Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

On the 21st Apryl day of the Faerie calendar season: a time of the year that saw the island color in rich green of spring, extending even onward across the Cold Sea to the polis of Titans Landing, Israfel and his certainly unique clic of friends received word of the Student President in such manner of words:

"Hey, pals. Erika here! I wanted to let you know that the grand Hall of Magdalena has been closed off by the school authorities for a certain unnamed fete for private alumni. This is only a false front, perpetuated by Yours truly.

In truth, I have secured the Assembly Hall and the entire floor this evening for our auction.

As the clock strikes six. Do not be late! Toodles!

PS: I'll need the mystic glyph passkey to the Hel miniverse where the weapons are stored."

Rafel tapped his crystal magic screen shut, and the message abrupty went off. The school had gifted said viewing screens to its witchy students to effect better communication between tutors and the various Arcs: nowadays, boys and girls just used it to drop quick messages rather than make use of the eerie obsolete séance balls.

—and the occasional hack, where some introvert weirdo would use it to spy on the water nymphs communal bath pool.

'Toodles!' Erika's honeyed voice rang inside Rafel's head even as his room plunged into darkness again at the blackout of his screen. He read her message like she was delivering it in front of him.

A few days had passed since his dinner with the Duchess's twin daughters at Spinazolla's. It was Saturn's day; first day of weekend, and Rafel had slept in—until Erika's glaring message that is, which had woken him up. Rafel rubbed at his eyes, wondering why the fuck he ever allowed the damn blonde to pick the date.

All he wanted to do was crash and have endless dreams about succulent succubi, in ghoulish, noir setting.

But this was not to be.

Morpheus, dream Master had disappointed him, and outside, Demeter seemed to be in a jolly mood; judging by all emerald sprouts painting the seaside out from winter. Perhaps, Persephone had finally left Hades to be at her side. Perhaps.

Rafel rolled off bed.

He sent a quick telepathic message to Aya to deliver to Erika the passkey [Hieroglyph] for the Hel dimension before the go time. Peitho's pinging in his head alerted him that she had received the message. Rafel tuned out all sounds and ripped his shut drapes open. Percival was softly snoring on the other end of the large suite.

His dorm room now silkily lit by amber-rose blooms of a waning sun, Rafel stared a bit out the windows at the spectacular horizon. He could see all the way to the vast marine of the Cold Sea.

[DING!], came Peitho's voice in his head.

[Your Eminence should know; it is 5: 30pm.]

[President Erika's screen message was three hours ago.]

"Shit." Rafel pulled away from the curtains. "Peitho! Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

At that moment, if his virtual [Hellion] system could be animate, Rafel would've seen Peitho rolling her blue iridescent eyes. He rushed to the bathroom, and on the way, tossed Percival a fat pillow. "Wake up, dude," he said, "It's Go time."

[🎶 Levitating - Dua Lipa.]

The hosting place for the event: Magdalena's Hall was a palatial dome seemingly dipped into gold like the feet of Achilles in the ancient river. The hostess, Miss President herself: Erika Burgess, had gone all out with the hall, whipping out all the luxury cards up her sleeve.

The theme tonight was Greek revival.

White pillars of Ephesus. Nixies sculptures that would make Plato blush. Paintings of gods on the domed ceiling: little baby Cupid with his love darts staring down at those below. And the finest seating arrangement money could buy. If the villa of Lady Fairfield and the bastion of the Countess Penderghast made a baby, this would be it.

Utter amazement and pride filled the hearts of the creme de la creme filtering in.

Tuxedoed bodyguards at the door ensured it was strictly invite only. No gold card to show, no place to go.

"Wow!" Ravenna blitzed with starry eyes as she stepped across the streaming red carpet. "I ain't never seen stuff like this."

Behind her, Rafel smiled. Her accent came out when she was truly emotional; been in an elite academy famous for its perch of royals, Ravenna had tried to tame the undercity manner of speaking she was born with. But it slipped out in the moments like these. Rafel was glad to be around for it. You couldn't put a price tag on the simple things.

He was wonderfully rocking a Birmingham gold suit for the occasion. It fit him wickedly.

The girls were in flattering gowns that accentuated everything they should be hiding. Rosamunde and Aya Naamah. Ravenna and Brunhilda. They made space at the middle of long diamond table for Rafel to sit. Flanking it were other smaller circular ones for the guests. It was all opulence and culture tonight, with soft music playing in the background.

Overhead, a three-tiered, filigreed chandelier dazzled the night.

The Hostess, Erika—in smashing red Afrika—was helped up to the dais. Her stage was a spotlight fit for a princess. She wore her strawberry tresses down. Putting on a pair of mystical glasses that displayed for her eyes only the inventory of things on auction, Erika began; her lips were the softest pinkest pink.

