The Titles of Angra Ba'ahram Ch. 01

Disclaimer: All characters are 18 or older

Content warnings: Hyper-scale cocks, size difference, cumflation, magic, rough sex, mind reading, girl-on-girl, Incest (kinda?), angels, demons, and possibly excessive exposition.

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Chapter 1: Angra Ba'ahram

For a human to truly understand the true nature of the multiverse, they must set aside their ignorant self-importance and open their minds to possibilities beyond the scope of their understanding. They must perceive the three dimensions that mortal minds can, and accept the existence of a fourth they cannot. They must open themselves to the aether, the raw magic flowing along the fourth dimension, for once a mind tastes the aether, it can perceive the magic all around them. They must look upon the ever-expanding infinite vastness of their own universe, and humble themselves with the truth that their realm is but a single plane amid infinite others. They must accept that even as their world is but a single grain of sand in the vast desert of their universe, that universe is, itself, but a single pages in a vast tome of realities, a single facet upon a shape beyond mortal comprehension.

In ancient times, when the realm of humans was rich with aether, some of the wisest and most powerful individuals could do so, and could harness the power of the aether to work great feats of magic, looking or even walking beyond their own sliver of reality to see the multiverse for what it was. But even in those times, the human ego often interfered, many assuming the worlds they saw were no more than distant places upon their own tiny blue marble, or realms of reward or punishment for human souls that abided or violated their own concepts of morality. They gave these places many names, such as Agelermiut, Tir Na Nog, Jotunheim, Mount Olympus, Heaven, Tlalocan, Aaru, Cockaigne. Nearly fifteen hundred years ago, the last of these ancient mages walked from the mortal plane, and as he left, he worked an immensely powerful spell.

His power twisted the multiverse around his home realm, to seal it off from those powers that might threaten it, but inadvertently cut the realm off from the flow of aether, as well. When the spell was complete, one could freely leave, but others could only enter it when summoned. In the centuries hence, the human realm's aether has grown scarce and stagnant, and as both the secrets of gathering what little remained and the tales of those who walked the realms beyond passed from living memory, they became legends and myths, distorted and twisted throughout the ages with each retelling. In the modern era, humanity is confident in its woeful ignorance, secure in the belief that their universe is alone. Indeed, belief in other worlds, visitors from beyond, or worst of all, magic, is regarded as a delusion at best, or at worst, insanity, and those who could open frontiers beyond imagining are locked away.

Among the infinite realms is one particular plane. Myths and tales of this realm pervade almost every human culture, often twisted and warped, but made no less dark for the change. The true name of this realm, and the self-name for those that inhabit it, is all but unpronounceable to the human tongues. Humans gave it many names, but all called it a horrible realm, a place of suffering and punishment where only evil could be found, where violence and cruelty are as much a part of life as breathing. One particularly notable traveler gave the realm and its inhabitants names, names that, translated and retranslated over thousand of years, became 'The Abyss' and 'Demons', and thus they are known to humans.

Demons were once a simple race, much like humans, and may have come to resemble humans were it not for a unique biological trait. When humankind was still developing an understanding of fire, they developed the ability to absorb aether as it passed through them and metabolize it into anima, a form of energy their bodies could use to repair and maintain their cells. Suddenly, a demon could heal their wounds, repair cells damaged by disease, sustain them without food, water, or even air, and even keep their cells from aging. Demons swiftly became nearly immortal, able to survive and grow in even the harshest conditions. The only way to truly kill a demon is to starve it of aether or slay it in a sudden, usually violent way. Demons swiftly found they could also convert anima into magical effects, and even use it to shape their own physical development over long periods of time. The only problem was running out. Aether could only be absorbed at a fixed rate. Anima was slow to build up on its own, and the more it was used, the faster one's stores depleted. But then one demon, a warrior known as Verethragna, discovered a terrible truth that forever changed the face of demon society. If a demon was slain in a sudden, violent fashion, before they could use up their anima, it remained in the body for a brief time before it dissipated into the aether once again. With the right technique, the anima could be absorbed, and added to one's own stores.

