Archive for April, 2017

Troll Country III

Posted in Uncategorized on April 30, 2017 by isabellawolgoth


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



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


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


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.


Izobella (3)

Posted in Uncategorized on April 22, 2017 by isabellawolgoth


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.


Izobella: Part II

Posted in Uncategorized on April 16, 2017 by isabellawolgoth


The Inevitable City invited Izobella to hours of exploration, and a chance to meet certain influential denizens perhaps. In the cyclopean halls of that city, where the abyss awaits quietly like a bottomless sea, Izobella found the general commerce building where one might learn a trade skill, buy rare dyes imported from strange far flung corners of the world, or find a merchant willing to trade bits of scavenged merchandise for silver and gold.

Humming throughout the citadel was its sense of pure chaotic power, which in Izobella’s mind, had much to do with the central pylon located in the roofless commerce building. From that pylon an unceasing beam of chaos crackled red from the heavens to the deep core deep in the city’s roots itself. She had a theory that this was pure corruption, the pure energy of the Chaos god, Tzeentch himself. But of course it was only a theory, it’s true purpose might perhaps be for some other occult reason that yet eluded her.

Her first real contact with another being was with a dandy clad in pink silks, a fellow associated with the local Slaanesh cult, a cult given to excess, intoxications, and other venal sins she was well versed within. “You are a stranger, methinks,” the dandy said, waddling out of an alley. “And you would be looking for a home. A guild by which you might meet other fellows of your own kind?”

“What kind might that be,” Izobella asked, her Tzeentch disc wobbling under her feet. The corpulent lord of lust had surprised her, even caused a shred of revulsion to slide up her spine. In truth the guild tout’s bald, sweaty appearance made him look like a great baby swaddled in pink.

“Why, a magus of course,” he chuckled, fiddling ceaselessly with large sausage-like fingers. “And a fine magus you be,” his eyes slid up her robed form like leeches crawling up a leg.

“You got me there,” Izobella smiled, easing her sense of distaste. What harm would befall her if she did nibble at the bait? The corpulent tout did have a point. What in Kyber did she really know about this world. “How do we proceed?”

“Tis easy, easy as pie,” he said, reaching into his sweaty pink robes, satin rustling like snakes in dried leaves. “Merely wear this medallion for all too see, and you can be one of us. You will find certain niceties in association with us, yes, yes, niceties abound. But you are free to wonder. We have no creed, no law, no meetings to attend.”

“Then why do I matter,” Izobella asked, holding up the medallion to the weak sunlight that yet penetrated the eternal overcast mood of the citadel.

“Slaanesh sees, Slaanesh smiles,” he said. “It is wise to appease the god of lust, yes, yes, wise beyond years to deliver unto Slaanesh the gift of your flesh.”

“And what does this god look like in appearance? How will I note…the manifestation?”

“Manifestation? Yes, yes. Form. Sometimes Slaanesh appears as a transvestite queen, tall, proud, muscular, but clad in the sensual garb of a temple prostitute. And yet sometimes, Slaanesh is dark haired female like yourself, pale of skin, dark in demeanor, but charming, beautiful, beautiful beyond compare. Yes, yes.”

“I see,” Izobella smiled cautiously. What she had her was a cult devoted to either a fop or a necromantic doll who got hers by the way she appeased, or did not exactly appease her, or was it his, followers? “And besides rewards, which I assume are had in market stalls in terms of bargains, what else do I get for my trouble?”

“Trouble,” the tout gaped. “Trouble? Why surely you feel the purr of Slaanesh in your blood even now, my dear. Do not stand here and tell me you do not gain by your looks. Have you no sense of pleasure? Have you no sense of pride when you stand by someone as devoted to pleasure as you and I surely are?”

“Pleasure,” Izobella smiled, noting the dandy’s silk stockings on his legs that appeared whenever he rustled his pink gown with agitation, “pleasure is a tool used on the weak minded. I draw my power from pain and suffering.”

“Yes, yes,” the dandy clapped, “Slaanesh knows pain. Slaanesh gifts pain as rewards. Why I could show you the scars of whips, the burns of irons on flesh if that is your thing.”

“No thank you,” Izobella said, handing the medallion of Slaanesh back to the tubby tout, “I don’t think you understand.”

“Or I could demonstrate before a statue of Slaanesh, or you could. Or we both could, and both profit wisely if you get my meaning, my lady.”

“I will not demonstrate before a statue of your god, I refuse your proposal.”

“You reject the God of Lust? You reject Slaanesh?” the tout said, and despite his smile, his voice took on a darker tone. “O, you hussy. You tramp! You will be sorry for rebuking Slaanesh. You will need us one day. You will turn to Slaanesh in times of dire need and Slaanesh will not be there.”

“I don’t need your god to protect me. I have my will. I have my spells.”

“Tut, tut, dear! Your powers, like your good looks, will one day fade. And when you are feeble and old, bent on all fours somewhere on the side of the road, scrounging for morsels to feed your dying body, you will remember the day a Priest of Slaanesh offered you this advantage.”

Izobella spread her lips in a cruel grin. “And when you have been used by your god to the fullest extent of your fleshy endurance, and be but a corpulent pool of orgiastic nerves without the means  to move about, you will remember that I do not need Slaanesh to help me towards my destiny.”

With that, Izobella tilted her body and backed away from the sputtering priest as best she could. She was not used to the disc, but she was getting better all the time with it. She laughed at herself for letting the man get to her, but that was only due to her sense of loss, her sense of not knowing where to go, to step, to explore.

What she needed was a guide. Someone who had connections with important brokers, someone who knew the land like the back of their hand. In old Eberron, she would be in the market for a ranger, but here, she was not so sure. Perhaps the best plan was to follow someone, overhear what they said to an agent of travel, and let dark fate guide her then…


New Page! Troll Country! Offensive Content!!!

Posted in Uncategorized on April 15, 2017 by isabellawolgoth


If your Mommy ever gave you a plate of cookies to ease your woes, then you might be offended by my new Non-Fiction, Gonzo style page. Turn away now least epic QQ ensue.  I can’t swear that this page will get my usual amounts of love that my fiction page sometimes endures, but……

The sexy link: