Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions-Chapter 364: Faerie Warship

• EASTERN GLARKIS, POST FLOOD ERA. DAY FIVE.

INAIA COULD NOT BELIEVE THIS SHIT. The former pirate Lord, Percival van Tuane was legging it hard, down the moors hill. He was scampering like his arse was on fire. No shit. "Look at this bitch." She dropped the woodpile in her arms. "Just look at him! Goin’ fa it lak there’s a sailboat in sight, which can ferry him away from captivity. Goddamn wuss!"

"Eh! You can’t make this shit up." Another voice joined her. It was Tarchon, alias Ponytail: the last son of Glarkis. The others had only found out his real name three sweltering nights ago.

As Tarchon laughed, he dropped also his smaller pile of wood—mostly kindle, and following he was Thyra and Kambili. The two had the larger log for the night fire between them; over the few days stranded on Port Glarkis’ grassy fields, the two had forged an unlikely alliance. Though, the word, pact seemed a better fit for what was actually going on between them.

Kambili puffed when they dropped the log. She stretched her defined back, tutting as the sorry runaway in the distance, "dis is da sixth time dat pussy man is pulling dis shit. Sir shoulda cut off him scraggly legs, yah?"

Thyra gently put her hand to her brim hat, staring off down the moor, shaking her head, silently wondering how she’d ever being first-mate of ’that man’. Who the fuck tries to escape an island? With no boats in sight? No blaring ship? Not even a raffia raft? "Jeez!" Thyra sighed. "We needn’t bother Eotigan. So... who’s gonna go get him this time."

"Let him run." A cold baritone rang into the conversation—echoed in the thwack of a smashing axe and breaking wood.

"Lord host." Inaia whimpered, unable to help herself.

Under the great branches of their camp’s only natural canopy, a formidable Oak, Eotigan stood bent over a cypress he had felled two kilometers west—and dragged alone to camp—chopping away. His red hair looked spun and darker under the shadows of the tree. Sweat dripped sexily down his lupine form. Slivers of sunlight breaking leaves tattooed his battle-ripped shoulders.

Carnal thoughts entered everyone’s mind.

Eotigan rose in gallant might, weaving the huge axe like a pocket blade—biceps making Thyra swoon in the heat.

"...there’s nothing that isn’t rotten beyond this moor. The water, salty. Crops, yellowed. The air, stale. We have buried as much folks we can, but dozens more yet litter the cruel sands under the open skies. So," Eotigan’s tone deepened, "let him run. He shall return, and when he does, he’ll be thankful for his chains."

THWACK! CRACK! THWACK!

Eotigan went back to hacking away. Everybody else stood with slack jaws. Staring. Just staring.

"Damn." Tarchon inputted. "If Eotigan-dono just had one gay bone in his body...mhmm-mm-hmm

"Get!" Inaia slapped his arm, chastising the femme boy. Inwardly she was glad her [Host] did not have ’one gay bone in his body’. Less competition. Look how long it took for him to look her way, and she was bonded to his fucking mind. Literally! No way she was letting Tarchon get his slutty hands on Eotigan. The Glarkian was a pretty good masseuse though. Mischievously she’d raised offhandedly to Eotigan the need to drop the fellow off on the nearest occupied island town once they were found by the sailboats.

On this subject Eotigan had no need to be rescued. He did not desire to remain on this fucking dull blight another day, waiting for mortal men—no offense—to show their dirty, sea-weathered faces.

He strongly believed in being the author of his own fate.

—no matter what the monks of Titans Landing preached.

If nothing else, being Hel’s Champion through countless death duels had taught him to master his own future. He was working on a plan to get them all off rotting, humid Glarkis as he ripped into 5ft-thick beams. His plan included the blond idiot currently hitting new Olympic miles down the hill. In fact, the golden boy was a vital component of it.

Four hours passed with minimal wind coursing the grassland, and Eotigan retired after the fifth to the lunch of porridge Inaia had waiting for him. Thyra had cooked it though; she shyly stood nearby, watching him settle into it—also not wanting Inaia to take her glory.

The totally inappropriate smile Eotigan sent her after his first spoonful was better than any word compliment. She blushed all over her milky white skin—radiant flesh like moonshine, hips a wild thing. All the girls used the festering heat on the island as an excuse to indecently wrap wolfskin around their generous bodies. Even now, Eotigan surrendered his feral gaze to Inaia’s provoking blouse of leaves.

How did she manage to sew that?

Her full titties were right there. She knew just how he loved his meals.

Shirtless and breathtaking of stature, Eotigan was gulping down his offered palm wine when the blond idiot came staggering in.

Percival van Tuane looked like he’d had an unhealthy clash with a bear and diabetes. His long, wheat-bright hair was stringy and greyed. His eyes, sunken. Clothes soiled in no doubt the off smells of decaying corpses. His feet looked like he’d got some troll genes in him.

The golden boy looked utterly eff-you-cee-kaed!

—fucked.

Eotigan wiped his mouth satisfyingly. "Oh, you’re back then, eh?"

Tarchon had been resting inside a tent but stepped out, not wanting to miss a second of this.

Percival, broken by the winds and heat, and his lips chaffed, stepped up to the inner circle of the camp. One could see Inaia visibly curl her tongue. The wheat-haired man said, "you think I could get some?" whilst eyeing the almost empty pot of porridge. Everybody saw his unhealthy gulp at the sight. Meanwhile Inaia scorned the wretched fellow: "ooh, smell that?"

"You mean besides da stink of da pirate man?" Kambili followed.

"That’s the smell of utter failure." Inaia mocked more. "—but that too, m’dear." She shared a fit with the lightskinned she-warrior.

