Izobella (3)


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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