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Malfisto's Conquest	By : JohnDoe Category: -Misc Video Games/RPGs > General Views: 1300 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Demon Conquest and I make no money from this work. No offense is intended or religious or other grounds. Please do not imitate the acts depicted. I did not make the CYOA.

Chapter List
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“Astathia, it’s been too long.”

Years have passed since I last lost track of Astathia on the streets of Pandemonium as she headed into High Lord Ashmedai’s service. There’s not a blemish on her. I don’t feel as much hatred for her as I thought I would. I feel…

She bows, her voice like silk, calming the cacophony of Pandemonium. By the dukes of hell, how I hate this city.

“High Lord Malfisto, it is an honor to welcome you to my masters house,” She gestures to her body, “Would you care to, my lord?”

I consider. I have time. Strangely, I don’t have the desire. I don’t know if it would be different if she’d called me “Mal” and reminisced about our time together all those years ago.

Then again, I’m early, and there’s nothing else to do in Pandemonium.

The destructive power of my magics is considerable, between my Bone Mask and my Sagewood Staff there’s not much in the five hells that I can’t destroy. Astathia’s skimpy clothing is not special in this regard.

I shred the clothes from her delicate form and wrap tendrils of my psychic power around her to draw her close to me. She doesn’t resist as I run my hands over her body. Her demonic flesh is cool beneath my fingers – her body pliant in my hands. She arches her back and spreads her legs for me.

I maul her tiny breasts drawing out little yips of pain as I tweak her nipples, turning her slender body in my hands so she faces away from me. She bends naturally, pushing her rear back at me. I see her wings twitch, instinctively clenching for protection. I drag my nails down her back before running my fingertips over the spines of her wings. The tension in her body is impossible to fake as she slowly unfurls her wings for me – only once they’re at their full span, once I could, if I so chose, take those wings in my fists and snap them, do I grab her by the horns and push my cockhead inside of her.

I don’t undress. I don’t even remove my mask. I just plunge deep into her core. Her wings pull in an inch – ‘Ashmedai is too gentle with her,’ I think as I swat her backside for flinching.

In-and-out, I fuck her hard, pinning her to my cock by gripping one of her horns. She bites her lip to stop from screaming as I rail her. Her tail flicks me in the face, playfully. It’s not the same as when we were younger, but even after all these years… it’s not bad.

I unload deep inside her just as Ashmedai returns home. I push her to the ground and tuck my cock away.

“Duke Ashmedai!” I greet him with genuine warmth – it wouldn’t do to alienate the king’s right-hand.

“Duke Malfisto,” His tone is formal, but accompanied by the slightest of nods. We are both asmodeans, and if the worst were to happen to our beloved king… well, the new king would need a right-hand.

He leads me to a private study. We go through the formalities of confirming each other’s identities with magic, and then he asks me who among our peers I can trust.

“I don’t even trust you,” I answer, smiling behind my mask, “But Pazuzu is predictable and we have an understanding. Eligor is predictable, if nothing else. And Marchosias can be trusted to act in his own interests if nothing else. If you tell me why you’re asking, I can give you a better answer.”

Ashmedai has the bearing of a duke: devious, destructive, cunning. The gleaming red horns of royalty. He gestures me to lean in close, and I indulge him.

“When Asogoroth united the empire, bringing all five demon realms under his banner, the mortals sent a hero to kill him.”

“The Corrupted Hero,” I answer. The story is legendary – the hero cut a bloody swath through the hells, until Asogoroth personally crushed her and her band of warriors. The human girl was broken and turned into the king’s personal toy. Every demon spawn knows the tale.

“Our king is patient, but he does not forgive and he does not forget. The Realms are united. The High Lords enthroned over their dukedoms.”

“Which means,” I say, catching on, “That the mortal realm is the next great conquest.” I lean back and tent my fingers, “It’s a tall order.”

