Down on the Docks

Posted in Uncategorized on March 20, 2020 by isabellawolgoth



I let my boyfriend, bald Karl, hook me up with some of his bloodsucker losers, and after we sorted our weapons out, we cruised on down to the docks of Neverwinter. Painted by darkness herself, and the moon as well, it was a ghastly place. Good thing I had bloodsuckers at my back. We had Myx Dyrius on double daggers, the snarl on her face never left her. Center was our mage, Fels Zyrion, a specialist in ice, a mage who dreaded fire. Imagine that. Taking up the extreme left was Aelion Leithus, a fallen high elf whose mane, as it was told by Karl, turned from blonde to white upon her change of blood…in his arms of course. Steely eyed and mirthless, her only joy was drawing the bullseye on unlucky souls, preferably ones still warm. Undead ones were ok to, but warm ones, well now, that’s when her eyes glowed red.

“Fels and Myx,” I ordered, “take the north docks. Aelion and I will cast our nets wide down south, see what we catch. No mercy. No biting. I want a clean slaughter.”

“Karl said to stick with you,” Myx attempted the old “yes but no” tactic. Not hot on that tactic. No, I was about the mission. Just do it. Just get it done.

“I don’t care,” I said, pretending to reign in an attack on his backside. “I am your blackguard. I have the power of command, not you. It behoove you to remember that!”

Myx snorted and turned with Fels, walking south with a bit of sauce in their combined steps. I’d probably have to hurt one of them before the night was over. Seriously.

Excitement came with the city guard almost immediately.

“Oy, yous gotta check in with us,” their sergeant said, “or we take what you got, along with your armor. Naked is how we like our women.”

“Aelion,” I muttered, pointing at the offender.

Two arrows, one blossoming from his throat, one from his heart, appeared so suddenly that his conscripts shrank back. “I am a blackguard,” I hissed. “Poison is my blade, evil is my heart. What dealing have you with me?”

I slashed one across the shoulder to the bone, watched as his blood ran like a streamlet down his body. Aelion gasped, stepped to him like black lightning, licking his wound with her unholy tongue. I knew better to get in the way. I am wily and subtle. Bloocksuckers are all emotions. Animalistic. That’s nature for you.

I let the others go. They were guardsmen after all, guardsmen unused to work after hours, dealing with creatures like us. What they fear, the thieves will fear.

We roamed the south docks, listening to occasional screams up north. We assumed that was just Fels and Myx spreading terror. We got lucky by the Antithesis, saw some bloody lurkers with knives, and so we took them down. Aelion had second-dinner on one as I watched, thinking of other bloodsuckers I knew in my long life. When we bumped into Myx and Fels again, they were lining up the heads they took, sticking candles into their mouths to add a surreal touch.

“Karl will be pleased,” Fels said, patting me on the back like he was a child. I felt distant. Removed. We killed bad guys, but why get emotional about it? There are only more where that came from in the end. Hell. From Aelion to Myx, we were murder central right here. Did a clap on the back really fix anything? But I kept my mouth shut. This was a weird Neverwinter, one perhaps different from the last I had lived in. But I knew somewhere in the town there would be a man to ride and a mug of ale to down. Onwards and upwards.


Posted in Uncategorized on March 16, 2020 by isabellawolgoth


I danced with  Von Azchenberg, or “Karl” as he desired me call him. I danced even as those clawed hands began creeping to my waist and the great chainmailed curves of my vampyric body. “What are you doing,” I whisper and laugh as his fangs slowly crease my flesh with desire.

“I’m adding you to my stall of beauties. You will be my goddess.”

“No, no,” I advise, grabbing his knotted wrists, pulling them away from my buttocks. “I am already made. No amount of lust will tilt me from my line of descent.”

“You don’t know how beautiful you are,” Karl said, his voice soft, but ragged. “I apologize for my interest. We need you. Our last captain, black as our magics made him, crumbled under the weight of the agony.”

