Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

[🎶 What's Luv – Fat Joe ft. Ashanti.]

• TWO YEARS LATER, THE VIRGIN COAST, 29° OFF THE COLD SEA

THE SOUNDS OF SCREAMING rose up the cornered brown beach, causing the idle toucans in the surrounding ever-greenery to still their noises and toss up multicolored heads to spy the reason for the ruckus. It was very early in the morning. The sun was up, but had not broken, through the mist of the humidified clouds. Only predatory gulls scanned the seascape, to snatch up stupid fish daring to water-hop with the sturdier dolphins.

It was the time of the morning when sleep was best; that half-hour of daybreak—cool and quiet, before the full blast of golden sunlight hit the Tropicana beaches. The birds of Virgin island had hoped to slumber a few more minutes before their seed-picking ritual...but this noise was really a bothersome pest in the serenity of the paradise isle.

The birds peeked in, from the cover of palm fronds and iphiginia leaves.

A ship was wrecked on the beach. It was by no means a grand vessel. But a transport vessel. It was gray and tired, it's sails hung like tits on a grandmami. Such vessels were common on this coast, which was the shallower parts of the Cold Sea. Only the mightier frigates braved the real deep waters furlongs off to the North.

As the transport ships were common to the coastal area, so were the pirates.

Not the fearsome Kala Domoni, but equally naughty bands.

This poor gray ship had a huge break in its hull that was clearly from a cannon. Gunshot holes littered the worn deck and belongings lay scattered on the scraped wood like green flies on rot. The statue of Amanasa, a nympho, governing the foreship had her wooden head cut off—by a pirate's curved knife. Clearly this ship had been pursued all through the dark night and forced to crash on this lonely beach.

Not too far away, on the tame water was another ship: a blackwood spired vessel.

Pirates.

Their flag surely meant death with all the skulls darting here and there on its whipping flag.

"Ahh! Let me go, you mindless cunts!" came a scream, echoing, pitched like boiling water in a kettle.

On the beach were that poor ship's travellers, all held at gunpoint—knees to warm whitish sand; the people looked severely wrung out. They all had their hands up to the back of their heads, about seven of them. And it was a man with salt-and-pepper hair, a red jacket, a bleeding lip, and fire in his blue eyes that growled the loudest when the sticky pirates, very seriously hand-picked the finest women out of the bunch.

"—let me go, vile brute!" It was the one brunette that kept screaming.

In her struggle to escape, her woolen shirt was torn over at the left breast. The naked white tit hung out in ripeness. And even the toucans peeking out through foliage pitied her. Two brawny pirates eagerly dragged her off, one by the hair. "I'd like to see you scream so much with your mouth full," he sneered. She spat in his face. He landed her a heavy slap, whipping her head, but his smile and that of his counterpart only stretched wider.

Everywhere on the long line, the pirates were having their picking. And some of the wayward sea-thieves even dragged off ugly girls. As long as she had a bangable hole, right?

Four of the sand-painted pirates were rooted to their spots in front of the kneeling travellers, barrels pointed at heads—and of course waiting their turn with the women dragged off to the fringing bushes. The sound of the shrieking, fighting women caused more men to pour out of little boats; men charged like pitbulls, foaming at the mouths, erections spearing out soaked pants, spewing unintelligibly as they swum for shore, and then running like zombies—horny zombies, straight for the treeline.

The old captain of the transport ship looked the closest pirate dead in the eye and cursed, "may the devil have mercy on yourself, you abominable robber, 'cause God won't."

The dumb gunman thought 'abominable' was a compliment. He smiled full a set of broken, yellowing teeth.

These pirates were piss-poor, uneducated, deranged dogs. They'd make the infamous, noble Kala Domoni cringe.

The first woman taken into the bushes was down to her knickers, kicking at four men, fighting with all of her being, crying, having her big breasts painfully squeezed, her jet-black hair dragged tight to keep her head down and her teeth from snapping; one ruffian jammed his dirty hand in her knickers. She wailed at his rough entry with two fingers. As his sick bros held her down, he brought his hand up and tasted. "Tangy," croaked the thin man, "she's even sweeter with the salt. Hold her steady, boyos."

He dragged out a cock bent at a weird angle, and the brunette seriously began to fear for her life; this pirate was being cheered on as he positioned, all of them were, when—

"Oi! Cowards!"

