Poem: To Her Demise

Posted in Uncategorized on December 7, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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Today’s little piece sprang out of boredom, and so I asked myself: Why not write a short piece about Izobella’s demise and resurrection? And so here it is.

 

To Her Demise 

Razor peaks beetle above the entrance
To her memorial tomb where I wait
In patient darkness for the sound of her
Breath, for the sound of her feet sliding
Along polished marble flagstone.

Waiting under flickering torchlight,
Bottles of potent virgin’s blood, laced with sighs,
Ripens in the cold of her tomb, which seems now
An eerie extension of her immortal will.

Candlelight dances now on the frescoes
Of her past, colors now muted past care,
But the likeness bears testimony to
Her delicate pale shoulders, bosom, and
Those wonderously appealing lips.

Yet those those lips, those lips of my goddess is
What always brings me back!
Faded rose petals, petals hiding carnivorous
Vampiric fangs, which permit only a shallow kiss.

A drop of blood from those waiting bottles,
And at long last, I hear her tomb’s cap burst asunder;
I hear her wrappings sigh to the floor, and should
I turn, I would see my risen Izobella, body slack as
Death, steal up on me from the shadows themselves,
Long fingernails on my throat, tongue on my flesh,
Fangs piercing through to the blood that flows underneath.

 

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Malikus: (2) Liberation

Posted in Uncategorized on November 24, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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The city watch rattled into the tavern just as Malkius limped out the back door, her jaw slack from Izobella’s unexpected thrashing. She supposed Raavana would pull through, but to be absolutely truthful, she had no idea. It was all she could do to pick herself up off the floor and find the backdoor before the watch found her.

For a time Malikus allowed her lizard mount, a cold one, to slog along the road toward the deep woods unmanaged. It was all she could do to hold her jaw in place with one hand and hold the lizard’s reins with another.

 

It took a month of holing up in Saphery before the healer would let her rise from her cot inside a breezy, druchii war tent. “How you made it here, girl, only the Witch King himself can say.”  Vototh, the region’s best healer, smiled at Malikus. “I suspect it was a large dose of spite that saw you through, that and a peck of vengeance.”

“You see through matters even when you are not invited, white hair,” Malikus said with her usual ounce of spite. “Yet I am thankful my cold one slithered up to you. Malekith only knows what would have happened if I rode directly into a Witch Hunter. ”

“Certain demise, girl,” Vototh nodded. “Some lucky hunter would be wearing your supple skin against the winter wind. Best stay near your kind.”

Malikus sneered, but smiled slightly. “What needs the hands of a sorcerer in these regions,” she said, peering out the tent’s entrance flap.”

“Killing the bastard elves of the cowardly Phoenix King of course, did you imagine it elsewise?”

“No, I did not in fact.”

“What are you waiting for, an invitation to the fight?” Vototh laughed. “I did not put you back together again only to stare are your ample hindquarters all day. Shoo, collect your things and get you gone. There are high elves to be slaughtered.”

“Where is my mount?” Malikus asked, distracted by clash of battle.

“See the porter, for I do not feed those things. Malekith knows I have enough to do already, setting bones, stitching wounds. That’s the last thing I would want to do. I don’t see how you ride around on those filthy vermin—”

“–until I fall again,” Malikus said, leaving the healer to fuss and argue.

For the first time in a great while, Malikus would walk outside the shadow of Izobella’s high-minded ideals and god slaying philosophy. Instead of killing for Izboella, Malikus would kill for the druchii gods. She would now turn her attention to slaying elves. High elves. The kind that drove Malekith to his dark endeavors, the kind that stank of high treason.

Izobella: (5) Sundering

Posted in Uncategorized on November 23, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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Raavana sipped her wine in the shadows of the tavern, favoring the dim silence of negative spaces to balance her battle-addled wits. She was blackguard and had earned countless skulls in battle. Sometimes at twilight the winter wind rang through the skulls, singing dark melodies even as she meditated on wrath. Usually her face was locked in a blanching grimace, but tonight her dark lips lifted to what some might consider a smile.

“I froze the nordlander in his place,” Malikus the dark elf said to Izobella. “The look on his face, now that is something I cherish even to this day. It was a look of blind fear.”

“And then you killed him,” Izobella said, reclining in a chair, sipping wine through a long fluted glass.

“I said he was a nord,” Malikus simmered, “of course I killed him. There he was trying his best to kick off the ice shackles, and he almost got out, but that’s why I hit with with a bit of chill.”

“I saw it,” Raavana chuckled, sitting her glass down. “The man was banging at his feet, banging, trying to break the shackles, but then she summoned an icy boulder right on top of him. The blood spray was deliriously gorgeous.”

