Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions-Chapter 365: Festival of Calypso [18+]

• One in ten tribes of the Corynthian islands do not worship Calypso, daughter of the Deep – excerpt from the Letter of High Chief Har'nam to Governor Orlando Velik VI •

[warning: #nudist #culture #train #titjob #ass #roleplay]

. . .

EOTIGAN'S WARSHIP CRUISED THE Cold Sea's southern waters for one night under a moonless sky. He was happy to have traded the sweltering heat of Glarkis for the welcome winds of open sea. And so were the others. But not a single person boarded upon the gilded vessel had forgat the storm of the Port—the apocalypse of that island.

"I pray the boats have found the wrecks by now. And the bodies we couldn't bury. Gods! The foul-ness of it." Thyra spoke seated on a long upholstered bench. She made a face, her tongue bitter. "I still can't believe that goliath wave. Can't be ordinary, can it? I mean you all saw the face in the water, right?"

Kambili, who sat closest to Thyra on the cushion nodded her head but kept silent on the matter.

It was Inaia, cornered with her long legs up on the couch, that granted a brilliant, well-informed answer. "That ocean rise was summoned. The first explosion we saw in the sea was the result of a [riverine] spell. A legendary-tier rune for calamity," she clarified in her buttery voice. "Before ever the eerie face in the stormfront, there was a conjuring made under the sea.

A dark caster, I suspect."

"So someone was trying to take us out and inna da process took out a ENTIRE island town?"

Inaia looked to Kambili who'd asked the question. "Yeah. Some one."

Only the sea breeze whispered upon the decks for a while; the gilded ship cruising upon high waters in easy streamlining. Thyra broke the silence. "You think Maya did it?" She dropped a note in her voice, "because Lord dragon asked for a divorce?"

All the girls turned to stare at the 'Lord dragon' Thyra meant—including her—when she'd asked this question. It was a good ask, Inaia admitted. However, in her mind, the new bitch seriously needed to quit calling her [Host] her dragon. They all shared, desired, needed, fucked the man. The one man only. Inaia understood her bias—in feeling entitled to addressing Lars Eotigan as her [Host], as compared to Thyra annoyingly calling him her dragon. Yes! Eotigan could morph into this infernal beast at will...but it didn't make Thyra saying it less icky.

Kambili was giving Inaia a look.

The look.

'You need ta tone down ya jealousy, gurl' the look said.

It was like the light-skinned warrior could read her. Inaia cleared her throat, finding in her heart a response for Thyra. "The merqueen? It's a possibility. The storm was on her seas. Albeit, for her sake I hope she's not involved."

"Hmm." Thyra reclined back on her end, making the upholstery stretch.

Meanwhile, Kambili sent with her pear eyes a look to Inaia that said, I know what you're thinking. Inaia averted hers. She knew she had no right to claim Eotigan. But it was fucking hard not to. If anyone should hold the keys to his heart, she felt it should be her. She did already possess then the ones to his mind. His [psyche bridge] at least. Plus have you seen the man?

Inaia saw herself as mistress prima – his first MAIN bitch.

She wanted some fucking rank shown from the other females 'cause she knew more were in translation. More bitches were coming. More fucking side chicks. Her [Host] was the fucking Burning One. And she'd seen lesser, ugly demons bag dozens of pussy, man. Still she did not want to appear a bitchy bitch. That's what got girls dropped! So she had to tone it down.

Kambili's grey eyes said all this too.

On the long banquette, Thyra was still talking, "...if you ask me I don't think the mermaid queen was too happy with collecting back her ring. She should be our prime suspect. I don't trust fish. They slippery, man."

"Darlings—" The rich baritone struck the air. It came from beside. The voice, unearthly and dark as could be. Eotigan. All the females upon the vessel went mute and strung as his terribly sexy aura invaded the place, slithering easily as smoke of a cigar; with his strong, guiding timbre. Of

a truth, Eotigan had been present on the polished deck with the girls all this time, but he wasn't one to keen into lady discussions. Or discussions at all. But he'd had enough talk of which mad damsel wanted his pound of flesh next for an assumed wrongdoing. He had come up here into the quiet for exactly that.

Seated, a robed mystery of handsomeness, in his favorite rocking chair, puffing a pipe, totally looking recklessly fuckable to the three females beside him, Eotigan's deep voice hit again.

He repeated, "darlings, please. This is a new ship. A new air. . ." He gestured over the flapping sails to the hinting purple of daybreak, "a new dawn. Let us turn our thoughts from depressing wartime to much freer passions; which I promise you," he paused to meet their collective stare over on their own single, "I shall have us fully indulge once we break land, okay?"

The swirling ash of his puffs mystified his yellow eyes and bass.

The girls only heard two words of all he said: indulge...passions.

"Oh gods." Kambili hummed foxily, "I so want him to take me right now."

"Me too, bitch," said Inaia, "me fucking too."

Eotigan turned back to his morning peace – watching the sun slowly light the sky and sea, and his ship. Below, his werewolf-gifted hearing picked on Tarchon cankering around in the kitchen; preparing morning breakfast. And also, the loud snoring of Percival van Tuane.

The faerie blonde had outdone himself with the ship. The former pirate had literally pulled an [S rank] stunt: forging a wrecked frigate. That was big balls magic. But Eotigan would never admit this to the fellow.

Percival had been sleeping now—after almost swallowing Thyra's porridge pot whole—for ten hours. A rest well earned, which was why Eotigan let him continue undisturbed. Magic, faerie magic even, took its tool. Nevertheless, Eotigan put it at the back of his mind to drop Tarchon off at the nearest isle colony.

He did not see use for the Glarkian boy—when he wasn't a hot, fat-ass dame.