Ashmedai smiles playfully, “You don’t think he can do it?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m just not sure it’s worth it.”

“You don’t want to get out of the swamp?” Ashmedai needles, “Oh, you love magic, even more than Marchosias and I, and the swamp is rich in that. But the magic of the mortal realms? Valeron? Shyreen? Estane? Don’t pretend there’s nothing up there that interests you.”

It does interest me.

“And I want to get out of the pandemonium,” Ashmedai confesses, “The noise and the smoke. The used-up demon whores. I want new flesh. How do you think the others will react?”

I make a show of considering for a moment, “Pazuzu will join us without question. As long as he doesn’t end up with a swamp. He likes to fight and to fuck – the king’s campaign will give him the chance to do both. Eligor just likes to fight, forget conquest, he’ll join for the chance to prove his metal. Marchosias probably already knows about our lieges most secret plan: as inscrutable as he his, I can’t see him refusing more power.”

“If the king were to call a council of the high lords, would you bring forward a motion to invade the mortal lands?” Ashmedai mirrors my pose, leaning back and tenting his fingers.

It’s clearly a trap. Maybe Asogoroth doesn’t really want to invade the mortal realms. But maybe he does. Maybe the king asked Ashmedai to bring the motion. But so what? The treasures of the mortal realm? The women of the mortal realm? The chance to get out of the swamp? Why shouldn’t I petition the High Lords to invade the mortal realm?

****

“And that, noble dukes, is why I humbly beg our king to allow us to march upon the mortal realms and grind them under our boot. In His Infernal Name.”

I look around the faces of those assembled, Marchosias in shadow form, our king unreadable – the corrupted hero between his legs, punctuating my otherwise flawless speech with her slurping.

Ashmedai sits in pride of place, closest to Asogoroth, observing coolly. A beat of silence passes, nothing can be heard but the smacking of the king’s toy’s lips. Finally, Ashmedai speaks:

“How dare you make such demands of this council! You, youngest and least experienced duke, might preside over your swamp effortlessly, but some of us have kingdoms to administrate,” He turns obsequiously to Asogoroth, “In Your Unholy Name, of course,” He turns back to me, spittle flying from his usually composed mouth, “And you would have us, what, drop everything to revenge a war that we already won? This,” He points an accusing finger, “Is exactly why we don’t need two high devils serving as Dukes of Hell.”

Ashmedai is impossible to read. Perhaps it was a set-up. Perhaps a bluff. I remain impassive.

There’s a soft grunt as Asogoroth the Third unloads in his slave’s mouth. He does not address his High Lords, but hooks a finger under the slave girl’s chin, raising her eyes to look at him, “What do you think, pet?”

“There are many fine women in the world above, my god. Lands un-spoilt by war. Treasures worthy of your majesty. You could have them all. The rules of the mortal kingdoms, their jewels, broken at your feet, serving you as I do. Please make war on my homeland, my master. Not for vengeance, but to bring all of existence under your dominion. I humbly beg you – please enslave the mortal realms.”

Pazuzu speaks up, his voice burning with lust, “It’s hard to argue with that, my king. The might of Eden stands ready to campaign on the mortal realm, we only await your command.” He salutes the king and gives me a nod. I do not return it but feel a small swell of gratitude, none-the-less.

“War. Is. Good.” Eligor grunts. It’s the most I’ve ever heard him speak.

The shadow sitting in Marchosias’s seat only nods.

Asogoroth lays heavy eyes upon Ashmedai. The high devil looks away, before speaking:

“If my king commands it, the armies of Pandemonium march.”

Asogoroth smiles, “As my dukes demand it, I would be a poor king to refuse. We march on the mortal realms!”

