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.

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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.

Raavana II

Posted in Uncategorized on April 23, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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Raavana lost count of the Empire humans she slew. They came in swarms like angry bees, each as inexperienced as the last. She made red work of them all, bodies easily piling up knee-high.

Today she favored sword and tower shield. Each attack was met with the shield’s wall, a head rattling crash. Next, the shield slid aside to emit the serpent’s tongue of her dark elf long sword, and then came the wrenching twist: Her point turning in the pit of her foe’s innards.

Each fell at her feet, agony and death taking each by hand away from this world.

She was positively alive with hatred, could feel that frozen ecstasy coating her bones with strength beyond mortal ken. This was what it meant to be druchii. To smell the blood in the, to see the carnage working its horrors upon the minds of the enemy. This was druchii spirit defined.

And who do these humans think they are? Did they really believe the Ostland forests would hide their numbers from druchii eyes? Did they really believe mere numbers could hold ground for their flawed government? The Empire. It seemed as though humans were as shortsighted as their short, ugly lives. Tzeentch reveals all! 

If she owned a keep, she knew her rage would find its joy in the curing of the skulls of her enemy. Even as she sliced, even as she diced, such a dream warmed her cold heart. There would be blanched walls of skulls, one atop the other, perpetually staring back at her visitors, narrating tongueless confessions, begging each new set of living eyes for a shred of pity.

But Tzeentch would reward her…eventually. 

All she need do is continue Chaos’ red work.

“Dark elf! Druchii whore!” a human voice called her out.  The owner of the voice, capped in a brimmed hat, ran from the forest, his pistol cocked and primed.

“You want a taste of the medicine too?” she laughed, pulling her sword from the guts of the man’s kindred.

The brazen pistolero leveled his weapon, and with a silent prayer to Sigmar, pulled the trigger on the bitch.

Raavana saw the powder flash, heard the shot, felt the crude ball shot whizz angrily by her left ear. A miss. Tzeentch blesses those who serve!

“Sigmar coward!” she cursed, transforming her rage into a whirl of the body, a drawing of her dagger, and finally, a hate-filled throw of that small, wicked blade.

The pistolero felt the blade coming rather than actually glimpsing it. One did not whirl so precisely unless one was throwing a weapon, yet even as that thought graced his brain pan, the pommel of the druchii dagger fractured his right cheek just shy of his eye.  Mind numbing pain sucked his courage away.

Three swordsmen flanked Raavana in answer to her hostility. Her violence would not go unanswered. Chaos would not be allowed to carry away the banner of the day. But like the first dozen of their kindred, Raavana made short work of them. Each met the same gut twisting fate as their brothers-in-arms.

“It does not end here, druchii!” the pistolero shouted as he mounted his steed. “We have your face memorized. We know where you hunt, and we will not rest until we skin you alive. You will beg for a quick death, but it shall not come.”

“I would be disappointed if such a promise be nothing but stale air,” she laughed, wiping human blood from her blade upon the cape of one of her victims. She let the rage shudder through her, but did not act upon it. The exertion of murder was even now crashing down upon her body as the rage dwindled away. It would be foolish to attach the human while he was mounted. Others of his kind would surely come upon them, and before she knew it, she would be overwhelmed. Tzeentch yet weaves my fate, and in Tzeentch’s plan do I thus believe. 

The pistolero kicked his mount, one hand on his fractured cheek. Raavana knew each clatter of his mount would further the pain mile by bone jarring mile that he galloped. He would remember her for many nights to come, moaning by his campfire, praying to Sigmar to give him the power to heal his cheek bone from druchii treachery.  Such was the whim of Tzeentch, and Raavana would not question it. She had pockets to turn out, and blades to bind up for sale.

And if she made quick work of the dead, she would pitch a cold camp by midnight, and catch a few hours of wary sleep before she rose the next day to carry on her murder spree all over again.

 

 

 

Troll Country II

Posted in Uncategorized on April 22, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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Ok, so I’m minding my own business last night, murdering NPC elves in their spic and span courtyards of tighty-whitey grandeur, and what do I see roll forth on Chat ? Baby WahWah!!!!