Verethragna used this technique, to great effect, slaying and consuming the anima of hundreds of other demons. With each new feast, he transformed, becoming faster, stronger, more dangerous. Soon, he declared himself the lord of demons, claiming a position of leadership by virtue of his unquestionable might. But soon he was not alone. With immortality in hand, conflicts were a fact of life among demons, but with the promise of such power to be gained, simmering disagreements erupted into violence, murder, and open warfare. With each death, some demon grew stronger, and soon Verethragna was joined by dozens of others, each claiming themselves lords or queens or emperors, demons of all different descriptions. Some were cunning and ruthless generals, others, swift and silent stalkers, and still others, massive and brutish hulks. Inevitably, these demon lords clashed, in massive wars and brutal single combat

Then Verethragna slew another demon lord, and upon consuming his rival's anima, declared himself the unquestionable ruler of all demons, lord and commoner alike. Some demon lords challenged him, and swiftly fell, adding to his strength. He gave the remaining demon lords a choice. Serve, or be consumed. They chose to serve, with some convincing, and Verethragna became an emperor, giving himself the title of Angra Verethragna. He became the first Angra, and with his vast stores of anima and incredible power, he was untouchable. Angra Verethragna looked across his world and saw the bristling of the factions under his command and knew he could not contain the senseless violence for long. And so he tapped into his vast well of anima and reached out across the void, searching. When he found it, he seized the fabric of the universe and folded it until it touched, then bound it together, creating a portal from his world to another habitable realm. Then he did it again, and again, opening 666 portals in total, each leading from the demon's homeworld to an inhabitable planet somewhere else in the Abyss. To each demon lord, he gave a world to control, and the rest, he left unclaimed, leaving them open to colonists and expanding population. Demons were at peace for the first time since immortality first arose as the demon lords turned their attentions from each other to focus on their new lands.

Then, an ambitious demon lord raised an army on his world and launched a surprise invasion of the homeworld. With surprise on his side, the demon lord slew Angra Verethragna, consuming what little anima he had left, and declared himself the new Angra, taking Verethragna's throne as his own. In time, he was slain by the blade of a lover, who in turn took his power and became the Angra. In time, she was slain by a rival, then he, a general, then she, a brute, and so on throughout millennia. All the while, demon lords claimed the unclaimed worlds, then each other's. As wars claimed the lives of demon lords, new lords arose to replace them, often eager to prove they deserved their newfound power. War fed war, and violence became the only way to survive amid the chaos. In time, this madness became the norm, and the circle closed, becoming self sustaining. Some sought reform, but the abyss was too vast and too diverse to control entirely. Eventually, each reform was washed away in a tide of blood, and chaos reasserted itself. Even the Angra, the most powerful of the demons, was only nominally in control of the abyss, and only so long as they could prove their strength. Should their strength falter, they would be set upon and devoured, a wounded alpha among starving wolves.

Throughout these endless wars, the demon's homeworld has been scoured clean of all non-demonic life, crushed beneath the endless marching of armies or burned away with the terrifying power of demonic weapons. What was left was merely a wasteland, scarred deeply by battle. Where once there were oceans, now lay bone-white salt wastelands, thousands of miles across. Banks of sentient crimson clouds drift high overhead, lashing out with electric lances at those who come too close. The decaying husks of monstrous, ancient war machines rust and fall apart, like the iron corpses of great war beasts. Mountains of bone, sun-bleached to brilliant white, lay heaped carelessly, where one army pushed aside the remnants of the last to make room for their own clash. A mile-wide crater, the earth within baked to glass by the sheer mystical power brought to bear, still glowing faintly in the dark of night. A towering monolith of magic ice, never melting, shedding a faint mist in the afternoon sun as the light pierced the crystalline monolith, outlining a hulking, demonic titan, frozen forever within.

Undead warriors, malfunctioning constructs, living spells, and feral demonic war-beasts roam, the last surviving remnants of ancient battles picking through the wastes. This world, once the cradle of an empire, is ruined and abandoned by all but the most brave or desperate. The only civilization to be found is contained within scattered cities, built around the portals and protected by mighty defensive magics against the harsh conditions outside their walls. The only sentients that travel across throne are traders and refugees, racing across the wastelands between portal-cities, praying their luck allows them to avoid the worst disasters lurking in the wastelands. This world is known as Throne, for it is the world where the Angra sits upon the throne of his mad empire.

