Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

Four days had passed since then and most of the survivors injured in the possession had been discharged now from the Guildhall clinic; Dr. Nicara Shetty had to make the call to the families of the deceased herself—none of which the tigress particularly liked.

Now even though the young men and women lost in that eclipse of Holocaust had fully committed with their own hands to the cause, it didn\'t stop Nicara from feeling the hurt or responsibility for not doubling sentinel patrols at the Dragongates. It was as if she lived her son\'s death again.

The Academy\'s coroner office took a solid ten-hour shift to link the limbs with the heads, at least the ones they could find, and the almost-complete corpses were sent on home on black sailing ships. For all the county undertakers knew, a mother could be burying the head of her daughter but with the arm or leg of a totally different child.

It was a most agonizing affair—not to mention the said parents were all filthy rich fuckers with running mouths; Nicara did her best not to harbor acrimony for the lot.

Grief was grief, no matter whom it came from.

And so, the moments the papers had reached her desk to sign off on the second round of the spring Games, Dr. Shetty had picked up her quill and appended immediately. She told her soft haired assistant: "These kids need a distraction."

"So do you, ma\'am."

Nicara adjusted her opal glasses that day in the penthouse office of the administrative tower. She replied her secretary, "yes. So do I."

Now in the present, the publican gates of the vast amphitheater was screened open by a buzzer and the long line of hundreds of kids: First Years and sophomores, Third Years and finalists, all rushed in through. They had flags of their Arcs, banners bearing the animal totems. They trooped in, trickling through the ivory seats of the rotund dome.

The retractable one hundred and fifty square feet roof above was moved away with the wave of a sorcerer apprentice\'s hand. And a calm islandic evening glow fell on the crowd.

The sun was nicely warm on the skin. The air was fresh and stirring. The heavens were palest blue, and one could see the stray seagulls from the Cold Sea weaving through the fluffy dusk cloud.

A minaret mermaid said to her friend. "It\'s such a nice evening out."

"Yes," the boy with whom she talked quipped. "Nice enough for us to kick your arse!"

"Please try." The girl chimed, smiling back.

Though they were friends, they were of different Arcs. And wore different colors. It was the love of the game that shined in their union. The mermaid girl was in water blue. The boy sat in his royal skyling gold. The canopy of the Griffin Arc was just beside that of the Pegasus blues.

Those in blue were more settled than those in gold. And on the far northside quarter of the amphitheater, the Reds were the most settled in their seats.

This was because the [Phoenix Arc] were leading by forty two points accrued in the Hunt. [Pegasus Arc] was runner-up place with thirty five. Raven with thirty one. And Griffin Arc with a dismissing shocker of seven points. Totally out of turn for the last season\'s champions. The Gold faction were looking to drum up their scores in the triathlon tonight.

The Reds were meaning to remain at the top. And for one to rise, the other had to fall. One of the four Arcs would have a sore losing before the night was ended. It made it scintillating to watch.

Towering overhead lights went up around the stadium\'s dome, like forty feet white candles, and the gigantic leaderboard screen shimmered into the air with the league\'s table on display.

The name Phoenix was in bright red capitals at the top of it. And the congregation of the blood Faction cheered at their leading position. They turned to look at the young man who had put them there by claiming Athena\'s charm in the first round of games; Israfel did his best to smile whilst returning bright-eyed waves. He wasn\'t competing in the Triathlon tonight.

No, baby.

His Arc was saving him for the match ball. The arena fighting round: Gladiators Fest.

Rafel relaxed in his own seat and watched the commentators at the upper rungs close to the Headmistress\'s pedestal begin a banter at who\'d they wager for, and against in the Triathlon:

"Do you think the Griffins have what it takes to ascend up the ranks and change their fate, Bob?"

"No, Stefan. I do not." The counterpart razed. "The Golds are up against determined forces this year. Plus have you seen the squads list for the Phoenix and Pegasus Arcs? Brilliant, man. Brilliant!

Stefan, when I say I don\'t think the Griffins have a chance to up their meagre points, I mean it. Not even if the Fates as you put it helped."

"As you know, Bob, I\'ll always root for the underdog. But ...not in this case."

Both commentators laughed while Bob, short for Bobbacaan ignored the dagger stares thrown his way from the shiny gold quarter of the theater: the Griffins canopy. Rafel\'s listening was interrupted when the two empty seats beside him were filled up. On his left, Gretchen Manderley, whom he remembered from the Hunt sat. She greeted him with warm words and a delicious smile that showed alabaster fangs.

He was glad to watch the game with present company. Gretchen was quite the looker, and being a hardcore lesbian she didn\'t stare at him—not as much.

As the horns for the Triathlon blared, "Whohoo!" A boy close behind wolf-whistled. The first in the Triathlon was Archery and the competitor representatives of the Arcs were called up. Cheering nearly cracked the stone of the dome when the champion of Griffin Arc was announced: a girl. The student president. Erika fucking Burgess.

"I have my money on her." Bob said into his hollow mic rune.

The competitors were asked to draw on their targets. And then lose.

Swoosh! The arrows flew.

The Archery segment of the Triathlon ended rather quickly with Erika slamming home a frankly astounding shot in the bullseye board—in the bullseye—from a hundred yards away on the bright sands of the arena, illuminated wonderfully by the tall lights. The Archer\'s bow was taken home by Griffin Arc. Raven Arc took the prize at the second segment of the Triathlon: mud wrestling.

Their champion was a bear of a woman. A [Wild Shape], who threw into the chocolate sludge all the other three boys gunning for her. It was erotic watching her twist and fell the boys. And then struggle to grapple her down. Rafel himself was thinking how quickly it could go south.

\'Didn\'t someone say how a gangbang had started exactly like this?\'

The [Furiosa] arose from the muck to claim the [Clay Queen]. In both segments of the Triathlon, Phoenix Arc came second place. It came down to the final at around eight thirty in the early night, but the amphitheater was bright enough that many in the piers didn\'t notice the dark blanket of night above their heads, nor the twinkle of stars in it.

The Headmistress, Nicara Shetty stood from her topmost tier of the stadium and drew up her hand to signal the final segment:

Bullfighting.

Champions were announced. A single one for each Arc. And the cages at the sides of the colosseum were opened. The paddocks freed.

A massive five hundred buck-pound and slithering black bull humped to the center of the ring.

After making utter, laughable spectacle of the first two contestants and nearly goring the third to death—a wiry teen of Pegasus Arc—the final contender with the frothing beast was announced. The contestant of the Shadow faction. A total Goth babe. Inked in her pale, pale skin. Her body like a mural for strange tattoos. Pierced in every conceivable orifice—the ones spectators were allowed to see.

A true Matadora.

Rafel leaned closer in his seat when Brunhilda Penderghast walked as casually as one could ever to the front of the gigantic bull.

"You know her?" Gretchen chirped from his left.

Rafel nodded; he could already feel a lump in his throat. This black creature was already mad from being smoked by the first three matadors. Couldn\'t they change bulls or something? Brunhilda met the animal\'s total black eyes and slowly lifted her red flag. The fat nose puffed. White smoke hurtling out its nostrils.

Hardy hooves scraped at the sands.

—and it charged.