Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions-Chapter 362: Blood Doll

BY SOME PROFANE MIRACLE, CAPTAIN Percival van Tuane was found hale and hearty in the aftermath of the strange ocean blast. How the goldenhaired lick of a man, and a sunling faerie at that survived the watery apocalypse confounded Eotigan. But his old friend he remembered was a spry man, and at a time before all the confusion and death both of them had endured, in the clandestine halls of the Corynthian Academy for Witches, the boy prince Percival of House Imperia had been quite the fighter.

So however surprising, Eotigan found it not too strange that in his days of piracy, Percival was yet a worthy contender—even in the face of a wrathful stormfront.

Eotigan, Thyra, Kambili and Inaia, and Ponytail were treading their way through the muck of the sodden beach and scores of purple, eel-like corpses that dotted it when they first held coughing up yonder. It came from the coasts, very close to the shoreline which calmer waters of the flood still bathed. Since looking for minutes now for one survivor, when the group heard the noises of a wretched, vomiting man, they all immediately rushed to the site.

And there among the ruins of his new warship—blasted to smithereens by the waves—the pirate captain, van Tuane lay, his shock of untainted sun-head more like an angry mop on his head.

Eotigan cleared his throat. "Shit. You look like shit, mate."

The girls chuckled, Inaia adding, "I have neva seen a Seely One look dis bad, I tell ya." This put up more laughs but Inaia wasn't done with golden boy. "—does wata spoil y'all natural perm or shit, yeah?"

Even Eotigan couldn't stop his grin from spreading at Inaia's last jibe. Percival's frown as he lay doubled over in the wet sand in that moment upon them could spark a hill of dry leaves. Inaia did not give a shit. Herself and Kambili filled their bellies with screeching gladness at the man's expense. It was only on Thyra's face that the pirate captain found some measure of pity.

Percival retched a final time, spewing what was very much a giant eel.

"Ooooh!"

Everybody went back.

They made faces as he wheezed and gagged, vomiting out the whole slimy organism in some weird peristalsis. The round fish plopped to the dirty sands, rolling and whacking around.

With a hard hand—though robed in the iron of his imprisonment upon the warship—Percival beat the ugly fish to jelly and viscous humor on the earth. His chains were the one thing the sea could not break. "Eeewwww, man," Inaia continued mocking, her Rasta accent making her jesting even more painful to Percival's red ears, "...gross! Well at least you got a lesson in deepthroat."

Percival snarled, making a grab for her. "You b-bitch. Fuckkk yo—"

His words couldn't form right, his gullet still raw. Eotigan simply put his left booted foot on the man's iron, impeding his emotional attack at Thyra. "Ah-ah, old friend," his bass came out such as a husky's—in warning. Eotigan told him with unflinching amber orbs, "... careful now. You do not want to vex me further. You survived a living flood! Brava! But that don't mean shit to me. I could still drag your funky, Davy Jones-looking ass to the tides and drown you right back in...

And then you'd be the same as every goddamn sonofabitch from 'ere to the town square. You wanna keep your rich head of hair, golden boy?" Eotigan grabbed his damp locks, drilling him with his eyes, "—don't touch my women. Don't talk to them. Don't cuss them out. Don't fucking look at them. And Thyra..." Eotigan pulled the fleshy blonde in, grabbing possessively her thick ass, "oh yeah, she's my bitch now."

Eotigan stressed on the 'bitch' and whammied her butt with Percival damn near crying.

PAH!

Eotigan payed his old friend's weepy face no mind. He'd cuck anybody.

Thyra wasn't even personal – they didn't call him the Netori king for nothing.

Eotigan gave a nod to Kambili in Percival's direction, starting to tell them of the plan to leave the water-logged wasteland that was now Glarkis. Kambili moved forward, grabbing Percival by the collar and lifting him up far too easily for a chick of her size and yellow complexion; clearly, she was channeling Suratanï's aura. "Cam on, up wid you now boi. Up!" She pulled up the blond man as Eotigan spoke. As his words touched everyone else, Inaia was dumbfounded, and impressed that her [Host] had thought this far out:

"We shall head east of the island with the captive," Eotigan boomed, "the grassland there offers more hilly plateau and freshwater." He looked upon the strewn corpses for the umpteenth time. "There's nothing we can do for them. We cannot alone bury, or burn all these much. The earth is wet. Logs are heavy. The air wouldn't burn. This, right here is a city taken. A genocide. Of what god's hand, I do not know.

But this I do. Night is falling. The tides will rise. The grasslands are our best option.

On the morrow, we'll start a fire, and perhaps sailboats will find us. Then the sons of Port Glarkis shall receive their due sendforth into the Halls of Valor. But for now, let us away from the stench of drowned flesh and the reach of terrible sea to moorland refreshing and blessed, where we will rest and joy in the renewed spirit of life within us."

"Aye, ser Eotigan." Ponytail said this and everybody agreed.

The very final lip of the crescent sunset was slowly dropping into purple twilight, splashing the murdering sea in brilliant color when the group of island survivors hit the green hills of the east.

