Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

And Mephistopheles didn\'t hesitate to brag about it to any who would lend an ear, be it hell nobility or mortal slave.

Upon his head a silver crown had been placed, above his six already existing black horns, and the seventh which sprouted at his leveling up. The new King of Eldoria was a demon, he wore a lavish tiara upon his seven horns, and he was coronated in the raised pillars of the destroyed throne room.

It was an ostentatious ceremony and full of utter debauchery—mostly the Hellions present making the servile humans feel worse than piles of horseshit. Nobility were paraded in circles for the horned minions who had taken hold of their grand estates. Demons sat in beds, fed their concubines Florentine jewels of the bourgeoisie, and made the gold ingots drip in a flourish from their claws.

"Hold the cup higher, wench!"

"More wine for the flagon, turd!"

"Oi, get me a flask to piss in!"

Women were openly fondled by paws of Hellbabies and Maulers alike. These once noble ladies could do nothing but cringe at the jostling massages of the demons, which sent many crying to the loo.

The number of rape rumors since the fall of the Capitol was uncountable—and even at that, greatly understated. As for their Lord husbands, spectacles of the Nobles were made as they were surrended under the grinning faces of demons to the Hangman\'s noose, the Executioner\'s merciless axe, or a [Tormentor]\'s scorpion whips.

In those days following the arrival of the Fallen, the cobbled streets of Eldoria ran red; blood in the gutters, blood in the air, blood in the fucking skies.

To survive worse fates, at the slightest glance of a demon parading the ruins, the nearby noble woman reduced to a serving wench bent over the nearest well steeple and hiked up her skirt. Less than a whore she became, and if she was lucky the demon lasted all of ten seconds in her. If she wasn\'t, her head was ripped off post-coitus.

Or she found herself steeling her body to the terror of being mounted by a [Bonereaver], some of which had terribly poled penises.

Many noblewomen surrendered themselves into the cold, black waves of the sea, jumping off cliffs in the dead of night while their demon masters snored on. Most of them did this right after they\'d find a swelling in their bellies: pregnancy. It was too much humiliation for a Fae Lady to bear in her the unwanted spawn of a Hellion, forced into her womb by aggravated pounding of a horned sire.

Many even had been forced to watch the maimings of their husbands. In the final moments of their death, the Ladies did reckon,

"At least the Cold Sea wouldn\'t fuck me in the arse."

By the giant arms of blue [Nephilims] the Fae Empire had been rebuilded. With elegant Goth style, the foundations of a grand city was laid. In just a fortnight, with the Giants hurling in plutonic glass and cedarwood from the western plains, a great polis soon rose from the ashes of the former, made in the image of darkness. It was imperious and of pompous Alexandrian fittings.

A vision of the underworld on earth.

Any one docking on ships in the ports by the Cold Sea could look and behold the mighty bastion of raven-black bricks heralding the dense obsidian pillars of the Dark Castle. It\'s steeples were hid in the clouds, spires wrinkled and glossy silver, turrets extended with eaves designed in gold leaf and fall season colors. The castle was a tribute to shadows.

It loomed and sprawled in the headland of the entire city.

The gilded banners of the Fae dynasty had been dropped, blotting out the remnant glory of the Van Imperias. No one even spoke of the fey Queen who was ruled anymore. No one dared to. In place of her glorious white flags, the emblems of dark dominion hung down the rebuilt city walls. As long shades they billowed in the dusky winds—like a dark veil to a sanctum\'s radiance.

The banners of the Usurper, King Thebault de Vries, was a suede black, round-ended in maroon embroidery. The symbol of the novel demon Empire was a single red eye in a glinting silver pentagon.

The Usurper let the Empire keep its name, but the Capitol was given a new one: TITANS LANDING.

It was so befitting a name people nearly forgot the evil intent behind.

"Long may you reign, His Imperial Majesty! Let all and sundry, from the harshest frosty north to the loveliest summer south, render obeisance—"

Mephistopheles grinned as he sat listening to his official named [Grim Scribe] end his coronation in final words. The constructed throne, made of hard volcanic dragonglass was rather comfortable. His seat of power was sprawling, on a dais no one could ignore. A great populace filled the Goth hall.

He drank from the gold chalice brought in from the Highfather\'s sanctuary, fine wine incomparable to the dour whiskey they got in the Underworld. Many in the throne room did remark that the face they stared upon was in truth, a face they recognized as a gifted emissary who had served the removed Queen, Giselle as her cartographer in the days of her reign—up until his disgraced exit.

Alas, Thebault de Vries was a face they once knew before he was the Usurper.

Mephistopheles preferred his salt-and-pepper hair to a bald top, so he kept his look as Thebault.

His minister was just ending his ardent homily when a fuming, tall, and strikingly beautiful goddess strode into the vast throne room. She quietly sent flashing purple eyes around the room and everyone scuffled out. Some did run. She turned back to the man on the dark throne.

"Lilith."

Mephistopheles pulled at his fine royal red. His tone was sad.

The Queen of the Night needed no introduction: as fierce and sultry as Arabian tales she was. She moved for the dais and hopped the stone steps in her sharp heels until she was right in the King\'s face. He licked his lips at the peaks of her large breasts. Even in her fury, he had to admit Lilith was crazy beautiful.

"Where is my nephew, Mephistopheles?"

The clear rage in Lilith\'s voice was unmasked.

"It\'s—KING Thebault to you, dear," the gray haired monarch stressed. "And as for the Apollyon, I do not know his whereabouts. Last I left him, he was—"

A great [Divine] fire entered Lilith\'s iris. It burned out the sides of her very pretty face. Thebault stood off the throne and shifted to the side. He knew all too well this woman\'s fury. He raised his hands, as if to placate.

"I told you, VERY PLAINLY not to kill him." Lilith followed his backward moves, step for step. "WHERE IS ISRAFEL?"

Invisible hands took hold of Thebault\'s throat. He felt himself begin to choke as severe purple radiated off Lilith\'s frown. She was still smashingly gorgeous. Lightning whipped into the throne room from an open window.

"Relax, my love," a new voice said.

It was hushed. Unafraid. It came from behind.

Lilith and Thebault turned to the shadows at the same time. Her bright eyes dulled and the Usurper stopped choking. Out from the mild darkness, a man too tall to be mortal, stepped forward. His polished shoes were soundless on the decorated stone floors. He crept with the umbras. His face was celestial pale.

His hair, blackest night. In a formal ponytail, he wore the long waves.

"Lord Morningstar." Thebault bowed this time.

Lilith was only half calm. Mephistopheles could be a kiss-ass all he wanted.

"Lucifer, why the interruption? Do you know where OUR nephew is. I shouldn\'t have to stress Israfel\'s importance to—"

Lucifer in a moment, stood before her upon the dais. She was tall. But he was taller. He placed a death cold pale hand over her chest. "Like I said before, relax Lili. Israfel isn\'t dead, try as this fool might." He frowned at Thebault.

"Hell\'s Apollyon yet draws breath. I can feel his Mana Core. He is injured, but alive. Little Lord Bloodthirsty is still with us."

Lilith oomphed. "Then where the fuck is he?"