A loud voice called, a very rich, distinguished intonation, and oddly this deep voice settled all the screaming. It came suddenly, seemingly from above.

The Virgin island went silent, and still, everywhere.

All heads—traveller and robber—piped up. The brunette about to be defiled peeked through a mess of black curls with green eyes wet with tears.

"Up here." The rich voice said again.

The pirates did a double take when they looked up and saw a man floating above their heads.

"What the—" one loser began.

A bear of a man missing an ear marched out from the bushes, still sprung from the blondette he was about to rape. He was clean shaven, and of course the leader of the dirty pirates. He roared up. "HOW THE FUCK DID YOU GET HERE?!"

"Uh. . .I flew." The deep voice said, a hint of humor traced.

Everyone on the beach looked up at this man in the sky.

They could not dream this up.

He was flying; this man with the deep, velvety voice. The first catch was his hair. Red and gelled back, almost satanically beautiful. The second, his eyes; ironically this part of him bore likeness to the gaze of [Cherubim]. His form of beauty flowed gloriously into his garments. This man was clothed in crimson and gold, his cape catching on the gales from the sea. With the sun and the soporific green ocean as his backdrop, he was ethereal. Beautiful. A wonder. He was as Apollo, the god, riding on the sun. If only those on the beach knew how close they had come to getting his divine name: [APOLLYON].

While they all stood, shocked to the brown sands, the air rippled around him, and a sort of veil tore open in reality. A breathtaking woman stepped into substance, from where, who knew? But she was far too hot to dwell on where she had just emerged from. She too rocked her flame-red dress and golden cape. Hers was shorter though.

It didn't distract from her figure—which was lyrics no one staring could write but was definitely music they were all hearing. Her startling dreadlocks, brown and thick, swung to the wind behind her, brushing way past her waist.

She had really long hair. Another splendored entity, she levitated beside the. . .Apollo.

The man and woman were super hot.

That nude brunette suddenly felt giving.

The heavy, Moor pirate shook his bald head to clear straying thoughts.

"WHO THE FUUUCCK ARE YOU?" He spat.

"Ooh! Someone's mad." The enchanting woman up above smiled to the man. "Is this because of your blue balls." She pointed to the bald man's heavy crotch, mocking. The angry pirate looked like he was about to burst. He glanced down at himself, glimpsed the unfulfilled evidence of his stunted ejaculation, and raged even more. Up in the air, some thirty feet skyward, the handsome flying man and his gorgeous female enigma shared knowing smiles. All the robbers were red in the face—and dicks—with equal amounts of wrath and sexual frustration. "You know," the Rasta girl said more, "you pussies could afford whores on the merchant isles, rather than resort to chasing unwilling tail, that is even with the paltry coin you PUSSIES take off your loot. But I bet you can't get your dicks up if the girls don't put up a fight, can you?"

Smoke was literally pouring out the bearish pirate's fat ears. It wasn't the flying 'bitch' accusing him of soft dick that annoyed him—I mean that too—but more when she said the p-word.

"What. Did. You. Just. Call. Me? BITCH?" He fumed.

The sexy Rastafarian drew a little closer to the ground, popping the word very slowly.

"PU...SSY. I called you a pussy."

"GIVE ME THAT!" The man-bear pirate grabbed a huge dane gun off his nearest mate and fired off three straight rounds at the sky, directly in line with the laughing woman's temples.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Before the bullets could connect, even with the noiseless velocity of the shots, the red-haired man reached out into the air, catching each slug like he was plucking fucking apples. The thieves and lined shipwrecked passengers, and half-naked teary women all gaped at the flying man levitating above. In his palm, each bullet melted to lava; lava that spilled down through his fingers to hiss when it fell to the beach sands but didn't scald his hand.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

The pirate captain emptied the magazine.

Nothing.

The bullets didn't even make a hit—to the annoyingly beautiful duo.

Just as he was about to reload and spiral off shots again, a quaking lad with raggedy pants and his flaccid penis half hanging out stumbled to their bearish leader and hurriedly whispered a thing in his red ears. The boy quickly scuttled away; after all, he and his gangbangers of a crew had completely lost interest in struggling, unclothed women in the face of man who flew and caught bullets. Their stares were like, what the fuck!

