Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions-Chapter 325: Is that a Centau-rion?

• THE ROTUNDA, IMPERIUM, PALACE OF THE [EMPYREAN]

ONE HOUR LATER.

CORAZÓN DID A BANG JOB of preparing Rafel for his re-entry into Eldorian society—the hit that he was. Of course news of his return had spread like Spiritfire since the docking of his boat, proved the more when many gossiping streetrats had claimed to see the shadow of a ’some big charlatan’ take the streets. His flaming Mohawk did the rest.

As the Ambassador, fresh off a very recent throuple by his lovely harem walked into the beatific silver halls in military parade, the Lt. General could be seen in forefront, regaled in her own valorous red doublet as she led him in. The crowd parted as butter.

"Ambassador! Ambassador!" Voice greeted—never stale. But sure in pride.

In the eyes of the non-crooked fellows in Titans Landing, Rafel gave a new meaning to patriotism.

Cora, his Corazón stood before him—the same spicy blonde that had dressed him so richly few minutes ago—and he was never prouder. She had come a long way. They all had. Though he couldn’t recognize them, a good bit of faces in the ton watching his entrance were folk of Gūndlheim who recalled him back when he was Earl of that spooky estate, and had followed his journey through fire and blood. Their memories were long. He had been gracious at Emberfall. And to this end their smiles were the longest.

"CELEBRATING..." the Rotunda’s overlord called, "the return of Her Majesty’s Emissary to the Westernlands, one of the few Noble-blood demons in our High Council, a Hero of many wars, a true country Statesman and friend of Her Majesty..." Cora coughed at that last part. Rafel heard it and pinched the inside of her suede blazer, just above her navel where no one could see. Friend was a severe understatement.

Rafel’s praises continued from the lips of the shawled man in vain gold. But he’d stopped listening. His yellow eyes, rather travelled to the carbuncle dais and the great throne atop it where sat his Redeemer; she was very popular among his kind. Very beautiful. Very angel. Not angelic...angel.

Her green eyes lulled the beating of his heart even from the distance. Ravenna de Vries was worth a ton to the Continent. But in Hel, she was worth a fuck ton.

His dark servant was at her side. As Ravenna’s Royal Lady, Aya Naamah was stupidly thick in her flowing silk. Anyone would think they’d had a fortnight to pull off the way they did, not forty minutes.

Cora ended the light carnival as Rafel was led up to the dais and offered a princely seat at the right of Ravenna. Cora promptly stood at his side though she had one too. For convenience sake and not to give further drive to the gossips, Peitho was kept guarded in the chamber of Vinta Plusia. An orange-haired Rastafarian running around would do him no good. They might just think her a new mistress.

Peitho was adamant. But to this Rafel refuted, "you are still in my head alright? I doubt any other person can get that close."

The Overlord caught the look of disinterest start to creep into the Ambassador’s fiery eyes and quickly sped up with the issue at hand. It was twilight and Rafel had not caught a wink. The herald championed into the space the reason for the abrupt tolling that dusk: the riders at the gates. "Coming before Her Majesty and Council, the Men of Thorak!

"—in brokenness and apology," the Overlord read from a scroll—which was obviously a written statement from the enigmatic band, "the Men of Thorak cede for pulling the Jade Empress from her business and thank her for seeing to meet with them, as this sudden call at the Palace is of vital report."

The robed Vizier dropped his reading and looked from the scroll to the young Queen. Ravenna gave the nod. The hall held their breath for it because in as much as she had walked into the Rotunda, it was also well within her power to refuse to meet with them. But Rafel suspected his little Raven must’ve also had the same reasoning that for the ’Men of Thorak’ to brave the bulwarks of the Capital—and for the [Hundred Arrows] not to swiftly put them down, that what they had to say was death-worthy.

A helmed [B Rank] Praetorian lifted his spear for the visitors to advance into the courts.

A hush fell on the gathering when the high doors cleft and in walked a hundred footmen. One hundred. Not one out. Not one beyond. Their clothing wasn’t military at all, or it was meant to be then it had to be one of Nomads. They were clad in skins and bones like tribesmen but their overall march could put some Eldorian squads to shame. They stomped brother to brother, uniform—a Germanic horde.

Their feet did sound as one giant striding heel. However, Rafel’s better hearing perceived the minute addition from a wayward marcher, or perhaps a folk of more than two feet.

"There’s an odd one in there," he leaned to whisper to Ravenna.

"A hidden enemy?" The Queen cautioned.

Rafel smiled very much like his uncle in that moment; devilish. He growled. "Let them come."

But as the company drew closer on the maroon carpet to the throne the young Empress and her rascally devil Ambassador observed that the lagger responsible for the disorderly thumping that scattered the otherwise harmonious troop was...indeed a man of more than two feet. ƒгeewebnovёl_com

He advanced forward as the other ninety nine split right into agreeable quadrants to let him through.

Corazón bent at the waist. "Is that a Centau-rion?"

"Centau—what?" He quipped. They endeavored to keep their voices down so as not to be regarded by the watching ton as Critch haters. Rafel knew he wasn’t; how could he? The kingdom had accepted him—kingslayer, bastard, devil as its Hero. He had to be the supreme Critch—that is if any sane devil-worshipper had the gall... no, the balls to face his Titan form: The [Black Death Behemoth].

At that unveiling, everyone might just be a racist.

The people were trying coping with horned cunts now integral to their society, who were spit angry almost every other night. He commended them. There was a reason he decided to ascend from a planet of those fuckers. . . besides Lilith.

"Yes, Centau-rion! Because he’s a centaur and he leads a company of one hundred men. Get it?" Cora pointed to the man back and forth.