"Welcome, good friends. I must say, we are all looking rather too good for ourselves. One might think we were to be the ones on display tonight!"

The chosen bourgeoisie in the hall chuckled at her compliment, sipping the finest of wines from gold flutes.

"Now, who's ready to spend some money?"

"YEAH!!!" Many voices charged.

Rafel shared a look under exquisite candlebras with Rosa. Erika was right. Rich people did love spending gold, as much as making it. It made them feel better about themselves. You couldn't be in this room tonight, if you weren't a narcissist. Rosa spied many, already grasping to their placards, ready to announce a thousand or more, at the first call.

The silver wine, shipped in from merchant Carthaginia, would flow forever.

"Alright! Calm down, you hungry lot," Erika joked to which the crowd chuckled. The din eased to hear her speak. "The first item going out tonight is. . ." She paused for dramatic effect, blinking under her bluish glasses.

". . .the Akkadian Dagger, rumored to be wielded by the first Scorpion King and—might I add, it is ranked [Legendary]; would make a nice addition to your collection, because we all know you don't give a shit about the Scorpion King."

Everyone laughed. Rafel smiled on his upholstered chair at the diamond table. Erika was quite the hostess.

She was saying, ". . .starting price goes at 50, 000 gold—"

"Hundred Thousand!" came a sweet baritone.

Everyone turned to the voice. "Damn, Lord Damien," said Erika. "You just couldn't let me finish." He answered in a laugh. "Akkadian dagger going for a hundred thousand gold, people."

"Two hundred!" A Sea Admiral answered.

Lord Damien sat back with a smile, finishing off his opponent with a final, searing topping. "FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND!" He grinned.

The Sea Admiral waived to defeat, and Erika pounced her small gavel. "Sold to Lord Damien, the Duke of Marmóir!"

After the [Akkadian Dagger], it was the Philistine [Goliath Spear]; to which a certain Vicar paid the humongous sum of a million for—one could debate how he made his fortunes enough to bid that much, but certainly not those in the private auction hall.

His excuse to hit so high above everyone else was that the giant's javelin was an instrument of biblical order, and this should remain with the church.

The [Spear of Goliath] was ranked EPIC.

After it was a golden [Numidian Lasso]. And then it was an [Egyptian Balance] of the Afterlife. A [Loegrian Crucifix] of praying monks. A [Persian Sickle]. A [Viking Axe] spotting the runes of Beowulf—no one could attest to its authenticity. An [Ashanti Buffalo Helm].

A [Warrior Staff] of a Shogun.

[Rings of Indie Cavayal]

[Minghan Empress Arrow]

[Hellenes Fire Sword]

[Spartan Shield of Blood]

[Romani Bollenhut]

[Germania Runes of Rheda]

[Carpathian Fangs of Skinwalker]

The guests bid and bid, gold piling as the clinking in their eyes.

". . .and finally for tonight," Erika came calling, "we have the [Hammurabi Codes on Tablet], of the god, Amurru. It's Old World magic and ranked EPIC. The starting price is half a million gold. But—" Erika held up her hand, "I'm sorry I have to claim this as mine."

"Not if I can help it!" belted a truant Viscount. "I bid seven hundred thousand."

Erika offered him her most polite smile as she said softly, "TWO MILLION," silencing the man forever.

Erika blinked at the glinting screen before her eyes; there was a late addition. It shouldn't be here, she mused, but she read it aloud. "It appears, fine nobles and lieges of distinction that we have a final reputable delight: THE BOOK OF SOULS—"

Rafel eased his friends with a smile when they turned on the long table to look at him. "I intend to buy it back," he said, "I can't just show up without bidding."

"—starting price is five million!" Erika's syrupy voice lulled in. "To whom shall the souls cry master."

"5.5!" called a Baron.

"Six," said a Lady of a noble house.

"10 million!" Rafel declared proudly, astounding everyone in the elite room, including the hostess. It was the single most prolific bidding of the night. It drew all-round attention to him; but Rafel wasn't seeking it. He was only buying back what was his to begin with; he was that rich.

Yep.

Erika lifted her gavel, just about to bang him bigger, better winner when a new voice threw in with a surmounting bid.

"20 MILLION."

It was a woman's voice: so silky in the nature in which it appealed to the ears it reminded Rafel of a siren that had been captured and brought in to lull him to sleep when he was a wee lad prince of Hel.

It reminded Rafel of eerie singing in the woods.

All heads turned to the bidder who'd just upped him twice—Rafel too.

His mouth dropped open when he turned and saw his wife.