Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

• THE UNDERCITY, TITANS LANDING

Everyone knew the Hero of the Southlands Rebellion wasn't in the city. The Empress herself had named him Ambassador of Roa. Everyone also knew that ruthlessly beautiful devil was born for war, not to bleed his ears to death in matters of a diplomatic council. But then the Empress was the Empress. One didn't get to reign over nine magnificent kingdoms by soft hands. Besides, the third thing everyone also knew was that Lord Prince Israfel Bludthirste could no more avoid war than war could him.

That man had fought the Nephilims at [Skyfall], the fucking Fallen of Hel, and some really crazy bastards here in the Capital.

But back to the first thing: everyone knew the man wasn't in the country, so the gangs of the Undercity took it as free reign to expand their naughty enterprises before his return. These days, the small lords of the undercity trifled in one major expensive resource:

[Venom Eight]

Not that it really mattered to those who took it, [V-8] was a hazard of genocidal proportions. Deemed and ruled illegal in all cities of the Continent, it wasn't just the high of it that smoked peoples head and make them do dumb shit—like tie up their navels to a bull's rear. No! It was in fact the capability of V-8 to transform, mutate, translocate genetic material. The super-enabling ability of it.

The first [Venom Eight] vial was actually invented under the instruction of the High Queen Barbossa of forgotten House Scazazzi, to alleviate the agony of her young son; the prince being born with a malady of the skeleton, that caused his bones to be brittle and break at the slightest touch.

The boy swiftly became addicted to it. And after one misprescription by his Healer Druid; the boy having consumed an entire vial of it, his ailment ceased. He stood up one morning upright, and didn't feel his spine quiver. He was so joyous he ran to his mother's bedroom with the news of the miracle, picking her up and hugging her hard before even saying a word. Just smiling and smiling. He soon heard the telltale cracking of joints he was used to. Thinking the malady was back, he quickly loosed his mother to check up on himself. But he horrifyingly found out that it wasn't he whose bones were been broken.

It was his mother.

His embrace had crushed the poor Queen Barbossa in.

Unaware that the miraculous healing power of the [V-8] came with certain body-amplifying effects, the young prince had excitedly hugged his mother to death. He had not known of the brutal spike in his strength. [Venom Eight] had healed him, but also made him into a freak.

The prince watched his mother spasm, blood running out her nose, eyes, and ears, her lungs collapsed inward by fractured ribs.

A terrible sight for an eight-year old kid.

So terrified, the prince turned and fled. Running and running. And he ran to the Apophis cluster, and without even a backward glimpse to a kingdom with no ruler, he ran right off the cliffs.

So yeah, [V-8] was banned for life.

It fucked people up like no other drug on the street.

The amount could never be safe. It was either too much—in which case the addict was changed into a mindless warty giant, or too little; then the bastard pretty much had a killer buzz until it wore off. Once, a drunken lad had put up a half-filled pipe into his vein. Once the needle had come off, the dumb fuck had gone waving his wiener over the snout of a mother sow.

In all this, still, a lass, if needy enough could let a horse give her a good rodgering for one injectant into the eye.

Since the days of High Queen Barbossa and the suicidal prince, the recipe for the liquid drug had changed a few times, morphed a few hundred [Hydes] down the decades of use, and sent many more souls 'cliff-jumping', but it was still valued more than golden fairydust.

And so it was always, always never not a topic for lords of the Undercity.

In a detached Innhouse not too far from the notorious Fightdome, a certain gang of hustlers known by a code of preferring the shadows and of exchanging packages in alleys and away from lamp-posts where the lynx eyes of the Empress's own [Iron Federation] cops could not reach – dealers really, gathered in the moot ground-floor common room. A bald husky of a man stood with arms folded on the stairwell, making sure no one came down.

The other men, their faces grimy, sweaty, callous, and darkly engineered such as their wears took a circular position around the tallest, leanest of the group: a violet-eyed [Dhampir].

He was their leader, Scourge, and this lot were the meanest bunch of the Undercity gangs.

One man was saying under the vampiric gaze of Scourge. Despite he being a [Dhampir], a Halfling, his eyes still retained the sharpness and bloodlust of the original bloodeaters.

"…our loot has dropped five bags of coin this weekend alone. The plummet in our gains have for a fortnight now. [V-8] is not just cutting it anymore. It's wrecking our bank." The baldie grunted from behind, spreading his trunk legs wider in his stance. "And it's all because of this new thing on the street. They're saying it's the shit."

"Someone shit in a bag and is handing it around?" Scourge droned as all other brothers rumbled soft laughs.

"No, goddammit," the man talking spat out quick. "It ain't actual shit. It's blood."

"Blood?"

"Yeah, blood. A woman's blood. Word is it's clean too. No side-effects. No burns. No weird high. Its pure. Good fucking shit. I'm telling you man!"

Scourge was hesitant. He knew they were tanking from their runners, but— "In over five hundred blood moons," he got up and paced around the seated Bratva, "no one has ever produced a High more clean, or purer than [V-8]. If there is indeed such drug, it'd be priceless." Scourge stopped pacing beside Baldie. He sent his next question to all the brothers. "Who is this woman?"

"Who gives a fuck?" A long-haired Lockshian said. He had one of his long, elf ears cut off. Lucky he had his spring of gypsy curls to hide it. Still, his cigar-stained teeth popped when he volunteered, "what we should be findin' Scourge is where she lives, brother. We put on some cowls. Do a bit of snoopin'. Tresspassin'. If she really is dishing out some SUPER BLOOD on the market, we take her. Keep her. Feed her. And let her become our new resource."