****

I look down at the maps of the mortal realms spread out before us in Ashmedai’s study as I ponder the intricacies of his plan. The links between the mortal realm and the demon empire are… tenuous: the only stable gateway sealed in Alyriose – the human kingdom of the east, so called “Land of the Faithful”. Through this doorway did the girl who would become known as the Corrupted Hero ventured from the mortal realms to try and defeat Asogoroth. Now a fortified town is built up around this sealed gateway – Heldenhearth – and the seals are renewed every year by the Exarch (spiritual lynchpin of the Alyriosan faith), who travels all the way from the capital carry out the required blessings. A mortal spy could sabotage the bindings, allowing us into the mortal realm… one at a time.

“Whoever goes first would be walking into fortress guarded by holy paladins,” I say, slowly. Ashmedai circles me as I measure the distance between cities, “It’s suicide.”

“That is Eligor’s problem,” Ashmedai croons as he positions himself behind me.

I pause and look at him side-long over my shoulder. He smiles at me disarmingly and my black heart skips a beat. Something… unusual flutters inside me. I turn my attention back to the maps.

“And once we have a beach head: I’m sure that you and I possess more than enough destructive magic between us to rip open a rift between the realms, but to do it we’d need one of us on each side.”

Ashmedai presses himself against me. The polished blue steel of his armor feels cool against my skin. He wraps an arm around me, fingers playing over the tight muscles of my abs. His other arm pushes past me to point at the map.

“Well, that will be you on this side and me on the other,” He smiles at me, his face inches from mine as he leans over, ostensibly to look at the map, “I’m not going to let Eligor have all the glory. Let him go first, whilst he kills the defenders in the immediate vicinity, we send in a constant stream of tauros to reinforce him. Once the closest paladins are dead, I’ll go through. Together, you and I shall tear open a rift between the realms…”

“And through that rift, our armies will sweep into the mortal realms and conquer them all.”

“Unless the Paladins of Alyriose kill Duke Eligor. In which case I’ll blunder into certain doom and die an ignorable and pointless death. Which is why it has to be me and not our king.”

I wave a hand dismissively, “The magic will work better with two asmodeans acting in concert anyway.”

He makes an affirmative noise in my ear. It should be irritating, but there’s something strangely endearing about it. I feel my cock start to stir.

I clear my throat, “I’m surprised you’re not trying to convince me to risk my hide on this.”

He stops pointing at the map and places his arm on my chest. I’m sure he can feel the pounding of my heart. The hand on my abdomen starts to snake downward with a painful slowness: my cock stands fully erect now, straining against the thin curtain of cloth covering it.

“Oh, your magic is powerful,” He breathes huskily in my ear, “And you’re fast. But we both know that I am stronger than you.”

His foot slips between my legs and he kicks my legs apart. The hand on my chest finds my shoulder and he starts to bend me over. My wings contract involuntarily even as the shadow of his outstretched wings falls over me.

“Get off me!” I snarl and twist but his arms restrain me as easily as they would a child, “I am a High Lord! A Duke of Hell! You will regret this Ashmedai!” I curse at him furiously as he pushes me down against the desk. My cheek presses against the maps of the mortal realms – the parchment coarse against my face. My eyes play along the rivers of Valeron and I feel nothing but hatred.

His hand finally finds my still erect cock. He uncovers it and wraps his cool fingers around my shaft with a grip as irresistible as the one he’s using to pin me down.

When he speaks, his tone is detached and matter-of-fact, “Asogoroth The Third won’t be king forever. You’re not a fool: you know what treasures await in the mortal realms and the dangers our king will face. And when there is a new king, I will need a right-hand.”

I start to object, “What does that have to do with- Ah!”

His hand starts to move, that vice like grip pulling from the base of my cock to the tip. The pressure is exquisite. I desperately try to buck and thrust against his hand, but all that does his cause my ass to wriggle obscenely against him.