Eotigan handed over his finished plate to Thyra, gesturing for a second helping, his mere motion taunting the brain cells out of Percival.

"Are you gonna give me some?" He snarled at everybody and nobody in particular, his hunger giving root to anger.

Eotigan laughed—whilst Thyra so happily heaped up his plate again. Despite being his newest mistress she was so committed to seeing him well-fed, because, then she knew she’d be well ’fed’ too. Thyra kneeled when she served her big, flaming, wood-chopping demon. Percival all but fainted right there in the center of their camp. He concluded – the horned fuck really must be banging the SHIT out of his former First-mate to have the hip [Silversaint] genuflect before him. Thyra of all women, his blonde bomb. . .the fuck?

Percival beheld the mightily loaded bowl of glistening, cooked yams and vegetables. And this time he really did feel like he was dropping out of consciousness.

"Ah, come on!"

Nobody moved a finger.

CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!

—only Eotigan’s silent chewing.

"You really gonna make me beg?" Percival’s throat bobbed in effort with each gulp the other man took. "Fine, goddammit! Shit. Please. For the love of Lucifer... Or whatever the shit you believe in?"

Eotigan licked his spoon, making Thyra smile. Inaia shuffled close to him in her sinful dress of leaves, manifesting her natural element with all the colorful dreads upon her head, which she knew her [Host] liked. Eotigan fucked with it. But he’d expected the Rastafari to not be a shell white woman. But again, he fucked with it. "I believe in loyalty." Eotigan responded to Percival with no shred of humanity in his voice or face. Infact his eyes were literally dots of fire. "...you ran away, remember?"

"Lak a bitch!" Kambili volunteered. Her vibrant manner was such a contrast to her lovely flesh tone. Skin such as fairest honey. Some would call her stupid pretty.

Eotigan went on, tutting between spoonfuls, "that, was NOT loyal."

"Really! LOYALTY?! You gonna come to me with that shit?" Percival insulted, "fuck you, man."

Eotigan’s bowl crumpled in his hands—like sandpaper. "NO, BITCH! FUCK YOU!" He roared, on his feet within the speaking second. He didn’t have much inches on Percival but when he rose and drew near to the blond, Eotigan appeared a Spartan. A mighty Roman. Larger than life. He breathed down into Percival’s weathered face. "I am not done talking, Imperia bastard. The one reason you’re still alive is because UNLIKE YOU I am not a betraying, bitch-ass wuss. I actually do remember a time when we sat as friends, van Tuane.

You want back in?"

He waited for Percival’s yielding nod. Then he said, "good, look over there, pirate. . ."

Eotigan’s directed his amber gaze south towards the soiled beaches—and the wreckage of a great Cedar frigate, browned of sun, its stout forehelm of a woman Archer spearing into the undern skies.

His ship.

Eotigan ended the conversation with only two words. "Fix it."

He turned, apologized to Thyra—whom didn’t look the least but upset—for her shattered dish, and went into his shade tent for a much required recess. He took Inaia and a jug of palm wine with him.

Percival stood as one in the presence of a wraith. "Is he serious? He wants me to rebuild a warship, with magic?"

Tarchon shrugged, walking off, the fun ended with Eotigan gone. Thyra cleared the dining and with a final glance directed to Kambili, she went to join Inaia at Eotigan’s tent. Left to his vices, Percival rushed for the pot; Kambili’s spear met him in equal fervor. Percival just about started crying: "I can’t fix a fucking warship on an empty stomach. I’m not even sure I can fix it. I don’t know what he remembers of my magic, but he overestimates it."

Kambili did not smile. She pushed him back with the rod of her silver javelin.

"Fey magic, boy." Her voice was cold. "And you better get to it before you’re any weaker."

She drew back her spear, and just before walking off to Eotigan’s tent also, she admonished the crestfallen pirate: "you know, Lord Eotigan told, that in da days of Baeleon the Bold, faery leveled mountains and flooded deserts. Moulded da very fabric of reality. Their celestial Etheria di jewel inna di Nine Realms. Are you nuh fae, pirate? What’s it to put together one ship? You ran off. You want back in, resurrect the fucking ship?"

Contrary to what many who’d come to hear Israfel’s legend heard, there happened no sex act in Eotigan’s shade tent that afternoon. It so happened he and three gorgeous girls just fell into the realm of Morpheus for a sleep within his spry arms that was well deserved.

Alas, when they all rose some hours later to a candescent sunset, Eotigan saw in the south the grand masts of his warship, taller than any towers that would’ve existed in the island before its fall. He saw glorious golden sails and banners of Victorian color. He saw a deck...decks, shined like brass of a shield. He saw, the fore-emblem, Artemis the archer, as if she would shoot down her enemies with her gigantic stone arrows any second; she was sculpted and ready for fucking voyage. "Ay ay ay! I didn’t think he could do it." Inaia said, joining Eotigan on the moor.

The others found their way to him too. And then they all stood in the grasses and beheld on the shores of Glarkis, a brand new future.

All Eotigan said as they packed up camp and finally headed down the hill was, "we are the authors of our own future."

On the fringe of this colossal, golden warship, they found Percival van Tuane, collapsed in on himself and dirt, bare of soul. The man was barely breathing.

His eyes and lips were sunken in. Those depressing sockets hung on the cannons siding the mighty ship. He had wrung his bones out for this. Just to fulfill Eotigan’s command. He’d felt [Etheria] within him, completely depleted. Eotigan cast eyes on the blonde faerie man. Though he did render to the pirate a proud smile, where Percival was expecting him to say something along the lines of ’welcome to the team,’ Eotigan ordered coldly,

"Get this bitch some porridge."