood with the Rebel Lord.

Grone's forces made the bulk of the host, two times in the literal sense.

The blonde Skullrider brought in a numbered host of ten thousand strong. His own formation were the Grizzlies: the Beasts of Carmel. One thousand Samurai of the [Iron Viper] clan shined in the 4th formation. Armed with quills and katanas, they were Rafel's best offense. And six hours ago, under the cover of slow daybreak, the Rebellion began their march.

They had fallen upon the meagre group of mercs, as compared to their host, insulting.

The battle was quick.

Rafel considered it a training exercise for the real wage to come.

Now, he blinked and shook off his thoughts. He turned back in his flowing [Ashé] Epic armor shawl to the longest stride of military this southern side of the Continent had ever seen. Leaving the cunts of the Dowager to melt in flames and the scorching desert sun, he shouted:

"Onward! To the Golden Gates of Eragonn!"

From the roads of Séltand, the Empire's spires were visible. Like figurines on a wartable, the craziest people on the Continent used the glass and gold of Titans Landing as landmarks to the final fulfillment of destruction. Breaking songs of Ho! Ho! Ho! thundered with the pounding of cleaving feet: [18 000] rebellion war marching as to war.

Far ahead the dusty miles, Lilith stood in her tower at Darkwake with binoculars.

"Here he comes!" She grinned widely.

And clutched to the warm hand at her side, Giselle of the Glorious fae.