Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions-Chapter 312: Patchwork Man

[#horrorporn #foullanguage #nudity]

Getting the grotesque message from this unknown person—which the Rocasian force were now calling the Patchwork man confirmed two things for Rafel: one; the pilot had not being the only assassin sent after him that day aboard the flight-ship. This 'Patch-work Man' had probably followed – in the Lightlark – from Titans Landing.

He'd probably watched from afar—Rafel could see the events as it happened in his mind, sliding together as images in vignette. Rosamunde, his detective ex-concubine, gods rest her soul, had always told him, "the best investigators, Lord Israfel are usually the most fucked-up in the head." And to this, Rafel was worthy of a Sheriff's badge in this department.

The second thing he'd deciphered from staring into the horrendous stitching of a dismembered corpse into letters was that this Patchwork Man was brave; few psycho killers dared do something so brazen to his eyes. Not after everybody had seen what he'd done with Mephistopheles and the other [Fallen]. In his head, he saw the man—or woman arrive the crash site of the Lightlark, probably witness him fly off, and then in the five to ten minutes it took for Police Chief Yukima and her squad to land in their wagons, he did the sick work.

Frankly Rafel had seen worse violence in Hel Realm. But Ursula hadn't. For a person to stitch up a cut-up human being just to send a message raped the virgin eyes of all who saw the papers.

It was the second night since Ursula had taken him into that dreary hall of the Gray House and shown him the photo. The Republic had fallen into mouthy chaos right after. If the west didn't love him so much they would have bore down on the Legata to send him right back to Titans Landing. In the Eldorian Empire, Roa was synonymous to peace.

Liberality. Nirvana.

Not nearly as much as the Freelands to the South. Still, able in their own right.

People in the Republic did not go to work everyday. People in the Republic were lazy. Excusably so. Rocasus was a wealthy nation. Their Blue Army—half of which Rafel owned—hadn't had to go to war in years. They easily left that to the Imperial host at the Capital and the Atlanteans. But Rafel was not thinking about his possible extradition.

He was thinking about the message.

His message: "Rise Helchild."

Only two people in the entire world called him that, and they weren't even human; his current Matron Deity, Hecate, and his mum—you know who.

Now it was late night. He had spent his whole day and half of it staring daggers at the grim picture. Pacing like a caged tiger; inventing new ways of frowning at a piece of paper; locked up in the Athenaeum floor; scaring away the maidens who came to make sure he didn't starve with his unnatural yellow pupils. He had requested the first photograph of the scene, obtained on a plated mirror with an [Edo] Talisman and a small transference spell be cast onto a scroll.

It was this parchment he now glared upon. Its edges were frayed of his gripping hands.

All those hours from dusk till dawn and he could think of no one in his friend circle who'd betray him, 'cuz his friend circle were literally his harem—and it was not ironic to say they loved him to the death.

Corazon was a real [Revenant]. She went into [Ghost State] like that.

Snap!

Of those in his immediate family, he came up with no one either… they were all in prison.

--by his hand and rightly so.

Those motherfuckers raped and killed at least one hundred people in one day. And sometimes not exactly in that order. He knew his Uncles, Lucifer Morningstar and Asmodeus Lustfyre could simply not escape the [Chronos Bubble] he put them in. And he for sure knew Lilith—that mad, horny cunt—had not escaped Eragonn. Giselle would rather go kamikaze on her ass than see her try.

He was right to put a Yandere as her Warden.

His smile at this thought was short-lived because he knew Ursula's words were true: the person he sought was closer to home. He was sure of this because if the 'Patch-work Man' had been following him from the Capital that day, and was close enough to see the flight-ship go down, his system must've registered the signature to a friend and that was why his [Intuition] never went up.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Three soft knocks pushed into Rafel's reverie. "I demanded to be alone!" he grunted.

He heard the swish of breeze behind him as the door opened. In walked Daschelle. Before even he turned, he smelled the flowers in her perfume: pinkrose. Like her hair. Rafel didn't even feign politeness. "There are other libraries in the house, aren't there? And what the fuck are you doing up at this time of night. It's the wee hours, girl."

Dash began rounding a dark carrel to where he stood. "You know the oils I put in my hair. You smelled me."

"Answer my question?" Rafel barked.

Daschelle sidled up to him, a supper tray covered and balanced in her arms. She only came up to his stomach. "I saw the maids scurrying down from here, pretty fuckin' frazzled. You are unkind, sir." She pushed closer to him, "you forget, not many lasses are like me."

"Like you?"

"Attracted to your cruelty." She simply finished.

"And what would you know about sexualized authority?" Before Dash could go into a monologue about how she was fit of mind, ahead in years for her fourteen-year old self, Rafel dropped the subject. "I know your mother didn't send you here. Drop the tray and leave."

She didn't leave immediately. She wanted to just be with him. Her crush on him was mighty. To shed time, she dropped the food tray onto a nearby desk with a lit reading lamp and came over to stand in front of him. He still wouldn't look up from the condemned photo. Dash said, following his eyes, "I ain't scared of Patch-work Man."