“So you tried to graduate a mortal to a fully vetted Black Captain?” I laughed.

“We were in dire need, which brings us back to you.”

“So you want someone to batter and kill your enemies so you can do your dastardly missions.”

“See, you know already, why not dance with me?” Karl tries to drag me in, but I gather my powers and stand still. He tries to move me by swaying, but it is for naught.

“It’s real,” I say, “you cannot turn me from my past. The blood of magicians flows in me.”

“And so it is,” he said glumly, letting go of my wrists. “Will you at least help us in our latest disaster?”

I look at his disfigured face, loving the straight teeth, the broad forehead, the long eyebrows. Once upon a time he was most likely an awkward son of a baron, and there was war, and he saw its steaming innards. “Yes,” I said, more out of compassion than compulsion. Tell me the mission you wish me to run.”

“There are these blasted thieves,” he began, “and they are ruining everything down at the docks. Mayhap you can sever a few heads?”

“With pleasure,” I said, smiling my usual red-lipped grin.


Posted in Uncategorized on March 1, 2020 by isabellawolgoth


What can I tell you?

I was stealth’en through Felucca’s dragon cave, and things began to get a bit antsy. A couple elder dragons got a whiff of my vampyre bloodline, and started tracking me. I knew then that it was time to hie thee hither to the old teleport stone.

“Vampire, did you come to prey upon our younglings?” a dragon asked before it began sucking up the air in the dungeon to spit back at me.

“I was just leaving,” I said, quite honestly. The teleport stone was less than a meter from me, but that wasn’t good enough for the dragons. Nope. A chaotic purple beam shot down at the stone just as I touched it, bewitching it.

I could feel the void open under my feet, and I dropped from Felucca’s bloodstained soil into nothing.

I woke in some inn, nestled into a lackluster bed. The window behind me showed me two moons. Was this Neverwinter again? Did I just get kicked the hell out of a world due to my race? I don’t even suck blood. I drain the souls from the wickedness I kill. Why do they listen to those bloodsucking stories around the fire? Can someone tell me?

“Good,” a wizard-looking man said, rising from a chair by the fireplace, his crooked back supported by a black staff, a black staff sporting a black skull. “I can summon help from the kitchen if you are hungry, my lady.”

“Where in the seven hells are my clothes?”

“Torn to shreds by the nether winds that brought you hear. I took the initiative to loot the guild I belong to. The loot is draped on the arms of the reading chair,” he nodded with his owlish brows to a location behind me.

“Turn your head,” I ordered, parting from the covers long enough to fit into a pair of chain mail leggings and a well-cut leathern top. Did I fail to mention they were black as hell too?

“I promise I’ve seen worse,” the wizard chuckled as he turned to face the fire. “My name is Grallzin. I am the leader of the Black Skulls, the guild I mentioned.”

“Really? A wizard in charge of fighters and clerics?”

“Ah, you laugh. Fighters have always loved treasure, and clerics only desire a little shelter from the storm in order to serve their god. But a leader is a different thing entirely.”

I knew not to mentioned my inter-dimensional travels. It would only complicate matters. What he hopes me to be is his “leader.” Vampyre like me radiate confidence and charisma–even when we are unconscious. Part of nature’s dastardly little plan. Who would destroy this shivering maid who waited on death’s door? Blah, blah, blah and so the advantage goes.

“Got anything to drink in this hovel?” I ask, strolling confidently to the fire place, a smile plastered on my face. “Seems as though would-be leaders need two things in this guild: strong drink and a pair of decent boots.”

“Ahh, yesss, boots. I can fix both if given a few moments. Perhaps I should bring in Karl to keep you company while I am gone? He knows much of what we need to make the guild stand up and be noticed.”

“I’m sure it can’t hurt.” In order to prove I was nonplussed, I rearranged the logs in the fire. I hope that spoke volumes. Can’t be bothered to turn. Bring in the expert. Let’s have a chat, and on, and on, and on.