Eotigan shut his eyes out when the first gold tints splashed onto the heavens. He must've fallen to sleep in the dawn, because when he opened his eyes to the mortal planes again, the sun was one-fifths high in the Corynthian skies. And the ship had stopped moving.

His beautiful citrine gaze took in his surrounding.

He was still on the deck. On his golden ship. But the great vessel was not moving.

An enchanting face slid into his view, disarming him for seconds. "Land, my Lord host," Inaia said, "Land. I didn't want to awaken you, but," she breathed, "we're here."

"Where exactly is Here?" Eotigan rose to his feet, very much like a soldier ascending in a grim field of battle. His colored vision scanned the horizon: the circlets of fire he called eyes. Inaia was the only person yet on the ship with him. The others he quickly found out had de-boarded with the docking; the vessel presently was moored on a beach too shielded by evergreen trees he wasn't even sure it could be called that. His vessel of skyward sails, gold paint, mighty hull, and monstrous cannons was the singular architecture within seeable distance. ". . .just where did that moon-eyed Goldilocks park us?"

Inaia smiled brightly, catching his meaning on Thyra; the blond woman herself had swiftly taken initiative to become self-appointed First-mate of the warship, a position she wasn't new to.

"I believe, Lord Host she has parked us in a place to fully engage your thoughts on indulgence and passions."

Rap!

"Silly girl." Eotigan palmed Inaia's soft behind—she remembered.

Eotigan took her hand inspite of the blush reddening her entire body. He laid in a deep river voice. "Then, let us begin."

And he jumped off the ship with her.

No metaphors. Right off the edge. He descended in a swirling cloud of [Umbrage], landing freely on the thin shore. The colossal ship was half hidden in the dense and exotic foliage as they both moved forward into the island.

There was a fair amount of bush and overzealous crops, but once Eotigan's strong arm cleared a path through the hanging tails of Palms, the island spread open before their eyes like the true leaf-gates of Paradise. "What. The. . .Hoooly shit!"

Inaia couldn't even finish cussing out before swearing a second time. There were close to three hundred people in front of them, mere steps away. These people were tan as fuck. Skin as clay moulded by the fire. Mohicans! How exotic they were! Their culture brought Inaia's hazel eyes to life. Eotigan saw in the eyes of this girl something ancient. Primordial. Preceding the age before now. Inaia was white. But her spirit belong to this soil. He loosed his grip and let her go.

It seemed this little island in the tropics were having a celebration.

Painted dancers writhed around him. Tattooed girls with red skin and waists that wouldn't stay still gyrated everywhere. There were fire breathers and charmers. He saw real dwarves, women with behinds fat as drums. Men hopping on stilts, risking fucking neck. Young boys roasting big boar heads. Younger girls clapping innocently around fires. A people clothed in figs and weaves and animal skins. Crowns of clovers upon the heads of the maidens; girls tap-dancing; touching hips; slow wining. Their anklets and waistbeads rattling like alive snakes in the colorful diaspora.

One girl just had bananas for clothes.

—bunches here and there to cover her ample hills and valleys.

Fruits of flesh were abundant. Every man's eye was satisfied; and still being so.

And the commune got livelier the closer Eotigan got to the village's interior. More nude too.

Pooosh!

A fire-breather blew out scarlet flames, chuckling at him.

Eotigan walked on.

Straaap!

A maiden parted her pleated skirts, her eyes huge under the mask.

Eotigan beheld wonder. This island was wild. This, was the true Corynthia. Blood of fire and ash, and the way of water. The color of the leaping flames shone in their rich skin. Eotigan found—to his naughty delight—another girl strolling about with bells. Bells! Bells on the mounds of her full, pear-shaped breasts. Bells jingling at the narrow valley of her púba. She sure got the attention.

Among the mingling crowd of cheerful folk, Eotigan did spot those he had come on the ship with: Tarchon was over by the fires dancing with the free-thinkers—mostly the naked weed gang. Sure as shit those boys were eyeing his ass. Percival was slumbered out at the feet of an 8ft shaven-head tribeswoman—her massive melons trumped his own head for size, but in her bosom lay he, softly snoring away. Kambili stalked the huts and tents, looking for...people fucking. And she did find them.

Inaia and Thyra just weaved, jaw-slacked between the cultural fiesta jam, loving every bit of the sweaty bodies and native feel.

Every now and then though, their collective stares would slide to Eotigan's position, awareness trickling between he and the girls.

And he knew: this was foreplay.

Suddenly, the beating drums stilled as one. The crowd parted. Silence fell. A woman in a head-gear made of peacock feathers opened her mouth in a masquerade pom, and from it the most gloriously terrible scream pierced the festive grounds. Her shrill calling hit some deep level of consciousness in everybody. Her voice reached up to the treetops. Eotigan saw Inaia fall to her knees where she stood. The feathered woman slowly dropped her voice, like a cut silk. No bird sang. No creature creeped. The tropics was dead quiet.

Out from the midst of that masquerade circle, a young woman not more than nineteen summers stepped out. She was as the finest of papayas.

Eotigan noticed three things: her hair—dyed with real, pure gold. Her skin—inked in the map of the nine oceans. Her body—flesh of lust and curves without end.

This young thing was naked from her floor-scraping gold hair to her lallí feet.

She began walking in the midst of the frozen peoples. And they found their motions again; their limbs surrendered silence. They touched her. They embraced her. They studied her. Kissed her. Groped her. They worshipped her.

They did all this, whispering, "Calypso. Calypso. Calypso. Calypso... Calypso."

It was eerie. But it was also the most beautiful thing in the world.

It was in following the path of this curvaceous avatar chick that Eotigan found the bamboo gates of the village. It read: "welcome to El Cabana. The birthplace of the sea!"

[To be continued.]