“Don’t be naïve!” He admonishes, “I am the greatest of the Dukes of Hell. You know this. Prove it. Submit to me!” His tone softens, the hand on my shoulder runs up my neck, strokes over my hair, and grips a horn, “Submit to me, Mal. Your army is grand enough, but you have no generals of note. No champions. No strategists. Alone among the High Lords, you are unprepared for this war. Alone among the other High Lords, your survival is something I care about. I will grant you Astathia – you know she is a brilliant strategist and that her cunning is well suited to your devious magics. Take the credit for her battle plans. Use her body as you will. We will fight, together, an unstoppable force. And I will share the spoils of conquest with you. And when I am king it won’t be my hand on your prick but the mouth of the Hero. You’ll have all the women and power a Duke of Hell could desire.”

My body betrays me, relaxing into his touch. My head swims. My wings open just a fraction.

His cock presses against me.

I close my eyes. The word ‘Valeron’ on the map is the last thing I see before I say the words:

“Yes, my liege.”

****

“Honestly, I’m still surprised that worked.” Astathia taunts as she smiles at me.

Under the light of the mortal realm’s yellow sun, it’s like I’ve never seen her before. The clear, unpolluted air. No noise except the screams of the dying mortals and the crackling of Pazuzu’s flames as Heldenhearth burns.

“Of course it worked!” I snap, “It was the demon king’s plan after all.”

“Techy!” Astathia grins, pressing herself against me and planting a chaste kiss on my jaw, “I suppose ripping open a rift between the dimensions must make you irritable: remind me to avoid Ashmedai.” She gestures into the sky, “Well, shall we?”

“Not yet.” I turn north and extend a finger pointing towards the forest.

“It’s a forest,” The lesser devil teases, “We have those back home. We’re supposed to be invading Sunhome. Taking the fight to the ‘chosen of the gods’? Covering the invasion here below? Capturing the finest prizes for the king.”

I ignore her and signal Volfen to strafe the forest. My wyrm riders arc and twist in the sky. A few of the more easily distracted devils join the assault. I can taste the psychic displeasure of Asogoroth as my demons turn a pristine forest – a source of meat and lumbar if nothing else into burnt and twisted ash. We’re not here to despoil this realm. We’re here to strip-mine it.

And then the displeasure ceases.

The more attentive of the devils see the glimmer in the woods. They add their magic to the assault, concentrating on the correct spot. The more foolish realize something is happening and start burning the forest at random as they signal up the rest of my army to form ranks.

Unnecessary.

The Alyriosan force is protected by powerful magics. Divine protection encasing them – thin as a soap bubble but impervious to the chaos raining around them. But it’s small: perhaps a three dozen men.

Not that it is the men who interest me.

“Good eye,” Asogoroth the Third, Ruler of the Five Demon Realms, Emperor of All He Surveys lays a hand on my shoulder. He’s warm: not the burning heat of a hell hound, but not the cool flesh of a devil more like… like a mortal even? “Is it her?”

“To survive this bombardment? Even if it’s not, worth dealing with now before the war starts in earnest.”

We sabotaged the seals on the gateway at their weakest – when they were due for renewal by the Exarch. Whoever was casting the protection spell in the forest would have to have singular blessings from the gods – far beyond those of a normal cleric. There’s no doubt in my mind that Sister Myriea is at the center of this protective bubble.

“Well?” Asogoroth asks, “What are you waiting for?”

“My liege,” I answer smoothly, “Your empire below wasn’t built in a day and so too will it take time here above. Just as you don’t micromanage the Infernal Duchies, trust that my methods will yield results here.”

“Drag her out from that gaggle of paladins and bring her to me now.”

I suck my teeth with displeasure. There are no arrows flying from the bubble at my precious wyrms. I don’t see any bows, but I do see swords and shields, and gleaming polished steel. Paladins. An honor guard: obviously not expecting a large-scale demonic incursion into the world of men, perhaps a hungry bandit or two, but still paladins – trained in the holy arts, filled with the light of the divine, and protected from demonic magic. I could slay anyone one of them with my bare teeth… but three dozen…

I direct my tauros into them. The giant, bovine demons lower their horns and charge. I beat my wings and take to the sky. In an instant Volfen is under me – the powerful alpha wym as far above his lesser kin as I am above mine. My fiends wheel in the sky and rally behind me.

