Vaid Empire: Conquest
is a massive fantasy series that aims to mix
erotica
with the quality of a published novel. New chapters and artwork are released every month absolutely free, with the completely optional possibility to receive early access. The Series focuses heavily on worldbuilding, story, and characters.
The world of Ayphieal is shattered and chaotic, with kingdoms and tribes of six distinctive races vying for territory amongst themselves. It is only when a young human warrior finally pushes back against the chaos that the world begins to shift towards order.
***
2nd of Onis, 1 AVE.
Kingdom of Wonakaros, Southern Coastline.
The harsh sea winds tore at Varse's robe as he emerged onto the deck of their tiny vessel, clutching the rope railing of the stairs tightly as they rolled over the waves. His scowl hardened as he felt the salty breeze caress his skin, doing his best to keep his balance. The sea was no place for a true Dril.
"Captain, are the claims true? Have you spotted land?" He asked, his short cape fluttering around him as he peered back to the wheel of the ship.
An Arkos, the old captain had transported many agents of the Shai Domain to his homeland over the decades. In response to his master's question, the outsider chuckled and nodded towards the bow. "Have a look for yourself, master Potentate."
Varse pitched his gaze forwards, following the bowsprit as it pointed into the distance. Squinting, he could just make out a black form on the edge of the horizon, hardly visible to his untrained eyes. The sight caused his internal tension to ease, grateful to finally view his escape from the wooden heap that the captain called a ship.
Ducking back down into the single hold, Varse stood before the ten fellow Dril that would accompany him. Dressed in short robes, they each were topped by capes similar in length and style to his own. They remained quiet, lying in cluttered cots and enduring the rocking of the ship that their bodies were entirely unaccustomed to.
"We are nearing our destination, gentlemen. This watery endeavor will soon cease."
The nearest man sat up using shaking arms to steady himself. "My Potentate, The Wandering Desert will be far less...forgiving..." He said, seemingly on the edge of spilling his latest meal as the vessel maneuvered through the waves.
"Indeed." Varse replied grimly, displaying no false confidence nor hope to his men. "The sands are not a place we Dril were created to tread, as some of you already know intimately. Yet our purpose is clear, a necessary service for the good of all our brothers and sisters back home."
"Our ancestors...shall not let us fail. We-" another Dril began, just before a harsh roll of the ship toppled him from his cot.
Varse's jaw harden as he quickly moved to assist the fallen man. "I ask that you all closely follow the instructions of the native guides when we arrive, even those of you who have previously been sent to this accursed place in the past. They are outsiders, of course, yet their knowledge may determine the success of our journey."
Though clearly reluctant, none of the ten men voiced their disapproval.
***
Several hours passed before they reached the shoreline, continuing to sail along the coast until they spotted their hired guides residing inside of a large tent surrounded by a tiny herd of feathered creatures. The captain dropped the anchor, remaining onboard while two of his crew members brought the Dril to land by rowboat. There would be no payment until The Potentate was returned safely to Nelzarshi.
The warm sunlight felt bizarre on Varse's pale skin, neither too hot nor too cold. He took his first step onto the beach, feeling the black sand under his foot wrappings.
An endless sea of darkness stretched out before him as far as he could see, sprinkled with patches of charom stems. The strange coral-like plants easily surpassed the height of an average humanoid, displaying countless vibrant colors that contrasted magnificently against the black sand, while emitting an otherworldly glow during the night.
Varse hardly felt a wave caress his feet as he studied the landscape, awed at a sight that had only ever been described in writing. The sounds of the rough sea that had tormented his men became little more than a nudge at his awareness, no longer his concern.
He nearly hadn't noticed when two Arkos males emerged from their tent and began to make their way towards him dressed in dirty rags. They appeared skinny and agile, an adult accompanied by a boy just on the cusp of manhood. The left iron-colored horn of the adult was missing, presumably snapped off during his travels. The fingers of his right hand brandished the gauntlet traditional to his species, capping his fingers with harsh metal claws that hinted of rust.
The adult Arkos kneeled before Varse, shooting a disapproving glare at the boy when he remained standing. The young man took the silent command instantly, hurriedly lowering himself to his knees.
"I take it that you are our guides?" Varse asked, turning to face the pair.
Regaining his feet, the Arkos pulled the boy upwards with a hard yank of his arm. "Of course, master Potentate. Holy Kromak is quite eager to make your acquaintance in person." The heavily accented man said in the language of the Dril.
"And your name?"
