Wizardry and Moon Flowers

Posted in Uncategorized on November 26, 2018 by isabellawolgoth


I eventually found a man, a young acolyte, who offered a basic course in spells in the shadows of a great row of moon flowers around back at a tavern called Whistler’s. I had no idea who Whistler was, and finding out the specifics yielded more than one answer, so I gave up and focused on the strange little class.

“You must make decisions early on which type of magic you wish to specialize in,” the bearded fellow ranted on. “I have explored far too many cellars, attics, and yes…dungeons with would-be wizards who couldn’t scare the dust off of a table with their poorly chosen spell paths.” Prybes, our wizard tutor, soured at the memory and consulted his mug of ale for a moment. “In conclusion, for I am much too overwhelmed at the moment, if you need a good gimmick to catch the eye of a guild leader, there’s no sin in studying the ways of ice. Now please excuse me, I just came down with a chill, and there is something I must do. If any of you are still interested, I will meet you back here next week.” Prybes shot me a nervous look as he bundled up his scrolls and notes. I have seen such a look before, the look of a frightened man.

Later, I took the back road out town, meandering along the last of the autumn roses that grew wild in the scrag forest alongside the road. The moon was out, bright as a silver platter, drifting along with a patch of shredded clouds, hidden but still in plain sight.

Taking a left at the bottom of the hill, I considered the town once more, how even now it bustled with life even in the dark. Up and over the iron fence I went, my wiry vampyric strength still sharp after all this time, all this time of traveling. I had changed for sure. Less maniacal, less impulsive. I was centered…just like the moon.

Graveyards are misunderstood places. The one I currently browsed through for likely shelter had once seen a golden age of crypts, and then a century later, an age of sacred symbols hued from stone, marching away from the crypts on the hill, stopping at the somber, weedy graves down by the fence. History at a glance.

I chose a crypt already sacked by gravediggers. Chances were good that nobody would give a damn twice about such a place. If they let it go to seed after robbery, then most likely the family line was deceased.

Settling down in the back behind the modest tomb, I found what was most likely an old chapel now familiar to vermin instead of a paid priest. Such a place enjoyed a subtle atmosphere, something far past sacrosanct. I soaked it up, thinking both of Ilyana and magic at the same time.

I  knew what I had to do.

In order to synchronize my talents with this dimension’s idea of magic, I would have to do a moon to sun vigil. No sleep allowed, and definitely no blood. If I did it right, I would be ready to march into the fray by noon the next day…if it had to be.



Back into the Fray!

Posted in Uncategorized on November 24, 2018 by isabellawolgoth


Portal for One

What can I tell you? Gates open all the time across Britannia, but this one wasn’t blue or red. This one was flat black.

Ilyana was off to the east attending vampire business with Duke Draven, moving up in the ranks of undead society with the nobles, talking about the price of land when that gate dropped thirty feet from me.

I had been tending our herb garden, picking what was ripe, rooting out what was weed.  I stood, dusting off my hands, waiting for someone to step out. But nobody did. I was beginning to think it was for me.

The gate resembled a flat black scar, a scar stretching from the ground to at least two meters up. I could easily go through. I knew gate magic, and I’d rather it be me who found out about the gate’s destination than Ilyana. I had been through it all in one shape or another.

I gathered my black cloak about me, slid on my hood, and took a deep breath as I stepped through.


I felt the gate collapse behind me, ripple past like a wave, and open before me. I reluctantly stepped out into a busy market, men and women of all races bustling that way and this way. A well dressed lad in the middle of the street was offering to buy “coins of Waukeen,” while another, an attractive woman mounted on what appeared to be a giant snail, advised one and all to buy her “charms right away, for they might just save  your life in a dungeon.”

There was no fear that I was lost, for this was like Eberron.  And Ilyana? She was old enough to fend for herself. She would be able to trace me with the use of the vampire court’s Eye of N’yarla, an aged sorceress keen when it comes to seeing what lay behind physicality.

I would have to find a tutor, someone experienced in the methods of attuning. I sensed that my magic would not translate well here in this ether, but that would soon be fixed if I knew a thing or two about myself.  I would pray for a man tutor, so that I may easily take advantage of his mind as he schooled me.









Crypt Envy

Posted in Uncategorized on April 22, 2018 by isabellawolgoth


(The following is the role-played adventure of my character as played on Whispering Pines UO. Though there is no scripted vampire race, it is my fancy to role-play one.)

“You will never remove me from Blood Dungeon,” the balron chuckled, opening his leathery wings.