“And what of you my dark lady,” Malikus taunted, pouring another glass of red wine. “What chaos have you wormed up in our long break.”

Izobella let the chair’s legs hit the floor. She stood slowly, eyes trained on the wall behind her crew, eyes trained on the wall as if something struggled to wiggle through. She was finding her words, finding words for something unspeakable.

“There is no order,” Izobella said, finishing her wine.

“That’s right,” Raavana said, “because we absolutely destroy it.”

“What mean you by this my good human wizard,” Malikus said, placing a black nail on her lady’s lip as if to quiet her.

Izobella turned her head, dislodging the finger, “there is no order because there is no time, no form, no true substance.”

“I can walk out into the street and kill three guards right now,” Raavana boasted, “what in Khyber do you mean there is no true substance?”

“She means there are no gods but Zeentch,” Malikus said, a sneer developing on her lips.

“That’s not what I mean at all,” Izobella said, cautiously folding back the sleeves of her robes should her dark elf follower prove hostile.

“She’s going to kill us! She’s mad!” Raavana shouted, drawing her sword.

“For the love of Malekith,” Malikus yelled, “she’s been blighted.”

“Dark herald be my whim,” Izobella said, her eyes turning white with rage.

Before Malikus could call the ice; even before Raavana could advance with with razor-edged sword, Izobella’s disc-chariot, it’s tentacles whipping like the angry arms of a krazen, slashed into both women, those who once held Izobella as their sovereign leader.

Back and forth the chariot whipped, whipping in directions and angles many would consider impossible. But in the end, it was Izobella and her disc that survived the unplannable. Order, as she had just witnessed, did not exist, but Chaos had certainly had its day.

Mallikus (1): Heresy

Posted in Uncategorized on May 30, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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(A note on the image above. This is the fabulous talent of Lee “Almighty_gir” Devonald, who in all his might, created this lusciously lovely dark elf and shared it over on Return of Reckoning. You can find his wonderful portfolio at http://crazyferretstudios.com. Thanks for the permission of use. )

Heresy

Mallikus thought about Izobella’s most recent missives. They rustled in her mind, and they stung like wasps. To imagine that all of the Druchii tradition of hero worship and deity worship was due to an alien god holding all the strings was deplorable.

Yet the thought had sting.

The thought had venom.

It made her rage, fueled her wanderings with white hate. How many clueless lifeforms died due to this rage? How many trolls fell, warty flesh flash frozen due to her hatred for the idea…the idea that Tzeentch was the One, the All Consuming, the Deity with a Thousand Faces?

She struck out at anything that had a heart beat for days on end, pushing herself into the darkness of her sorcery, seeking a message from the dark elven gods, a message that would redeem her. But there was nothing. Not a whimper. Not a whisper.

Perhaps Izobella was right.

The infection known as Tzeentch may be the only god.

Exhausted, she spent her nights at Druchii war camps, silently absorbed by the flickering flames of the camp’s cooking fire. She thought about how the Chaos troops—humans–manifested Tzeentch over and over again unto infinity. She thought about the marauders who manifested Tzeentch: Great pinkish blue arms ending in crustacean pincers or horrid black raptor claws. There was Tzeentch manifested. And Izobella with flickering red flame, the tentacle clad disc, and the Chaos demons. There also was Tzeentch manifested.

Not once did Khaine raise his hoary head to empower Mallika’s sorcery.

His voice was silent, lost tot he ages.

If you exist, she begged, send me a sign. Send me a nod. Send me a push away from my heresey, or by Malkeith, I will most likely become yet another herald of this dread Izobella.

There was nothing but the changing of the guard at the pickets. Nothing but the humming whir of insects in the night, and nothing but the laughter of fire devouring fire wood.

Insulted, hateful, dejected, Mallikus lay back on her cloak and resigned herself to the oblivion of sleep.

Izobella (4): Illumination

Posted in Uncategorized on May 29, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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Izobella meandered with the night atop one of the many jagged ledges in the Inevitable City. Eyes closed, she directed her gaze towards the blossom-point, that space between the brows. She could feel the presence of the entity this world called Tzeentch, the many-faced, many-named presence that erupted in many dimensions–even the one that spawned her.

The city of the flesh vanished and was gradually replaced by the mind’s eye take on the structures. This wasn’t flesh-and-blood reality, and it wasn’t imagination. It was the spiritual reverse of reality, a thing mortals avoided least they face the horrible truth: Mortality is a game, a thing of parts, names, actions. The real world could only be seen eyes shut, not eyes open.