For the last three hundred years, the Angra's throne has sat above the iron mesa. A rough, rust-red slab of iron ore, perhaps a mile across, thrusts itself from a desert of red sand, the surface jagged and pitted from the cruelties of the weather. Banks of crimson clouds circle in a perpetual storm cell, a eye in the center of their formation as they flash menacingly, hungrily waiting for a foolish soul to try and fly over the mesa. The surface is patrolled by milling hordes of demonkin known as spawn, monstrous creatures, like huge, four-armed gorillas with fanged, wolfish heads bearing ram-like silver horns, bristling with overlapping razor-sharp scales of obsidian armor and silver claws on each finger and toe. These beastly, barely sentient demonkin are known as spawn because they are the loyal children of the Angra, willing to fight to the death to defend their parent. The hordes mill about aimlessly, loping about on all six limbs and butting horns with one-another, always eager to descending in a tide of mindless, brutal strength upon any who intrude. The more intelligent among them are chosen from the hordes and trained to serve as the Angra's honor guard. In the center of the mesa thrusts a perfectly straight pillar, a half a mile tall, the sides smoothly polished, positioned directly below the eye of the crimson storm. And at the very top of this pillar is the Angra's residence on Throne, the Darksteel Citadel.

The Darksteel Citadel is named for what it's made of, darksteel. A pure, black metal, darksteel is forged in secret by Svartalfar using some form of inscrutable mystic ritual. Once the molten metal is cast and allowed to harden, it is indestructible, and will never chip, dent, bend, break, melt, corrode, or bind to any other material, and is nearly frictionless. Slabs of darksteel have been thrown into stars and retrieved without harm. The building of this citadel is perhaps one of the most expensive projects in the multiverse. Each wall is made of layers of overlapping inch-thick plates of darksteel, staggered so there are no gaps to be found, anywhere. The outer wall is six slabs thick, the inner wall, twelve. Both walls bear no less than two dozen falcon-headed archers patrolling them, and the ground floor of the fortress is patrolled by the Angra's honor guard of specially trained spawn. A staff of mystics resides within the inner sanctum, constantly refreshing magical protections and shielding the inner sanctum from attack and espionage.

The inner sanctum, the throne room of the Angra, was cast as a single solid piece of darksteel, the only gap being the door, which is covered by twelve inches of overlapping darksteel slabs, easily weighing several tons, fashioned into a massive square door that can be dropped like a guillotine into a locking groove. The inner sanctum, properly locked down, is the most secure place in the multiverse, and it shows its purpose, with a utilitarian, spartan design. A shallow channel in the floor, flanked by looming, perfectly round pillars, guides a guest from the door to a raised dias near the back of the room, where the throne, a squared-off, blocky design, also cast as part of the room, looms. The entire fortress was designed, from top to bottom by Angra Ba'ator, He Who Does Not Kneel, He Who Stands Against the Avalanche, General of the Endless Legions, the Unbreakable Bulwark, the Unyielding One.

It is only fitting, then, that almost as soon as the body was cool, the new Angra began to redecorate. Now, veins of silver crawled over the surfaces of the pillars, like vines that clung to the supports in winding, meandering paths. From each pillar, a handful of the crawling tendrils reached out from the pillar's surface, over the path to the throne, forming a loose basket silver vines that held a sphere of soft white light, illuminating the room. On the wall behind the throne, similar silver tendrils rose up the walls in two columns, one on either side of the room, only to reach out and twine together into a spiraling bar that reached all that way from one column to the other. Together, they supported a massive sheet of black silk embroidered with fine silver thread. The shimmering, flowing fabric almost seemed to give life to the scene it depicted as it gently swayed behind the throne, silver detailing suggesting the contours of a luscious female form in the throes of ecstasy, a single silver eye looking down on her from above. The silver tendrils also gripped the throne, as though they'd grown over it and across the seat itself, contouring it into something less square and more contoured, cradling the massive figure dominating the seat comfortably. A pair of tendrils formed themselves into loops, one loop on the forward face of each arm of his throne, the ends of a pair of black leather bands tied through the loops, then dropping down to pool on the floor, before rising again, each fastened to a collar looped securely around an angelic throat.