“I will at least kill you if I cannot have this crypt as my own,” Ilyana swore, swinging her two-hander up and down in front of her, sending out a fell swoosh-swoosh to unnerve her foe.

“No more talk then, blood-drinker. I hope your study of necromancy was as adept as your study of the samurai arts.” And with a bellow, the balron crashed his wings together, shielding his head from the arc of enchanted iron raining in upon him.

Ilyana had chosen to specialize in the White Crane sword art from a master in Tokuno. The art taught her to use the entire area of any fight, not just the narrow lane into the foe’s head, throat, stomach. Instead, she side-stepped now to the balron’s left, brought in her inertia, and send it into a death whirl from above even as she spun toward the foe to let loose the attack.

She heard the bastard grunt. It sounded like shock, af if the demon at not expected the strength of the sword, nor the strength of the vampire who wielded it.

“Izobel curse you,” Ilyana shouted, extending her right hand, imagining an invisible hand gripping her demon foe. Squeezing her hand, she forced the invisible hand to strangle the demon… necromantic curse style.

“Not so fast, bitch,” the demon chuckled, shaking his head, regaining his focus. Forcing his feet together, he too created inertia, sending it out by stepping into his target with his right foot, following through with a double-fisted mallet-style pounding. It was unarmed combat straight from the demon-shadows.

Ilyana countered with her sword, but the wave of bone and muscle that rained in was far too powerful for her to parry. To her horror, she was pounded to her knees, her vision blurred by stars.

“Come, you dumb child,” Izobel appread from the shadows of the dungeon, taking Ilyana’s hand. Looking back at the demon, she pointed at him, sending out a cloud of necromantic poison, which poofed into a noxious cloud upon impact. The demon would have something to do now, giving the pair time to flee Blood Dungeon.

“I didn’t need your help,” Ilyana fumed, her feet not yet steady.

“That’s why you were kneeling, I suppose? Giving the demon a fair chance?”

“This fight isn’t over,” Ilyana cursed.

“It’s over with for today at least,” Izobel said, helping her fledgling upon her horse.

“I will only come back.”

“I know you will. You are my childe. My daughter of Night. But you aren’t ready yet.”

They rode into the shadows of the evening, finding a fair road, a road that wound back toward the dimensional gate to Malas. It would be a quiet ride, a ride that would allow Ilyana to put together why she failed, and how she really did require help from Izobel, her vampire mistress.


Charming the Beast Within

Posted in Uncategorized on March 18, 2018 by isabellawolgoth


(Art by SugarSkully of Imvu)

Locals took notice of the new activity. I trained Ilyana further on necromancy, and how to destroy multiple targets at once with the application of poison. When the sun rose over the dewey-eyed hamlets of the province, the corpses of troll, ogre, orc were discovered. Some called us angels, but ministers called us devils for our work.

Truth was, we were neither.

Of the taking of human life for the purpose of quieting vampire hunger, I taught her who to take and where to take them to. The refined shadows of dungeons like Shame and Deceit were ideal for covering one’s tracks. “Never bite the food,” I told Ilyana, “instead, use your spear. One quick lance to an artery will begin the flow of blood. Catch it in a chalice. Never drink from the body like the vampire of old. You risk infuriating the Beast within, and when that happens, you give yourself away.”

It is true. Awaking the Beast in chosen such as us is begging for multiple sloppy kills and an abuse of one’s prowess. You might begin earnestly enough, but when the change occurs, you might later find yourself slaughtering a whole village of humans, leaving gorgeous bite marks for ministers of light to see and judge.

More than one vampire eradication campaign has begun because of Beast possession.

I pushed Ilyana toward the art of smithing and ore finding. The arts help us forget the bottomless darkness that dwells deep within. I let Ilyana go for a week, bidding only that she spend her nights in the tower studying the fine points of magery and healing. In that week, Ilyana had made her first rudimentary weapons. All were devoted to fencing of course, the art of finesse and puncture. Her first rapier was far too skinny to hold up against the weight of use, and there was not guard at the hilt. Her second and third drafts were far better, and the guard was an interesting design, much like the webbing of some devious spider.

When she grew furious with herself over her smithing limitations, I pushed her to the art of tailoring and the creation of armor pieces made from the hide of the lizardmen of the region. Ilyana wanted dragon skin of course, but I told her if she wanted dragon, she would have to study the art of taming their young.

What will I do when this girl no longer listens to me?

Only the goddess herself can tell.