"That's not his name," Rafel cut in a thin tone, "…her name."

"You think it's a woman."

"Why not? I've spent close to four seasons in the mortal plane and can confirm women want equality in everything."

Daschelle bit on her lip. She said nothing; it was the first time she'd found misogyny attractive.

She pressed forward into him, launching her petite, young flesh to draw down his eyes. "You've been at this for two days like a cavalryman. You need a distraction." She added, "you know I know what you like." Rafel finally met her riverine eyes over the grim-painted scroll. He told her. "What I'd like is to tear off your panties and ram them into your mouth, and while you gag I shove you over that lamp desk right there and pile-drive you into the morning. What I like is not have you talking…but choking on my cock. Hyperventilating as I use your little body to ease my frustrations.

He pointed to a silver candelabra. "I'd turn that candle over you and slather you in hot wax. I'd stuff your face in the salad you brought in and see how far deep in your tiny arse a carrot can go. I'd blindfold you, turn off the light and restrict you to a chair. Your pussy and tits will obtain no mercy from me. I'd hold you to the floors and shag you no matter how dirty you get. I'd like to bathe you in the oxtail soup and drink it off your blackened skin. I'd make you crawl around and try to find me.

I'd wank on your face, make you eat thick semen.

--and when I'm done with you I toss you out like the fucking cum-rag you are.

What I like is to impale you to my groin and make you do squats." He put his hand up her chin. "So tell me, Dove, do you really know what I like?"

Dash stammered under the ruthless glow of his sunset eyes and knowing smile: "I-I ain't ever thought 'bout all that…but I'd never stop you."

Rafel said nothing else after that. But his grip on the parchment paper got tighter and tighter, crumpling in his growing fist.

"Come here!" His bass whipped her. His huge right hand went into her hair as he tore away the tie holding up the cute pink strands. His fingers treaded the cool mass as he dragged her to him. Dash began to flush red, but she didn't get the chance to finish her smile as he smashed her face into chest, pushing her down so she nuzzled him under the belt. Dash closed her eyes. Her heart was a hummingbird in her chest.

Pah!

Rafel's right hand landed hard on her bottom.

Cussing in a gravelly pirate voice, he hooked his fingers in her knickers and pushed down. To her knees.

Pah! He spanked her left asscheek.

She quivered under him, gasping.

Pah! Pah!

He shredded her long shirt. His huge palms immediately found her small breasts and he grasped on her softness, palming her hard.

"Ahh—" She yelped.

"Fuck this shitpaper!" Rafel had just tossed off the terrible corpse photograph behind him when he felt a sudden presence in the room with him. It was an inkling.

[Intuition].

Come to think of it, he had heard the scroll fly but never land.

Out of nowhere, ghastly green lightning split the skies, lighting the great thundercloud no one had seen form over the whole estate. It was just a second. Up there, it looked like a floating skull of dust and electricity. Rafel felt prickles on his skin: horripilation. Peitho was warning him.

Rafel released Daschelle.

"Wha…what?" She staggered.

He effectively put himself in front of her as he turned around in the quiet reading space—which had now become even quieter. The answering thunder to the eerie flashes in the sky struck the earth with a great turbulence. It took out all the mana lamps.

The strong frigid wind blowing in next took out the candles.

It was total blackout in the Gray House.

"I thought it didn't storm in the West."

"Never ." Dash struggled with tatters of her shirt behind him. Her knickers he had made useless. The crazy weather made her skin lose color: a paleness that consumed her lolly skin and made those nipples stand out like ice-cubes had been touched to her.

Squeeaaakkkk!

The door was open and swinging.

Rafel looked to it, Dash tucked small at his back. She cornered her eyes to look too.

There was something at the door; some 'thing'. frёewebηovel.cѳm

Tall. Freakish tall. This thing had the thinnest arms and legs, and the longest midriff Rafel had ever seen. He wondered how those stickly limbs held up the head. The entire body of this thing was damp, gleamed with viscous pus and smelled like someone had walked in with a rotting cow's head. This freak at the door was the one who had caught the photograph Rafel tossed.

It rose from its crouch with the paper in its crooked fingers.

Hollows in its slimy face that held black, beaver eyes—corrupted in visible evil looked down once at the paper and a piercing whistle scattered the electrified air. Outside, it was total black. And it looked like the earth was rolling and the heavens were about to fall right down.

It was the flashes of green lightning Rafel used to see that this man…woman…thing had no clothes on. Rather, it wore skins.

The skins of who the fuck knew. . .but they were definitely dead.

The face was the mummified scalp and derm of a black person. The hands and torso looked torn off a teenager—which explained the disproportion. The legs were completely hairless; a woman's legs.

But the real dong hanging down the beefy thighs were not.

This thing was the culmination of darkness, abomination, the evil of the whole world.

Man? Woman? What was it?

Rafel's eyes saw the horror; he knew he had hit a break in the case. Dash let her shirt drop. She forgot the cold on her naked areolas. And whispered in the freezing room, "Patch-work Man."