Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions-Chapter 299: The Legata

[🎶 Valhalla Calling – Miracle Of Sound.]

THE LIGHTLARK PLUMMETED from the great, blue sky with the grevious and horrorful whistling of a Banshee wailing in the Woods of Gūndlheim. The thick smoke rising off the already ripped ark soiled the massive balloons of it, coloring the winter light of the heavens an ashy palette.

Such a great ship. Such a great fall.

Inside, there was even more chaos than the fastly descending frigate. It was like the earth was more eager to swallow the Zeppelin; it's cause that iron ships shouldn't fly.

WHOOOEEEE!!!

The Lightlark screamed down to gravity.

"Alas, I was only trained to ride dragons—not pilot metal Arks in the heavens." Rafel clutched to the chord of a shredded curtain inside the ship's metal bowels. His hand was wet in the blood of the poor pilot. The mutant's entrails painting the lounge a sordid scarlet. Rafel knew his charcoal boots which Cora gifted him just last weekend had to be soles deep in the bastard's blood now.

"Fecking cur!" He kicked at pieces of heart.

It made him think: but if the looming threat of foes like the killer strewn now all over his shoes could infiltrate Ravenna's private shipline, then—

[15 Hundred feet to collision, Lord host!]

[180 SECONDS TO IMPACT!]

"Shit. SPIKE MANA LEVELS! Peitho, can you fly this thing?"

"PEITHO!" he bassed out.

[Ding! Yes, my Lord host.]

[But not in the same timeframe to impact. The ship is lost, Sire. Upping your mana core to override its systems and levitate the Lightlark as is will cause severe depletion of your Innate Helflame. If I may counsel, Lord host: we abandon the ship.]

Rafel scanned the blood mess and rumble of tiny broken shrapnels already bulleting about. Friction and wind sent shit everywhere. "You're right," he breathed into the black, bulbous smoke crashing in, "there's no saving this vessel."

He let go of the chord he hung onto the same time he sent out his orders to his Subservient:

"PEITHO, equip THE VIOLET BABOON! PALM OF ASH. I'm gonna punch my way through this shit." He inferred with annoyance. Peitho was only one millisecond behind.

[DING!]

The red-golden panel whizzed to life right in front of his eyes, and with her sultry eponymous voice in his head.

[THE VIOLET BABOON Unleashed!]

[B Rank Devil Attribute]

[Offspring: Lawless Primate]

[ILL: 20-Ton Holocaust Wallop.]

[REWARDS: 2 Rare SILVER ELIXIR potions – 500 Soul Coins – Amulet of HANUMAN.]

[Host Confirmed for Use...]

[Y/N?]

Rafel's response was two words. "Do it."

He was immediately filled with an aura of bright crimson, his body infused with raw supe energy, as well as righteous indignation. Rafel felt his hellish mana core inflame. Some pale substance whirled and curled around his forearm, up to his fingers. It solidified into an intense halo, like a network of the eerie ashen light on his skin. He raised his fist and studied his new gargantuan pale hand a moment.

"Hmm. Looks leprous."

[The strength is unmistakable, Lord host. Your arm now burns with the deadly strike of the Monkey King...if he were a giant freak devil.]

"Good." Rafel's feet slipped through the viscous blood on the ship's floors as he tried for balance.

Once he found stable ground in his boots, he gave one great leap up into the air, jumping and striking out like a needle of light. His [Ash Devil Baboon] fist was out. Pulling more energy from his residual mana into the leprous gear, he punched the upper steel of the Lightlark just as his closed, long fingers first connected with the ceiling.

Crank!

The metal thawed and tore apart as he ripped right through it, and out the other end—into blue skies and broad daylight.

The cerulean heaven was a pretty good change of scenery for Rafel's yellow eyes. He was aware he was still shooting like a bullet up into the clouds.

"Dark Arts! Flaming Hawk!" He said as his upward speed began to dwindle.

A pair of red, broad wings shot out his back and his shoulder blades. The feathers were long, ruffled and crimson as blood. Just as his body lost the initial velocity of the leap and began to descend, the wings spread out and began flapping in the sky's expanse. Against the great blueness of the firmament, Rafel was a fiery dot.

BOOM!!!

He watched the [Lightlark] crash into the earth and explode on impact.

The black fumes rolled up from the mild forest of pines where the flight-ship had hit, blemishing the untouched snow; Rafel felt the heat even at his height hundreds of feet up in the sky where he floated, flapping his [Flames of Fire] wings, and he had no doubt the crashed vessel would be found soon. The landscape was distinctly white.

"I have to be at the border," he deduced, "nothing here for miles but festival trees and Hunters."

Then he stretched his leopard eyes further out, his skill of the [Red Hawk] granting him sharper focus. He noted the long lean Florentine towers, stark as fins of a dolphin in the short distance.

The Rocasian Republic.

The Lightlark, burning in the wreckage below had taken him most of the journey.

"Looks like we're gonna have to fly the rest of the way, Peitho." He smiled as his Subservient regaled him to her silky voice again in his head, giving him a worthy lecture of the new lands before his eyes, while he flapped those great [Red Hawk] wings, shooting as a red blur, arrowing through the winter skies.

. . .

The Great River Sana'a was the first landmark Rafel witnessed of the western Republic. A bluish rush of vibrant water winding an Andalusian distance from the mists of the northbound Capital, up through the brown peaks of Skoatl Mountains, and then like a miracle, seeping out into the hinterlands of the west. One of the most prominent attractions of Rocasus, River Sana'a was quite the sight.