Ilyana Rising

Posted in Uncategorized on March 10, 2018 by isabellawolgoth

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Izobella had grown quiet after Ilyana’s induction to the power of the blood. Three months had passed. Three months gone, and in those days, Ilyana rose into power, gaining more skill day by day in the dark art of necromancy.

The girl was a lot like herself, full of vinegar, full of pluck. But Ilyana was a tad more rational, and Izobella attributed that to Ilyana’s situation. She was ignorant of the goddess Izobella served. Ilyana had no idea.

But it was best that way, Izobella thought. How many times had see been drawn out into the open to guide some misbegotten cult or sub-cult in the name of Ravnora, whom she once saw in the form of Tzeentch, the deity of mutation.

Even now, watching from the depths of her tower via a crystal, Izobella smiled, recognizing the dagger and shield combinations she had taught Ilyana only days before. This one was a quick learner. Yes, the blood infused in her body from the vampire court over in Wind dungeon gave her speed and strength, but the mind that used them, oh, what a mind indeed.

Already the girl had mastered necromancy; already the girl had mastered dagger, sword, mace, and shield. Bow crafting currently gave her something to think about, but that’s was due to the rarity of the raw materials.

But Ilyana would master that art, and archery as well. The question that really gave Izobella a challenge was: What shall she do with herself?

Author’s Note:
Thanks to the Ultima Online shard known as Whispering Pines. Your playground is magnificent:)


Posted in Uncategorized on February 25, 2018 by isabellawolgoth


(Image: “Face B” from Kateverse.Com)


First came Izobella, the storied traveler of dimensions, lost to time itself. She settled in a dimension once ruled by King British, and later marred by Lord Blackthorn. The resident vampire cult residing in the dungeon of Wind got wind of her, and sent her an invitation she could not refuse.

She was tested and then given the never-ending-job of keeping the undead of Vesper cemetery severely pruned, and the tunnels to the Lost Lands closed. Izobella did not argue with such a easy task, and found time to build her last tower, using ensorcelled undead as labor before erasing them from the physical plane (once again).

It was winter when Izobella, meditating over a crucible of flame on the roof of tower, received an insight from beyond. She saw the girl in the flame: tall, slim, cunning. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought the girl descended from her blood. But she had stubbornly refused procreation, feeling it detracted from her necromantic powers.

“I will turn this one, and she will be my heir,” Izobella swore. The flames cackled, and the winter winds howled.


Learning the habits of the thief wasn’t difficult. Thieves are at their worst when hunger and need drive them, taking great risks was an expectation at that stage. A ship was expected in the harbor of Vesper, just your usual shipment of fine cloaks, leather armor, finely made swords and a box or two of good wine. Izobella had a feeling the girl would make her move that very night, and so laid plans to trap her.

Izobella waited in the hold with the shipment, some of which had already been moved to a storehouse. But the best part of the shipment, swords made of rare ore, yet awaited the hands of the thief, for they would fetch a larger price than anything else aboard.

An hour after midnight, the Devil’s hour, there came a careful footfall topside, which in its course, wound its way to the entrance of the hold. Izobella drew her cloak around her, willing the shadows to drink her before she sprang.

Tall and svelte, Ilyana stole towards the shipment of swords, taking the greater darkness of Izobella for a wine stain upon the wall. Drawing a sword from a box, Ilyana drew in her breath, not prepared for the beauty of the blue ore it was made from.

“By the greater power of Hecatia, I bind thee to servitude,” Izobella ordered, suddenly emerging from the shadows like a wraith, her impossibly powerful hands griping the thief, one on her windpipe, the other encircling a wrist.

Izobella watch Ilyana struggle in the torchlight. The command had come off powerful and clean, sundering the thief from her own will. Pressed against the hull of the ship,  she fought the invisible hands that had mastered her mind. For every struggle, the captor needled her with her own memories of personal failures, disappointments, soul-crushing depression. The current failure was pronounced quite loud in Ilyana’s mind, finely making her slacken in the fight against the foe.

“Kal Ort Por,” Izobella ordered, her voice strident and proud.

Where there were two women struggling against each other on the ship, there was now only the creaking of the hull in port, and the howling of the winter wind making its way through town.

Author’s Note:
What can I tell you? It does me great pain to say that the Warhammer server really isn’t set up for the thrill of exploration and dungeoning. I decided to go back to roots and play and journal as I play Ultima Online over at the Whispering Pines shard. More to come of course, UO is where Izobella was born in my imagination.

Poem: To Her Demise

Posted in Uncategorized on December 7, 2017 by isabellawolgoth


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.