Izobella: (5) Sundering

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Raavana sipped her wine in the shadows of the tavern, favoring the dim silence of negative spaces to balance her battle-addled wits. She was blackguard and had earned countless skulls in battle. Sometimes at twilight the winter wind rang through the skulls, singing dark melodies even as she meditated on wrath. Usually her face was locked in a blanching grimace, but tonight her dark lips lifted to what some might consider a smile.

“I froze the nordlander in his place,” Malikus the dark elf said to Izobella. “The look on his face, now that is something I cherish even to this day. It was a look of blind fear.”

“And then you killed him,” Izobella said, reclining in a chair, sipping wine through a long fluted glass.

“I said he was a nord,” Malikus simmered, “of course I killed him. There he was trying his best to kick off the ice shackles, and he almost got out, but that’s why I hit with with a bit of chill.”

“I saw it,” Raavana chuckled, sitting her glass down. “The man was banging at his feet, banging, trying to break the shackles, but then she summoned an icy boulder right on top of him. The blood spray was deliriously gorgeous.”

“And what of you my dark lady,” Malikus taunted, pouring another glass of red wine. “What chaos have you wormed up in our long break.”

Izobella let the chair’s legs hit the floor. She stood slowly, eyes trained on the wall behind her crew, eyes trained on the wall as if something struggled to wiggle through. She was finding her words, finding words for something unspeakable.

“There is no order,” Izobella said, finishing her wine.

“That’s right,” Raavana said, “because we absolutely destroy it.”

“What mean you by this my good human wizard,” Malikus said, placing a black nail on her lady’s lip as if to quiet her.

Izobella turned her head, dislodging the finger, “there is no order because there is no time, no form, no true substance.”

“I can walk out into the street and kill three guards right now,” Raavana boasted, “what in Khyber do you mean there is no true substance?”

“She means there are no gods but Zeentch,” Malikus said, a sneer developing on her lips.

“That’s not what I mean at all,” Izobella said, cautiously folding back the sleeves of her robes should her dark elf follower prove hostile.

“She’s going to kill us! She’s mad!” Raavana shouted, drawing her sword.

“For the love of Malekith,” Malikus yelled, “she’s been blighted.”

“Dark herald be my whim,” Izobella said, her eyes turning white with rage.

Before Malikus could call the ice; even before Raavana could advance with with razor-edged sword, Izobella’s disc-chariot, it’s tentacles whipping like the angry arms of a krazen, slashed into both women, those who once held Izobella as their sovereign leader.

Back and forth the chariot whipped, whipping in directions and angles many would consider impossible. But in the end, it was Izobella and her disc that survived the unplannable. Order, as she had just witnessed, did not exist, but Chaos had certainly had its day.

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