“Karl, the young lady will speak to you while I am gone. Please. Make her feel….at home.”

“I…am Karl Von Azchenberg,” a new voice said, “and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

I turned to the nightmare, and shrugged.

Ilyana’s Warhammer Trove: 2

Posted in Uncategorized on December 26, 2019 by isabellawolgoth


One moment Izobella was staring at her memories as they danced above the dust of the Chaos Wastes, shimmering with the perpetual winds, and the next she was following a crowd, her disc skipping quickly after. It was easy to understand the Chaos teachings in crowds. Every bristling weapon, every hand was an extension of the will of Tzeentch. Yes, she raged on in her head, the encroaching tentacles of the Raven god implicitly symbolized that every being in this crowd, and every being who yet drew breath, lived in Tzeentch. The average being, at every moment, was nothing but an instrument of the Raven god himself: Some knew the truth, and others were ignorant of it. Izobella smiled at her conceit, her eyes wild with understanding. Sweet was it to dance in the secrets of the Great Conspirator.

“Move,” a dark elf said, shoving Izobella aside. “Arms before chaos magic.”

“Of course,” Izobella smiled, her eyes yet glazed with understanding. All were the tips of Tzeentch’s will, mere puppets. The crowd had stopped abruptly before a keep’s door. Afore the door chanted the mixed forces of Destruction: orc, druchii, Northmen, and goblin. They chanted as one. Their weapons bristled as one. Here was the ultimate truth, truth beyond the sanity of the average being: Tzeentch’s conspiracy never ended.

“Come,” the druchii summoned, “stand here and let loose your red fire. Aim at the snipers on the wall.”

Nodding, Izobella lifted her hands, joyful as the energy of the disc met her own just below her navel, happy as the fire blasted at the snipers. “Move now,” the druchii grabed her by her belt and pulled her and disc out of harm’s way. “They have a fix on you. Always move out of their range.”

The rough hewn camaraderie between the two grew as they toured the battle of the keep. Stopping on hillocks to cast fire, dwelling to draw in the “enemy” long enough for the druchii’s swords to cut, and Izobella’s disc to flail its tentacle, toppling the unwary.

All in all, it was less than a saga for a hero from the North.

Sometime later, around a fire with others, someone procured meats from the keep, and the smell of cooking flesh brought uniformity to Izobella’s drifting mind.

“How did you make it this far in this life without a nanny to direct you,” asked the Druchii with a laugh. The laugh, demeaning, was not meant for the easement of its target.

“The dark gods and the Raven has always directed me.”

“Judging by the scars, it seems misdirection is the topic.”

“You cannot ascend without burning your toes in the fire once in a while. It’s to the stalwart the dark gods give their blessings.”

“Judging by that scar on your face, I’d say that be a blessing to tell about.” Again with the demeaning humor.

Izobella smiled, accepted her portion from a prisoner, and chewed in grim silence of the fire.

Down in Doom Again

Posted in Uncategorized on December 26, 2019 by isabellawolgoth


Iyana’s Tomb of Doom featuring the Mystical Unicorn 2nd Coming UO shard…

Running Doom with Bel the demon brought back crisp memories to Isabella. Whenever her boots touched the rich, dark earth of Doom, she was hurled back to her prowling days on the parallel-world of Krilldonia. An exact replica of Despise, with every room, and every niche became her hunting grounds after she left the moldering library.

Clearly she remembered befriending a mortal with one thing on her mind: his blood. She pretended to be weak, hiding behind a shield as ratmen, their eyes radiating hatred, pounded on her shield. Truth was, she could slice them in two and leave their stumps bleeding, but the mortal did not know that. He vivified his torch, drew his sword, and attacked.

He took longer to kill the vermin of course than she would have, but despite those facts, Isabella played the maiden, trembling, dropping her shield as if it were the plague manifested. “You shouldn’t be here,” the young man said. “This is definitely no place for you.”