• 0100 HOURS, GRASSLAND TENTS, EAST GLARKIS

"I prefer my potatoes boiled, you wench." Kambili criticized Thyra, stood over a gurgling pot of frying tuber. The second woman tried not to seem hurt as no one in the firelit area could tell if Kambili was being playful or serious with her words.

Inaia had softened to the silver-eyed blonde. Kambili, not so much.

She'd never trust a pirate bitch!

And no one could blame her. The days of being sold for a fetch of coin by Slavers still haunted her. In fact she only tolerated Thyra because of Eotigan; she desired him too much to just give into her base mind and strangle the bitch. As such she let out her dislike for Thyra trickle out in little moments like this. Thyra kept silent and only kept stirring her pot of frying potatoes.

Several hours had passed since they first climbed the moor hills. A huge fire, separate from the cooking stones, burned bright in the area they'd cleared up. It was the singular luminous source upon the whole terrain; from the skies the tiny island appeared ghostly. Closer to morning than midnight now, it was in arranging the spot beside a peculiar Oak that consumed most of their night. It had hit this wee hour just as they got round to bathing and cooking. Everyone was tired. Thyra didn't need Kambili being all up in her ass about being the newbie babe.

She had a superfine retort on her lip for the fair-colored dame. But she shut it—again, for Eotigan.

She took knew he liked his peace and quiet. Plus he had saved all their less-than-brave arses from being swallowed alive by the ocean.

Both girls, silently cutting eyes at each other, failed to notice they were quite alike in their regard for the man they shared—enough to hold their tongues.

An ensuing silence pervaded their bonfire camp as Thyra packed up the deep-fried potatoes.

Kambili had to admit they smelled really good.

One look at the glistening yams and her stupid stomach growled. . .loudly.

Kambili felt like she would rather eat the grasses surrounding the camp when she caught Thyra's smile.

The woman had gone and made a delicious fish stew too.

"Fuck me." Kambili huffed under a breath.

"Food is served."

These words broke through all tension around the campfire when Thyra said it. Everyone rushed to their served bowls. And boys and girls became as wolves in the eating.

"Damn! Girl!" Kambili moaned after huge spoonfuls. "I almost forgive your sins of piracy."

She demanded a second plate in earnest. Inaia and Ponytail too. Only Eotigan did not. He hadn't even taken a first. It was not his wish to be a party pooper but his hunger tonight lay elsewhere.

Bellies were full and Thyra and Kambili even shared a laugh about the 'orgasmic' sauce. But then they noticed Eotigan was not laughing – had not even taken a bite of his loaded bowl. Inaia was first to get the inkling that he might require other tastes on his tongue, for her Lord [Host] had a healthy appetite, this she knew. Thyra looked to Kambili, mouthing, "You go..." "Ahem—" Kambili nodded to Inaia to make a move, since she was highest on the chain of Eotigan's affections.

The rugged Hel prince sat aloof from the others, staring off into the grasses and cold darkness.

He was the picture of resolute mystery.

"Lord [Host]," Inaia didn't mince words when she walked over and touched his forearm, "what do you desire?"

And she meant it. In that moment if he told her to strip and fetch him a wyvern's head, she'd have not a single complaint.

But Eotigan turned his eyes to her from the sweeping dark, iris radiant as the leaping flames she beheld, and he said in his rich, reserved baritone: "You."

He wanted her. But he wasn't looking at her tits. Nor her fat butt. Neither her classy dreadlocks. His flame eyes searched her not with carnal hunger, but predatory lips.

The lust for blood.

"Ohh." Inaia got the message right away. In the purview of everybody else, she softly left his side to stand before him. He opened his legs upon the log which he sat and she dropped softly to the earth at his feet, going on her knees. She then gathered her thick, vermilion locs with both hands and pushed the cascading braids behind, showing her delicate, white neck. She prostrated unto him, putting her head on his knee, baring her luscious skin. She breathed, "yours, Lord [Host]."

CRUNCH!

Eotigan's fangs sank into her offered neck, drawing untarnished blood which he eased with his hot, licking tongue.

Everybody was still watching.

Their collective gaze was glued as fasteners to the sight unfolding before them.

Eotigan took from Inaia's soft, lily-scenting neck, hungrily, the pure sanguine of her being which she offered him, her jugular pulsing as he drank. She reprised herself to be more considerate in the future; knowing better than anyone he needed his routine blood feed. No pressure. The last time he had drunken from her was when he'd watched the Umber Dragon – his mother—struck straight out the Eldorian sky. And tonight, right after the annihilation of a small city he had called home, even for a few days. For some reason, her Host seemed to require blood whenever a real bad thing went down.

If Lilith were here, she'd press Inaia's face to the open flames for forgetting her beloved son's blood feed.

Ponytail took eyefuls of the situation, muttering, "nothing can surprise me anymore."

"We have a name for gyals like her in ma place, ya know," Kambili told mysteriously in a low voice, to no one in particular, staring over burn flickers of the campfire; her voice went even more crooked and eerie when she finished: "—we call dem a blood doll."

Thyra blushed hotly inspite of herself—and the ritualistic meal-time going on two feet across.

"Yeah," she added, "there's a reason why he's named Bludthirste."