Tzeentch was the grasping center of all phenomena, an action, a coming forth, an eternity. Like a map with no center laid back upon a second map with no center, and so forth to the third, Tzeentch was ever present in all times, all realities, all beings. There was no escape, and thus in essence, she herself was an echo of the great being.

Balance was illusory.

It was an experience built of hegemonies and structures super-imposed upon on angles, circles, squares, things in the flesh that had essence forced upon them by a cosmic song, an unending song that never started and never ended.

The melody gave structure to the map, a vibration, much like how ripples on a pond form for the cause of a stone thrown by an village idiot in order to disturb the chaos of silence. The only difference: Tzeentch’s song never ended and its chords never stopped, its waves non-ending.

In such a manner, the thing that called itself Izobella did not truly exist. Izobella was a minor echo of the song, a small back-eddy, an ox-bow lake mocking the tune of the ever-present Tzeentch, an automaton that thought it was.

“My lady,” her chosen whispered hoarsely from a respectful distance on the ledge.

Regretfully, Izobella opened her eyes, bracing herself for the rush of sensory experience. “Yes?”

Malick the Chosen looked away to clear his vision. What he thought he saw was a cloud of vaporous purple, a shimmering halo of transparent tentacles emanating from his mistress. Perhaps it is she who is the true chosen? 

“Your heralds are entering the city. Their missions have ended. What word would you send to your believers?”

Malick watched with disbelief as the transparent cloud winked out of existence, slinking back into the hidden reality it slithered from. His priestess smiled at him, eyes penetrating him to the bone. “Tell them to meet me at the pyramid. We have much to discuss ere we sleep this night.”

“At once, my lady.” Malick grunted, fist to heart in a salute.

Izobella watched the hulking presence stalk away with purpose.  Malick was so simple. Give him the caress of the strict word and he was yours for life.

There were deeds to do, and plans to construct, Izobella mused as she mounted her disc, bonking it awake with the thud of her staff. And she had not the faintest what those plans would be.

Chaos occurs even as Order forestalls.

Troll Country III

Posted in Uncategorized on April 30, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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I just dinged 30 in a game that offers 40 glorious levels. Yes, I’m sure there’s more than all of that, but I feel especially happy so far because I soloed 99% of this experience on my magus. And yes, there were the ninnies along the way who always tell people on chat, “Ummm, it’s a game about grouping,” and yep, I’m sure they have a particular point of view–just like Ben Kenobi.

And I’m sure it’s all that and a box of chocolates, but since most people online are basic boobs, I refuse to group in order to reach level 40 because I’m in no great rush. Yes, I’m sure there’s an “end-game” to see and drool over, but here’s the thing about me: I’ve never seen WoW’s end-game, and I’ve never seen DDO’s end-game. Nope. I’ve never seen the all important jizz splatter end-games for Guild Wars 1 or 2.

I don’t care about end-games.

I think end-games are far too common.

I’ve seen end-games of classics like Ultima 7 and Baldur’s Gate.

So what else is new?

The end-game has become the morphine addiction of too many Mountain Dew and Hot Pocket style nights for far too many people. You want to feel an end-game? Go read The Iliad from cover to cover. Now that’s an end-game. If that’s not enough, go read all three volumes of Dante’s Divine Comedy. End-game city.

So what do I do with my time?

I like diving into the the skin of a character and exploring the surroundings that are too often ignored by far too many players. The little grottos carefully rendered to give people a charge, that’s what I love. I often stop and ask myself if the creator’s really thought people would use those tucked-away areas for RP because I’ve never caught anyone but myself RPing those forgotten areas.

I’m far too involved in living through the geographic works of arts, noticing how the mountains suddenly give way to ice caps. I’m too far removed to care about bork fests with masturbatorial players raging about how their healers or tanks “ruined” a match, or a really difficult boss fight. I’m far too much of a transcendentalist to care about “getting to 40” in a week just so I can partake of some group ritual involving characters I do not know because they are just costumes people put on with no effort to develop a history, a name, a reputation.  They log onto their characters the same way most people throw themselves into their cars…with far too much ease and far too much ignorance of the engines they are revving.

 

Interlude: Druchii Red Work

Posted in Uncategorized on April 23, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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To know the kiss of the blade is to understand

Its ease as it pierces into the soft tissues of

The enemy, the foe, the slave of Sigmar.

 

And to know the bliss of battle is to delight in

The woe filled shouts of the enemy even as

They squirm, dance, beg on the end of your blade.

 

To understand the weakness of the Empire is to know

How to twist your blade in the pit of their innards,

To hear their threats against your druchii

Soul hiss into nothingness

Even as they slump eternally backwards.

 

Quite cold.

Quite dead.