“Help me to the exit,” she asked weakly.

“And all the way home too,” he swore, taking her hand, internally noting how cold she was. He raked that up to fear of course, that and mortal peril. “Names Patrick,” he said proudly, “of the Hidden Eye clan.”

“Isabel,” she said, giving only half her name, “of the Britain–seamstress guild.”

“What, pray tell, do you here in Despise’s warrens?”

“The monsters here–it is said–carry rare surplus: threads, yarns, maps.”

“Indeed,” he said, keeping his eyes on the path.

“And other rarer delightsssssss,” her voice dwindled to a hiss. Her hand turned to iron even as she pulled Patrick backwards from his flame. Opening her mouth, lips furled, she displayed her canines, her heated gaze, her dire need of him.

Patrick was no fool, for the Hidden Eye had taught him of the undead, most especially the vampyre. They were thick as thieves in northern Krilldonia, rumored to hold court in Wind. Batting backwards with his sword hilt, he connected with the monster, sending her sprawling back, curses flying back in response.


“You still with me,” Bel said, snapping her out of her daze.

“Memories,” she said, “memories of my younger days.”

“Intoxicating for sure. I know mine are. By the way, aren’t you looking for these?” Bel opened a satchel, showing off a lump of red bones.

“That’s the stuff,” she smiled. “With these, we will gain entry into the secret rooms of Doom, where there await more powerful artifacts to steal.”

“Will there be guards,” he muttered.

“Moldering skeletons maybe.”

“Then how is that theft? You win, you take. Where’s theft?”

“They may be enchanted, held in place. I have to study how to defeat the magic.”

“But that’s not stealing, it’s artifacting.”

“No such thing,” she grinned, “you’re just making all this up.

“I am a student of Lies, so what do you expect.”

“Well noted. Now, go ye, get more bones, and I shall do the same.”

“You got it. but promise me—”


“Don’t eat anyone.”

“I’m not that kind of vampyre anymore, duh.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”



Ilyana’s Warhammer Trove: 1

Posted in Ilyana's Warhammer Trove on December 23, 2019 by isabellawolgoth

Author’s Note: I will be writing shorts for Ilyana’s Warhammer Trove, featuring Izobella, a parallel twin, and I will be writing shorts for Isabella’s Main Page, featuring activities in the world of Mystical Unicorn UO. Hope that clears things up. 


Izobella knew she’d had lost time. How much time had flown—she had no idea. But in her jittery head, there played a show of images, feelings, sensations. Tentacles, yes; her screams, of course; her stooping pleas for mercy—unfathomable.

Taken from the rage of battle, she had endured some time, some years in direct service of the lowest kind to—she bet—agents of Tzeen’neth. What degradation she endured was beyond fantasy, but now she was back again, naked under the snow-conspiring clouds, before the demon statue in High Pass What an irony. To be supine before a Chaos orderly was symbolic of her abduction. True, she was a high level adept of Chaos, or what knuckle-dragging Order sycophants called, “magus!” But all the pomp and circumstance was for mere show, for here be the raw gallows of her true office.

She arose, sneering at the impression she left in the snow. How angelic. How divine, yet if only the viewer knew what she knew about dark worship, they would be quick to dash crimson dust upon that shadow, for that was her truer hue. Movement between her breasts brought her eyes to see the abomination that squiggled there. Six inches of tentacle, thrashing too and fro, like an infant demon seeking succor. She took it in stride. Run with the agents of change and soon enough they could be driving you, or something like that.

Protectively, she covered the little guy, wishing for a robe, why Tzeentch’s teeth, a wide bandage to gird her round and brace the growth before it got broken off. It was a priceless treasure, a gift for her pandering, for her oaths, a herald prophesying her correct direction.