Merfolk didn't live in it; but those teal water were home to Amathane, the white Crocodile.

The 300ft reptile nested in the depths of the River, or so the followers of Him—who dropped daily offerings of lamb at the shallow banks—claimed.

From his height flapping above the River though, Rafel could see no titanic albino croc.

"The legend of Amathane could be bullshit, but who knows; the Realms are first magical before political. And everyone knows, there's no greater Machiavellian society than the lordship of Rocasus. Not in the decades since its independence." Rafel told Peitho this as he skimmed the shores of the grand River for a quiet place to land, and to not suddenly shock the tourists of the Republic with the sight of a ruthlessly handsome devil flying on wings of fire.

One look at him up there, and Amathane would be a forgotten legend.

"There!" Rafel found a spot behind a cluster of Evergreens. He swiftly dove down like an owl, doing an excellent job of evading the lime-green eyes of the tall anthropologist woman in khakis and a camouflage bandana who led a batch of tourists down the southern mouth of the River.

He folded in his wings, crouching beneath some fresh palm fronds just as his feet connected with riverbank sands.

Rafel started whispering: "Peitho, where the fuck are we?"

[DING!]

[The Independent Republic, Lord host.]

"I know that, goddammit! Where exactly? This is a fortress city. We've been one hour from the crash site; enough time for the Hunters to have found the wreckage of [Lightlark], the cut-up pilot, and called in the cavalry. My arse is hot! Marshals could be on our tail any minute now."

[Isn't my Lord host friends with the Crown Prince?]

"Yes, Mikhail Yurishev Romanov the Third is...was a friend. But I haven't seen or sent letter since my fucking Aunt burned down the greatest Mage citadel." Rafel's growling dropped even lower. "I haven't seen Mikhail since Corynthia, ten months ago."

[Don't you mean, Your Mom?]

Peitho drew back Rafel's attention to the fact that he still referenced to Lilith as his aunty in his mind.

"REALLY, Peitho? That's what you're focused on right now. I just survived getting beat to death and a fecking ship crash. Not to mention the cops could be on our asses any minute—"

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"FREEZE!!!"

Three voice said behind him.

Rafel turned slowly.

He grimaced. "Ugh! Told ya! Cops!"

It was three policewomen in the blue and gold issued tunics of Rocasus. The one in the lead put down her pink pistol while the other two aimed square at his head. Rafel admitted to himself; they were quite busty. The lead female Marshal had a sandy blond hair and three diamond-shaped dots on her forehead: a symbol of her House.

She appraised Rafel. "Our Hunters at the borders found the Royal flight-ship of the Empress crashed, with a dismembered pilot—"

"Let me stop you right there, fine ladies. You see, it is quite the story. But one for hallowed halls," he gestured behind with his thumb at the cool voice of the anthropologist leading the tourist crowd on through the shore bushes, "however, a Royal seal was put out last morning of an appointed Emissary to this fine city. Alas," Rafel decreed, "I am he."

"You're the Apollyon?" One of the two behind pressed in on her pistol, scoffing.

Rafel shrugged, with an easy roll of his shoulders. His hands weren't up in the air, but in his pockets.

"I could have all three of you on your knees and panting in a blink."

"The insolence!" The third policewoman reared to tase him.

"Wait, Leticia." The one with the facial tattoos spoke again. "He's got the eyes... inhuman," she explained. And then ended with a sharp command. "Ready a portal."

Thirty seconds later, Rafel found himself with his wrists bound in a [Light Charge], three gorgeous busty policewomen flanking him as a vortex of bright pink cut up reality with a whooshing sound. "Move it," the one called Leticia said. She was the coldest. Rafel only smirked. If only she knew how much he was loving it.

Inside, he was thinking, 'I mean you don't see me complaining. Portal me away, ladies! Getting arrested by beautiful policewomen; shit! Even I couldn't come up with something that original. If this portal leads to a cell, then I'd be even happier.'

It didn't.

The portal led to the [Gray House].

The residential and political home of the [Legata] of the Republic.

. . .

FORT SANDRINGHAM, TITANS LANDING

1700 HOURS.

"Excuse me! IT WHAT?!" Corazón yelled in the face of a uniformed cadet. The boy stood quivering in front of her, eyes downcast under her own taller, imposing height. This frightful lad was a postguard from the border ramparts. He'd just rolled in to the mess hall with the clumsy news.

The [Lightlark] crashed!

Frontpage of the fucking papers!

"Get out!" Cora fired at the boy.

She wasn't angry at the messenger; it was just his newbie luck that he was chosen for such errands by a Captain no doubt avoiding the public skinning of his own arse. Cora was just angry.

When the boy was gone and the door shut, Cora grabbed a near axe and tossed it hard.

Thwack!

It sunk into the wall on the rear end of the hall.

Deep.

She sighed. "I can't believe this."

"Me neither." Another voice; gentler, joined hers. It was Aya. She too had come in quickly to the Fort with the lion carriage in company of the Queen after they'd both first saw the blaring headlines.

The third and last voice in the mess hall, smaller than all the others said, as the Queen herself came close and embraced Cora, "I'm afraid." Ravenna clung tightly to Corazón. "I'm afraid for him. For us. Someone got to my own pilot. Someone tried to murder him."

Cora allowed Ravenna and Aya hold onto her as he blue eyes fiercely raged into the whiteness of the military zone. She loved Israfel with volcanic might, and cursed be anyone, mortal or divine, that tried to cut short their love. Into the sobriety of the mess hall she said coldly.

"Yeah, someone with a death wish."