I focus my destructive power through my staff and leap from Volfen once we are directly over their protective dome. By rights the blast could level a city. It should have turned every single one of the mortals into a red pulp. It did nothing but shatter the dome… but it did shatter the dome. The tauros hit the battle line as I crash down in the middle of the paladins.

The Exarch raises a symbol of her faith and scourges me with the prayers of her faith. The holy power burns with exquisite agony. But that power turned on me means it’s not protecting her paladins. My fiends rake their carefully ranked formation even as my tauros bull through them. I move with the speed of the Duke of Eldermire: even though I feel considerably less pretty, burned by the Exarch’s power, I snatch the Exarch up and beat my wings back into the sky. A golden talisman glitters around her neck; I rip it off her mid-flight – it’s a powerful treasure, and it’s mine now. Volfen meets us and carries us back to Asogoroth.

I throw Sister Myriea at Asogoroth’s feet. To her credit she immediately starts praying to her gods. He back-hands her. The strike sounds like a steak slapping down on a chopping board and the mortal falls to the ground – incapacitated, but still breathing.

Asogoroth sneers, “Such a pretty flower you have plucked from this realm, High Lord Malfisto. A little too thorny for my tastes. I will save myself for Princess Lionora – you may have this one.”

As usual, I am glad my Bone Mask hides my true face. I was the one who spotted her. I was the one who brought her to heel. By all rights she was mine – not the king’s gift to give. But I temper my voice into a sweet and gay melody as I summon Namaaru.

“Deal with her, my sweet Namaaru,” I sing, “And let us hope our campaign in Sunhome goes as smoothly.”

****

The campaign in Sunhome did not go as smoothly.

The flying island of the of the skyfolk has stood unassailable for generations. No mortal army has ever conquered it. Even the demon hordes had never set foot within its walls. Yet Sunhome shines down over the lands of Alyroise. Over our rift into these lands. To let it stand would be to jeopardize our entire mission.

A paranoid person would think they were being set up to fail.

But the devils under my command are able to fly as well as any of the sky folk. As can my fiends. And my wyrms. The backbone of my army – my tauros, my crawlers, my orcs – all grounded. Powerful as my magic is, I could not lift an army into the sky. At least not then.

Ashmedai was keen to help. As Astathia plotted against Alarica, the general of Sunhome’s forces, Ashmedai was more than happy to use the great strength of my forces – my tauros and orcs – to strike out against the dwarves of frozen Utgar. And to send my beloved pets, my crawlers, to die fighting in Liryia, the woodland home of the elves.

The armies of the skyfolk are blessed with holy powers. And, oh, does such power smart. But their sky island is small and swift as they are, I am quicker.

I cannot say how glad I am to have Astathia. Her strategies were invaluable. Sunhome’s blessed gardens and tiny population means they do not want for food – they can withstand siege indefinitely. Trickery was necessary, to lure them from their place of safety.

We fought many skirmishes. We made many feints. But never, to my shame, did we come close to conquering that realm.

Perhaps, by brute force, we could have overwhelmed their defenders, but the campaign was still young. We had a world to conquer – I could not afford to spend the blood of my followers as freely as my comrades in arms who fought their wars on the ground.

Ah, but the things I learned. From the mortal stars. From captured prisoners. (My darling Namaaru brought me many an occult secret.) I mastered the magic of the stars themselves – quite unlike the magics of destruction and deception that come so naturally to my kind, but ever so useful.

With the ability to scry on our foes, we divined their dearest desires.

In the end, we lured them into attacking the very hell-rift itself. Ashmedai had left it unguarded – his armies swept through Alyroise in all directions, no assault could come from land. My entire purpose was to stop them from attacking the rift.