Robe in hand thanks to a merchant with darker than average leanings, she gathered her whereabouts on top of the mountain, submerging her shattered memories deep down with the slaughter of mountain denizens. Wild-men burned and screamed by the dozen; dutiful undead over at the ruined manor jangled to the tunes of sizzling bone marrow, dancing in magus fire, falling into a heap of smoldering nothingness at the end of the dance.

She was as she once was…again. The quest for perfection licking at the coals of her mind, Izobella took in the delightful realness of the frost laden air, swearing that never would she mistake the average world as mundane, not after the dark reality of her abduction.

“If once, then again will I seek to rise to the peaks of peril where greatness dwells, though Tzeentch himself be not impressed with such matters. The main is the personal quest for betterment, and the thread used to sew that blanket is nothing but adherence to the work of Tzeentch. Let no man come before that shadow even if highest day has the field.”



Delights of the Species

Posted in Uncategorized on December 15, 2019 by isabellawolgoth



Isabella slipped her hand into the pack horse’s pack, and quietly pulled out a handful of golden coins. No jingling. No rattling. No rooting around. She was regaining her stealing skill, which at one time, was quite well trained.

The cold winter air, the memories of yesteryear, and her focus brought back tales of her early days…and the legends. Living in a decaying monastery for the first five years of her unnatural life, she spent entire days hiding from the sunlight in the moldering library, for vampyre, young vampyre at that, dread the energy stealing-powers of the sun.

She read the old scrolls entitled Summa Dread. The  monks, before they died so oddly, left brilliant accounts of dread beasts, including her own kin. “The Blood-Siphon is a notorious beast from the underworld. No longer happy with simply sipping blood from a sleeping victim, these creatures have learned to call the blood from a foe, siphoning it down their throats in gurgling streamlets. It is said a shield may stave off the power, and should you have one, know when to raise it before the blasphemous thing strikes.”


Next in terms of dire dread, was the Trauma, a vampyre gifted with the haunting of humans, charming them to commit acts of abysmal foulness. Eventually they slid into a personal object, like a sword, a mirror, a knife and pretended to be something quite angelic. Most killings, the ones that occur en masse, are done in the name of some spiritual calling or cult; similarly, The Trauma is gifted at eventually bringing bloodshed beyond the imagination, a long game approach to vampyric feeding. Who dreads a feast when it is offered?


Also, the Syren, a singer of songs meant to drive those under the influence of wine or rye into depressive episodes. Imagine a widow sipping her wine in a dark tavern, and on comes the Syren, enchanting the drunks to tears with tearful ballads meant to make them relive their losses, horrible days, lost loves. The widow approaches the beautiful bard, confesses her feelings for her songs, and when lured outside in the alley for a personal rendition of a melody, is treacherously slaughtered by twin daggers. What’s left is servered arteries and a blood-splattered Syren still lapping.


And then the scrolls spoke of her line, the line of the Seeker. Nourishment was given in daily threads from beyond the curtain of life, discharges from an aura of a god or goddess the Seeker finds most worthy. And in turn, the god or goddess has their will worked in the world by their undead wards. Upon death, the Seeker comes directly to the court of the eternal they served, and are rewarded or punished as per their deeds during their unlife. This meant, knowing, of course is the duty of the Seeker, and so is researching and discovering the rules and needs of their eternal host.


Isabel fed her pack horse and sent it pasture behind the keep. That last discovery had placed her unlife in perspective. She already had her goddess, Hecatia. It wouldn’t hurt to look into some scrolls now and again to make sure she was on the path. Such things were probably hidden under the ground where the goddess kept her wisdom, and this meant she would go treasuring again, pacing off steps, popping the old shovel in the ground for a scoop or two, and plundering many, many chests to find one scroll. But such was the duty of the Seeker, and her karma as well.

Author’s Note: As I trained stealing today on Isabella over at Mystical Unicorn, Second Coming (UO shard) , I was reminded of my own vampyre class creations for RP. It would be nice to investigate these at some time. Thanks for reading.