"Horos" The guide answered, watching as Varse looked expectantly down at his younger companion. "The boy has not yet earned a name, master Potentate. Pay him no mind."
"Very well, we shall delay no further." Varse replied, accepting a white shroud from the outstretched hand of one of his men. He wrapped the fabric around his hairless head, protecting his skin from the unfamiliar intensity of the sun. "Tell me, is it true that only a full blooded Arkos may enter Arkos-Tul?"
Horos bowed his head in exaggerated apology. "Indeed, my lord. Even a being such as yourself shall not even be permitted to merely gaze upon the great holy city. It is forbidden..."
"Even for a
Dril
?" One of the nearest guards asked, seemingly taken aback.
The young man's tail quivered in annoyance at the question, and he muttered under his breath in his native language.
The older Arkos quickly backhanded the boy, sending him to the ground. "Apologies, my lords. This
runt
has yet to learn to hold his tongue. Let us depart, as Holy Kromak fully intends to honor your request to speak in person. He shall meet us halfway between Arkos-Tul and the shore, deep into the true desert."
"Agreed." Varse replied, wasting no time in following the guide over to the herd of feathered creatures waiting just outside their tent. Quadrupedal beasts, Varse recognized from his pre-expedition studies that they were referred to by locals as Onaks. Their bulbous bodies stood on four thin legs the color of bone, with an oval shaped head supported by a long neck. Their mouths appeared to consist of four beaks, each sporting an eye and converging together into a single sharp point.
With only seven Onaks milling about, the group broke into pairs, two men per beast.
***
Mile after mile, hour after hour, the group of thirteen trudged deeper into the desert atop their Onaks. Only the quiet sound of shifting sand enveloped their world, interrupted occasionally by the cries and squeaks of unseen creatures.
By the time the sun began to set for the first day of their journey Varse was more than grateful for the white shroud. Though the temperature remained FAR more moderate than that of the Tazik Desert, the sunlight beating down upon his body would have certainly blistered his Dril skin. He kept his hands folded beneath the protection of his cape, his red eyes full of determination as they peered out from a slit in his headwrap.
The sunlight faded, dipping below the horizon and plunging them into a vast sea of darkness. In awe, the Dril men observed as the patches of charom stems slowly began to illuminate, spotting the landscape with splashes of vibrant blues, greens, and purples. They reminded Varse of an obscure painter from his childhood in Ishtai, wildly sprinkling his paint in maddening patterns that seemed to hold no meaning.
Their Arkos guide brought the group to a halt when he had found a suitable place to settle down for the night. The tent was pitched, the Onaks were lashed to the ground, and Horos set about planting a ring of torches into the sand to encircle their camp.
"Would the light not give away our position?" One of the Dril had asked, only to receive an adamant shake of Horos's head.
"There are far worse fates in this desert than being spotted, my friend."
The solemn statement coaxed no further question.
***
Varse would have expected a night spent on the ground to be quite uncomfortable, yet he found the sand to be rather pleasant. Within minutes he was asleep with his robe pulled close to his body, having given up his place inside of the small tent to one of his men.
Under the open night sky of a foreign land he dreamt of home, of ice, of the snow that had always enveloped his world. A twinge of longing poked at his chest, a yearning to return to his people. There was a sense of guilt waving throughout his dreams, as he was met with an understanding that every Dril spy The Council had deployed from their lands must surely have felt a similar longing to return.
A subtle crunching of sand weaved through his unconscious thoughts, hardly noticeable. The sound steadily intensified, becoming harder to ignore until Varse was jarred awake by the sensation of something sharp scraping against his skin.
Every instinct cried out to remain still as he returned to consciousness, momentarily unaware of where he was. The events of the day returned within moments, and he allowed his eyes to creep open a sliver.
The culprit for the slight pain in his leg was immediately revealed, as through the darkness Varse made out the figure of a creature leering over his once sleeping form. With skin as black as the sand, its bipedal body was topped with a nearly egg-shaped head, its smooth-skinned cranium split halfway down its featureless face to reveal a vicious smile of jagged teeth. Its lanky frame granted it an almost skeletal appearance, hunched over to inspect its prey. Its fingers and toes were ripped open from the growth of short claws, the same sharp objects that were now lightly slicing Varse's thigh as the monstrosity assessed him with its foot.
With incredibly slow and calculated movements, Varse slid the concealed blade from the wrist of his robe under the guise of sleep. He positioned the blade's tiny handle into his palm, clutching it as he readied himself to strike.