The eyes of the Lockshian said he was going to ask to take turns next.

"I don't know." Baldie finally said from the stairs. "A woman's blood? That's sounds nasty."

Scourge looked to him. "You didn't get into this business, Kloja to debate being puritan." He brushed his chin and directed his question to the first man again. "This miraculous bleeding woman have a name?"

The man to whom he spoke smiled boldly, loving the fact that Scourge was actually considering this. He looked over all the dark brothers in the cozy apartment chamber. "This is good for us, guys. You'll see! We don't want to end up like the fucking Whistlers!"

"Name?" Scourge hardened his voice.

"All I have is Racquel. Racquel Serpent."

"So are we stealing her?" The Lockshian's eyes gleamed.

"THERE'LL BE NO NEED FOR THAT, MY FRIENDS."

The voice was sudden. The Brotherhood were too engrossed in making sure their illegal business didn't run into the dirt, or worse, collapse at the return of the city's great Ambassador to notice when the little door on the Bed-and-Breakfast pushed softly ajar. And even when three silhouetted bodies rolled in, like they fucking owned the place. Their confidence was part of the invisibility. Amongst the three mystery people, there was only one woman—and it was she who spoke.

The Scourge Brotherhood were first too shocked to react.

Then all of a sudden—

SRRAAACCCC!

They all pulled knives on the intruders. Scourge himself unrobed his favorite [Green Jester] dagger. He went fast for the woman's neck. A breath away from slicing open the fine milk skin.

"Speak, woman!"

The brothers were all upstanding and had knives drawn at this point; they all watched as this tall woman, and yes, definitely a 9 on the gorgeous scale only smiled. And she gently pushed down Scourge's jade dagger down by the blade.

"I am who you seek."

"Impossible!" Kloja pronounced. "Racquel Serpent is a legend. The Bloodied Saviour. A worshipped favorite, not some random bimbo… with a few thugs by her side." He rolled his knife's blade at the two muscular dudes flanking her.

Scourge was puzzled when this bold woman reached for his dagger. Her eyes were soft. Trusting. So he let her pluck it from his fingers. Her fingers on the hilt were pretty. She wasn't outlandish as one of the women of the wealthier zones, even though she looked the part. Her dressing was quite simple; a long skyblue Templar dress. She held up both her hands for a second. "A showing then," she said to the gazing men, "to calm your doubts." Then she put down the blade gently over her wrists and cut a single, straight line.

Redness immediately swelled to the surface.

Scourge, who was [Dhampir] instantly salivated as the coppery tang of her blood hit the air.

"You smell awesome." His fangs erupted, his indigo eyes going brightly eerie.

"Drink." She pushed up her wrist.

Whomever this woman was, impostor or not, Scourge knew for certain he had never smelled blood so good in his life. Better than a virgin's. Better than a fairy's. Just… better.

Before a drop of her precious blood could spill to the weathered rug, Scourge grab the wrist she offered and sank his teeth. She flinched as he slurped up the crimson life, sniffing when he drank greedily. A while lasted before she gently withdrew her hand. She ignored the bite of his puncture, her own pain and just kept her soft eyes on him to watch what she knew was coming.

Scourge licked his lips. "I admit your blood tastes like drinking heaven. But I don't feel diff—"

Before he could land the 'different', a surge like a lightning strike swamped his whole body, shocking all his senses, electrifying everything that made him [Dhampir], shooting his magic, making him brighter, better, super fucking natural.

It was the best high ever!

Kloja was darn right.

"HOLY FUUUCK!" Scourge growled. It felt like he was having his dick sucked by an Archangel.

"Now," Racquel said, for there was no doubt in the minds of the Brotherhood anymore that it was she. "—watch your brother transform."

Scourge hadn't yet opened his eyes…couldn't yet; the high had taken him to Astraverse, but he felt himself rising. His body. When he eventually opened his eyes, everyone else appeared small.

Even the tall witch with the miracle blood.

"Here, brother," Kloja said, taking his now bigger hand and leading him to face the only mirror in the Innhouse. "Good golly, woman!" Scourge's voice came out as a roar. He wasn't too surprised; he was a damn Giant. Standing over twelve feet tall, gone were his leaness and violet eyes. In place of those, he had biceps the size of fucking Willow branches and crimson irises that looked dipped in fire. He was still easy on the eyes though. Unlike [V-8], Racquel's blood didn't mutate ugly. It just amplified everything, in the best ways. It was still him: bigger, stronger, faster, super.

"I guess I really am high now, huh?" Scourge said, making the men laugh. He, Kloja and all the brothers turned to Racquel. "I believe," said each man in unison.

She stepped forward, touching one manly shoulder as she spoke, going round the brothers; "You don't need to kidnap me and cage me for my blood. I offer it freely, for salvation, for newness, for a better world. In a dosage you can control, no recipe needed. It's clean. Has the power to heal. To regenerate. And to transfigure." She stopped before Scourge's considerable bulk. She touched the left side of his enormous chest, his beating heart.

"—I offer myself."

His bass was respectful when he asked. "What's the price?"

The Brotherhood all gathered around the pretty, tall giver of life to hear her whisper,

"Obedience."

Even before Racquel said the word, she already had it.