Yes, Baby WahWah apparently made an appearance last night on Chat, for this individual was adamant that we all share in their rage, all share in their WahWah despair that only a nihilist would find comforting.

Did I mention that WahWah typed all of this in the Advice channel? Yes, the freaking Advice channel, which of late has been a catch-all for jokers and emos of all levels.

“That’s it,” WahWah concluded, “I’m switching to Order. I might as well because I keep getting beat by them!”

It’s none of my business. I’m not a GM. But it is my business, sorta. It is my business to say on this platform that if you–the player–chose Destruction’s archetypes because you found them interesting, perhaps even alluring, then stick it out. Learn how to combat the many, many NPCS (or PCs) that grace this resurrected game. Learn the glorious weaknesses of each character class, for only then can you capitalize on such. And for the love of Khaine, learn how to restrain your inner WahWah, for the Advice channel is not the Existential Melt Down Channel of Greater Woe. No. It’s for advice. Imagine that! If you post in that channel, simply learn how to focus your grief into a question that would benefit you, that would give you more wisdom on how to capitalize on the strengths and weaknesses of your class. Learn how to love both.

In conclusion, I was leveling my druchii Witch Elf (think drow rogue) a bit last night as all this went down, and I will freely admit, it was touch and go. The Witch Elf has some powerful bursts of speed, speed graced with poison, but I cannot sit there (yet) with two or three elven NPCs on me. I have to learn my class’s weaknesses in order to learn its strengths. Yes, I think the NPCs got the best of me last night because….guess what….I’m still learning.

And I took it like a druchii too.
Not once did I embrace my inner WahWah and blurt it out on chat. My eyes are set on the long haul, not the quick fix of the old adrenaline rush.

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Izobella (3)

Posted in Uncategorized on April 22, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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Izobella’s trust in her companions, Raavana and Sveral, had grown strong, for Sveral had sworn fealty on one knee before her, and Raavana had agreed to be further tested by a trial of blood.

“Scout through Ostland, kill as many of the Empire as you can find, and trade their weapons for gold and silver, for our group can not grow without it. Come and and seek me again when twelve gold coins rattle in your belt-purse.”

Raavanna the dark elf nodded proudly, bowed her head slightly, and immediately began sorting her gear for war. She was proud to be asked to set upon a blood mission by her leader, though human the magus be. The mission made sense in a world devoid of belief in the druchii gods. For surely any fool could see the dark elf religion was a ruse, a thing devised to control the young, to shape the adult, to further the druchii cause. There was only Tzeentch. He is what remained, immortal without definition, with a plethora of causes and names.

When Raavana left late that evening, Izobella called Sveral the Chosen–her Chosen–to her fire. She had a whim that would please her grim dark knight.

“I will send you to harry the elven lands,” she said, knowing that such news would bring a darkling smile to the knight’s impassive face. “Bring back their gold, as much as one man such as yourself can carry.”

“You honor me more than the druchii?” he said, cracking a sharp laugh.

“She would have been distracted by her natural hate for the elves,” Izobella said, adding another log to the fire.

“Wise choice, witch,” he chuckled.

“Is it wisdom to know the lore of your followers?”

“In these lands…yes it is.”

Izobella let the moment slide into a series of silent agreements between herself and the Chosen. They sought out shapes in the fire, adjusting the smoldering embers to best benefit a flickering shape, or conceit as befits followers of Chaos. Yes, Izobella mused, she could launch forth into yet another homily about her thoughts on Tzeentch, of the formless void, of the power such a thing presented, but she let such thoughts go. She had already done enough to the minds of her followers, pressing forth more arcane philosophy was the truest road to madness. 

Sometime later when the shadows crept into the fire, the Chosen rose, gathered his things, and mounted his horse. He was a mere silhouette in the night, a dark shadow against  darker shadows. Nodding to Izobella, he kicked his horse in the ribs, clattering off to murder and mayhem in the elven province.

Sleep overtook Izobella as the embers dimmed, warily taking her into her dreams of the past, melting into innuendos of the present. Her flamer demon watched over her exhausted body, eyes glimmering with love and respect for the dark human magus that had summoned her. Such a human was rare; such a human would bring much to the causes of Chaos ere she rattle out her dying breath.

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