Two angels, identical in every way, flawless beauties, kneeled obediently to either side of the massive black-and-silver throne. Their pale, tender skin, silky platinum blonde hair, and blindingly white feathered wings softly glowing against the darkness of the room around them. They almost looked like statues, so still, so pure, so incredibly breathtaking, and so exactly a match of each other, but the gentle rise and fall of their spectacular chests with each breath revealed their life. Their figure was spectacular. Two identical pairs of gravity defying breasts, as big as ripe melons and soft as clouds, capped with rosy pink peaks, standing proudly from the mounds. Two finely tapered waists, so thin they seemed impossible, with just the barest hint of muscle tone beneath their smooth stomachs. Two generous pairs of hips that looked all the wider for their narrow waists, each supporting a perfectly-formed bubble butt. Two pairs of long, flawless legs, smooth and supple, a gap between their thighs where their tender, hairless slits resided, the outer lips plump and sealed tight together, revealing none of their inner pinkness. On a closer look, the identical features carried through to their faces, as well. Both had the same delicate, porcelain features, with heart-shaped faces, shimmering sapphire eyes, and naturally plump pink lips. The only difference between the two was their hair, one's hair gathered into a single braid, the other's, into a pair of smaller braids. The two of them looked absolutely perfect and pure, even as they knelt, obediently, black leather collars around their slender throats, hands clasped behind their backs to thrust their breasts to greater prominence, sapphire eyes stealthily stealing glances toward the massive figure looming on the throne between them.

The Angra lounged impatiently upon his throne, entirely and shamelessly nude, humanoid in form but unmistakably inhuman at the same time. The demonic figure almost seemed like some monolithic statue of polished obsidian brought to life, a nine foot tall fiendish icon with no less than four broad shoulders, every inch of the four-armed idol lovingly sculpted with layer upon layer of gleaming, corded muscles. Silver talons tipped each human-like toe, the longest arching into a scythe-like ripping hook, the point tapping impatiently upon the darksteel dias. Rippling eight-pack abs and four slab-like pecs shimmered in the light of the throne room. Each of his four powerful arms were thick and muscular, each bicep able to flex into a knot of muscle the size of a human head, and each hand able to crush one in its grasp. Each finger concealed a retractable silver claw, as long as a man's finger, so wickedly sharp they could rend steel to ribbons.

Where his body was intimidating, his face was alluring. Obsidian flesh was carved into handsome, rugged features, with a strong jaw and stunning eyes. Those eyes looked almost human, but for the metallic silver irises that almost seemed to ripple hypnotically while they held one's gaze. His eyes only seemed more intense in contrast to his jet-black skin, the kind of eyes that didn't look at you, but through you, into you. When he smiled, if one could look past the perfect, ivory teeth, they might notice a few extra incisors. His tongue could slither from his mouth for more than a foot, thick, muscular, and prehensile, much to the shock and delight of many. In the middle of his forehead, there sat a third eyelid, closed over a bulge that could only be a third eye. His hair, like fine silver silk, was swept back from his face, cascading down his back to the middle of his shoulders, a pair of errant locks rolling forward over his shoulders. From his forehead thrust a set of smooth silver horns, the main trunks twisting upward and toward each other, until they nearly touched just above the crown of his head. Suddenly, they reversed directions, each arcing out and back in a pair of opposite half-circles parallel with the ground, until the points almost touched in the back. All along this broken halo of silver, points emerged, thrusting straight skyward, the longest in the front, adding almost a full foot to his height, all told. A natural crown of silver horns, hovering just above his head, a crown befitting the throne of the Angra.

But the feature that truly defined the Angra did not hover above his head, but rather, it hung between his thighs. Not one, but two eye-popping cocks thrust from the demon's groin, twin onyx pythons, one emerging just above its brother, the two coiled together casually. Each monstrous member was nearly two feet long and thick as a man's arm, even soft as they were, its length traced with a dense spider web of veins, standing by to feed the titanic shafts with the demonic ichor needed to rise to their full potential. Beneath the slumbering serpents, a quartet of boulders hung in a smooth, shining sack, each the size of a ripe melon. Monstrous balls lay churning and sloshing as they tirelessly manufactured untold gallons of demonic seed, endless rivers of potent cum that surged eagerly with its desire for release, hungry to fulfill its destiny and breed untold armies for the Angra.