Rafel got it the first time. But he admitted he might need another set of eyes since the unnerving migraine. So he acted naive.

But wait, he thought, his hands clave on the robust stone of his throne. "Are those gills on his rumps?" He engaged gossip with Cora. She pored on his face, shrugging, "I don’t know." Then she stood astute again; people were beginning to stare at the majestic dais, verily waiting to see what would be the report of the Empyrean concerning this barbarous company—her judgement of them too. But Rafel’s eyes didn’t deceive him. The leader of the one-hundred Men of Thorak was a four-legged, hooved Critch: a man above, but utter horse beyond his chiselled loins.

He was a big form, an apparent inheritance of his genetic mix. The Centaur Centurion – Centau-rion – stood at eight feet tall. But it was the gills over his hind limbs that really interested Rafel.

Was he also fish?

’Peitho? You there?’ Rafel was reminded he still had the favor of an omniscient She. He spoke in his head. ’Please tell me just who we’re looking at?’

[Ding!]

[Lord host request confirmed!]

[Accessing World Archives. . .]

Peitho’s voice in his head sounded clearer. Before Ascendance, he could hear as if she was a possession. Now her voice was neighborly—a charlatan’s apprentice behind the red curtain, feeding him all the dirty for which to sly his crowd.

[Before you, Your Eminence stands the Chief of Barbarén. His current level is A-rank. Of the mountains of Sorcese, he and his century are Nomads of the plains. They do wander the 6th and 7th realms. He is a LEGENDARY rider—]

Rafel watched the big man’s hooves clop and stop. ’A wayfarer? He must know I saved the Bonelands then. Is he a groupie?’

[Unable to determine this at this time, Host. But I released droplets of INCAN DREAM, the Truth Serum into the air sixteen seconds ago. Should he imagine a lie, your rune shall reveal it. But you were right earlier. He also has Atlantean blood—fifteen percent. It would be very accurate to say that what he is IS a Seahorse Man.]

[Ding! Records saved.]

[—minus 120 soul coins]

[LIBRÉ NUM: Book of Creatures, Volume IV, Santa Boavina]

’Thank you, Peitho,’ patched Rafel. Wow! Just wow. Of course he’d encountered many mythic beasts but a barbarian that was horse, fish, and man—not in that exact order—was a close recordbreaker. And Peitho had taken the initiative to inject the air with untraceable truth serum, lacing the hordes lips before ever they spoke. What did she call him? The Seahorse man. Yeah. If he or his one hundred tried to lie, the [Infinity Rune] tat at the back of his right ear would call immediate bullshit.

Rafel leaned to the Raven daggers throne. "I’ve got it covered, baby. They can’t lie."

Ravenna dropped her chlorophyll stare to him a millisecond to appreciate his genius before gently beckoning to the stoic centaur. "State your purpose, Men of Thorak.’

"Your Imperial Majesty, I AM ARJONAH." The Centurion’s voice was big too. He kept his face down in brokeness during the salute—this endeared him specifically to Corazón; she seriously hoped he wouldn’t bullshit, would not risk flaming fire. Eyes like crude iron raised, "Arjonah Hammerstone," he started again, "chief of the Thorak nation. I have brought before the Empress vital information." He took a breath, pausing for Ravenna’s nod to go in. When she gave it he continued, "admittedly, most fair Empyrean, we: Men of Thorak are a small band of warrior brothers. We travel cities, brooks and crooked ways too.

"Since Statesman Blüdthirste vanquished the Fallen," he dipped his bearded head to Rafel in reverence; he had beads in his locks and beard, "we have found unrecognizable peace in the Freelands. But even as our Sorcese tribesmen remain, our company is not a stable form. We thus journeyed into the Capital. It was upon our movings that our caravans happened upon the sacrilege:

"We saw the blaspheming harlot with the witchcrafts, the accursed Blood Mother, Racquel Serpent in the parsonage of the Highfather..."

Murmurs instantly arose in the wan hall. Even the Scribe taking the minutes glanced up from the scroll and his lightning fingers.

"Vallon-de-Grâce?" Ravenna quizzed.

"Yes, Empresa." The Centurion said in dialect. "I had just returned from cleaning my pipes in one of the whorehouses closeby when I spied them in the temples. I am no holy man but even I do cherish the sacred. I did call upon by brothers and we snuck about, spied on the gracious Highfather on his knees sucking that witch’s tarnished devil blood from off her pinky. Her acolytes in darkest black we also saw bearing witness to this insidious perpetuation. The Vicar has been corrupted."

Though the centaur’s vulgar reference of ’cleaning his pipes’ wasn’t lost on anyone in the Rotunda no one was laughing when formerly it’d be a fit of snorting.

Arjonah Hammerstone had just dropped at truth bomb.

No bullshit.

Rafel confirmed this for Ravenna’s ears. "He isn’t lying."

Ravenna was solidly quiet in her grand throne. Cora told, "...makes sense. My boys have scoured every gritty inch of the Undercity where her influence is strongest. But we could fetch nothing. Not her. Nor her acolytes." Aya finished for her: "The bitch went to the last place we’d think to look."

"Abominable!" One garrulous Lord yelled from the small council pews.

Three minutes floated by and Empress’s judgement came. It was nothing Ravenna expected to say. But she did. Cora had taught her to leave simpletons to the simple matters. Her green eyes fell to Arjonah. "Thank you, Chief Hammerhand. You and your brothers have served your queen and country well. Get these men fed and treated to the finest." To Corazón she rasped, "Get the CSA. Fucking now!"

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