They came in force. High Persecutor Alarica led the assault herself, from her flagship – the Bird of Paradise. Such a magnificent airship I had never seen in my life before – I am unlikely to see its equal in the future.

I fought her myself. She wielded her blade of black sunfire. I had my wooden staff. Such strength. Such skill at arms. Such an utter lack of mercy. In any fair fight she would have struck me down a dozen times over, despite my marginally faster speed. She thought she did strike me down a dozen times over.

But I do not fight with skill at arms. I am the greatest mage to walk this or any other realm, aside from, perhaps, the demon king himself.

With my illusions, did I addle her.
With the essence of dark energy distilled did I wrack her body with torments.
And by a thousand cuts did I finally bring her low.

This would not be the final end of Sunhome, but by this time Ashmedai had conquered Alyroise and was ready to turn his attention skyward.

I was glad of the reprieve. Ashmedai struggled against Sunhome even more than I did – even though I had robbed them of their general.

Alarica and the Bird of Paradise were mine. The latter yielded itself to me with considerably more ease than the former. The High Persecutor was resistant to my talents of persuasion. And even dearest Namaaru made hardly a dent on her iron resolve.

I bound her in chains of purest darkness and tied her to the bow of the Bird.

If nothing else, she made a fine ornament.

****

“The mortals have rallied in Valeren, High Lord Malfiso,” Aznard The Vile bows obsequiously to me as he speaks, sensing perhaps my displeasure at dealing with an intermediary of Marchosias rather than the duke himself. Aznard continues, cautiously, “My master requests, humbly, that you join him in his campaign against the moral mages.”

“The Lord of Shadow is not up to the task of dealing with a school of mortals? How shameful.” I make a tsk-tsk noise as I motion for Sister Myriea to kneel before me and suck my manhood into her mouth.

The former Exarch, chosen of the mortal gods, enthusiastically goes to her duties. She is my high priestess now – extolling the virtues of demon worship as the new religion of the mortal realms.

The broad flat of her tongue runs from the base of my cock to the tip. She sucks the head into her mouth and swirls the wet muscle over my glans. The sensation is almost enough to make me forgive Aznard.

Marchosias’s messenger forces a courtly smile, “Honored Duke, The Land of Mages is not a simple college of magic. It is a nation built atop a vast convergence of lakes and rivers. Its magical defenses are second to none – greater, even, than your defenses in Eldermire. It is a small realm, true, but their Arch-Chancellor’s mastery of counter-magic is total. The water prevents the mass movement of vast armies. The population of mages prevents magical assault. And their technological golems are capable of crushing any small elite strike team.”

I stroke Sister Myriea’s soft hair. The voluptuous nun is such a comfort.

“Doesn’t Marchosias work by deception? Subversion and spywork? I’m sure he’ll find a weakness.”

I’ve already decided that I will help. Between my flying legions and the Bird of Paradise, it shouldn’t be too difficult to bring Valeren to heel.

Aznard smiles. I hate seeing smiles. I realize my mistake even before he starts speaking, “Ah but my master has found a weakness. The golems that reinforce the mage armies are maintained by a single artificer – Ziya Allis. I can guarantee her location in one of the most vulnerable parts of Valeren – furthest from my master’s forces but-”

“Only assailable by air.”

Aznard bows again, “You are as perceptive as my master said you would be. Yes. If your forces swoop in, you can capture Ziya and rob Valeren of their greatest artificer.”

My eyes narrow. It’s a suspiciously small ask. I’d been prepared for weeks of campaigning, not a simple smash and grab. I am somewhat disappointed. The bulk of Arogoroth’s forces are heading west – rumors of a new Chosen Hero rising drawing our forces out to converge on that front. I have no desire to face the mortal realm’s divine defender. Valeren is the center of the eastern front. The only other unclaimed lands are the blasted desert of Ghuranka and the inhospitable wastelands of Shyreen.

“Very well… name the time and place, and I shall remove this artificer.”