The pirate captain raised his hard gaze, and anyone could tell he struggled not to show his fear. "I-I have heard about you two. Ah did! You," he pointed, "you two. You're up causing problems for our occupation all along the coast. Yeah, you were the ones that got those poor mutineers down in Aspynn last dawn. They're...they're calling you the [Red Rangers]."

He watched the white woman with the curves and dreadlocks turn to roll her eyes at her man. They were a hot pair of mystery, the two of them.

"Red Rangers, seriously?" she sighed, "how unimaginative!"

The man's baritone rumbled out smoothly after her. "I'll take the idiot boyos."

"And I'll take the captain, thank you." The woman grinned at the ravishing man.

—SROOOOOOMMMM!

The next second happened so fast, no one saw it coming. All the teary women in the bushes saw was the sudden spray of blood and heads floating into the air, then landing on the warm sands, and leaking crimson everywhere. Their blotchy eyes, stained by sobbing when they were about to be forcefully sexualized, open wide as saucers. That transport ship's captain, kneeling in a line with the other incapacitated men abruptly became clothed in a vibrant explosion of red. They had all felt the breeze right after the flying man's comment. The chill. And then...falling, headless bodies.

About sixteen heads of pirate men went a'rolling, the brown sands soaking up the guzzling blood like spread cotton.

The huge pirate leader stood in a mess of blood—he was pretty sure that was a person's tongue glued to his left arm. Angry and afraid, he began to scatter-shoot.

His second magazine was empty in seconds.

Feeling a presence behind him he turned, and stiffed to stone.

The red-haired, flying man was slowly descending. It was the first time since their appearance the man's legs touch the earth. His charcoal boots sank into the sands of the beach. And eyes of liquid, refined gold – eyes like he had never seen before – landed on his. This giant pirate suddenly began fumbling—with the third magazine.

"Ahem—"

He turned fast, again, and there she was—the 'bitch'. Right in front of him.

This hot, stupendously blessed woman rendered him a sweet, sweet smile before her hand shot out, going through him, into his belly and out.

SQUELCH!

Her smile never faded as she pulled back her hand—with his ebbing liver.

"Who's the BITCH now?"

The last thing the brawny pirate heard was the sound of how musical and soft her voice was. Her real voice. But he and his rapist brothers would never know whom the [Red Rangers] really were. Dead as a doornail, the Rasta woman dropped the pirate's organ and cleaned off her bloodied hand on the man's thready shirt. She easily stepped over his body and claimed the space beside the red-haired man.

People were staring. Everyone.

"Go—" That same dark, distinguished voice rumbled out across the beach, to the shipwrecked, astonished travellers, "gather your belonging. . .and their loot too." He kicked a loose head and chuckled. "Take it all, for dead men need no coin."

The kneeling men shot to their feet. The semi-nude women scrambled out the bushes. They all rushed past the annihilation of their kidnappers to claim much gold, and the pirates' own black ship. Ten minutes later, the ship was a good distance gone on the emerald waters of the Cold Sea. The mysterious man and woman stood on that blood-soaked beach and watched the oily gray flag of the pirates go up in flames. The name, Red Rangers would forever remain on the lips of those people. However, only they knew the monicker was merely a reinvention—for they both had real names, and past lives.

For sure the saved travellers knew the absurd flying man and woman—who could punch through people, literally, were no heroes. Heroes did not kill. But they'd never forget their saviours. Nor their amazing hotness.

As the ship became a far blight on the glittering sea, the girl with the long dreads pulled her eyes away from the water and back to the tall, sexy man at her side. The noon sun kissed his auburn lashes and his eyes shone just like the rays. She coddled into him.

"Lord Host?"

He looked down upon her, saying with a timber voice, "Yes, fine wine."

She blushed at his pet name for her. "The sun is quite hot to fly all the way back to Indica. Shall we find shade?"

He met her smile. His genius mind knew a proposition when he heard one. Gently, his big hand sought the small of her back and led her backwards into the treeline. "I think we deserve some quiet time to ourselves, yes."

No one would guess that this wolfish redhead and his breathtaking sugar girl was the missing Ambassador of the magical Continent for twenty one months, High Lord Israfel Bludthïrste, and his [Subservience]. But they really were.

Israfel and Peitho both dropped off their capes as they neared the Palms. His palm cupped firmly on her fat bottom. Red Rangers, he thought. What a fucking joke?