I finish in Myriea’s mouth, spurting my seed down her throat. Aznard smirks in triumph.

****

“What do you mean ‘no’? Didn’t you hear me? I said the king is dead! I need you at the front! Now!”

The balefire crackles with demonic energy. In the heart of the flames, a vision of Ashmedai’s face contorts with rage.

I carelessly thumb the ring of power about my finger – Valeren had been a great success, Ziya a fine addition to my growing harem. I had seen Asogoroth’s death, of course: he and the Chosen Hero locked in their deathgrip. Pazuzu and Eligor turning from the front – Pazuzu turning south to the land of the elves, Eligor heading north to the lands of the dwarves. The star magic of Sunhome is perhaps the greatest gift learned in the mortal realms.

Of course, mastering the arts of Valeren had been useful too. The arcanas of space, force, and time added to my already considerable arsenal. And the black arts of my newest conquest.

The entire front is in disarray. Lesser lords flee in every direction, and with Eligor and Pazuzu quitting the field, only Ashmedai continues in the name of conquering the mortal realms. He has no hope of success. The mortals harry them – all three of them – and wreck terrible losses as they are driven from the western lands. Marchosias is safely ensconced in Valeren – already has he defiled the jewel of the realm, the Arch-Chancellor: the very prize our former king wished to claim for himself. But that war was costly for him, for even without Ziya were the mages able to devastate the Lord of Shadow’s paltry forces.

For myself… well I only want what is mine. Ashmedai sent my forces north and south – to Litreya and Utgar. It is only fair that I should share in the spoils of conquest. My lovely Namaaru’s honied tongue was able to ferret out and squirrel away two choice females from these lands, right out from under Ashmedai’s nose: Saiarelle, the eternal princess of the elves; and Reyki, High Artificer of the Dwarves. The king was not yet dead when I stole away these flowers, but my boldness would have been a forgivable sin.

Unlike what I did next.

The plan was never to have peace with the mortals, but to grind them under the boot of hell as our slaves. But the dark elves of Shyreen were never loved by their mortal kin. None of my brothers wished to conquer that barren wasteland – the lack of food made it a poor breeding ground, and the dark elves were content to indulge their own depravity as we raped the mortal world. But still their queen, Dhunyai, was marked by our king as a treasure that he must possess. As the Chosen Hero plunged his blade into Asogoroth the Third, I plunged my weapon into Queen Dhunyai of Shyreen.

The land of the dark elves is now mine and mine alone.

My demon legions show no mercy as the dark elf women are put to use in the bedchamber to breed new warriors for my armies. Dhunyai’s Crown of Domination now graces my head and every night I learn more of the dark arts as I swell my legions with the walking dead.

Alarica is finally broken to my will. A worthy general for my growing army.

Ziya’s magi-tech golems are as formidable as Marchosias intimated them to be. Only now they serve me.

Reyki arms my new legions with weapons of black powder. Death spitting machines that vastly improve their lethality – especially my beloved wyrm riders who now rain fire from the skies.

Saiarelle works wonders on the strange flora of Shyreen, producing an abundance of food whilst preaching the destiny of all elves as the slave-prey of demonkind. The once proud princess who defied the will of the Demon King is gone – she is mine totally.

And my dead Sister Myriea spreads the New Faith of demon worship through-out the land.

Why would I ever give any of this up to venture to the western front?

My poor Ashmedai. Once the greatest of the High Lords. What dreams he had of being king?

I laugh at his image in the fire and annihilate the flames with a blast of anti-life. Namaaru has already sent messengers to the other High Lords – Ashmedai sees us all as deserters to the unholy cause, and though he might come for me first, they too will face his reckoning. Already do I have a truce with Pazuzu and Marchosias, and Eligor is consumed by his war with the dwarf queen Bruna.

Let Ashmedai come. We shall see which of the asmodean High Lords is the strongest, once and for all!
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Malfisto's Conquest