Izobella

Posted in Uncategorized on April 14, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

 

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                    (Art by Corbin Hunter)

Mists Metaphysical

Ever since Izobella escaped undeath in the realm of Eberron by a miscast of the common Dimensional Door spell, things got really weird. The spell was cast, she felt the usual brushing through the shadows, and instead of being deposited back at the dungeon door of the tomb she was exploring, she found herself in a tunnel of dark light instead.

Izobella floated in this vortex-like tunnel for what seemed like a day, maybe two, maybe even three. But then, a gray land between realities slowly dawned before her, and the dark light diminished somewhat. She felt unearthly intelligences working behind the scenes in the shadows, intelligences who preferred tentacles, insectoid forms, even wraith-like dream forms.

“Chaos,” a misty figure said to her, “remember that you are on the side of Chaos. You do not like imperials who reject the taint of Tzeentch. Got it? Chaos. Repeat after me. C–h–a–o–s.”

“Chaos,” she repeated with a bit of sarcasm. What the Kyber was this? Spiritual training? And what was up with her mind? She was both conscious and unconscious, like the gray zone, half in and half out.

“Push her through quickly before she comes to,” a voice in the murk said. Seconds later, she felt her body being turned, turned until she faced a void in the gray mists. And with the gentle nudge of a tentacle, something pushed her into a bleak void.

The void’s only light was a tiny dot below her booted feet. If she but lifted a boot, the tiny dot of light could be occluded. But slowly, by a process that seemed like days, the dot of light grew larger and larger until she was herself but a tiny dot compared to its size.

The Inevitable City  

When she blinked, she found herself standing on a scrap of land surrounded by two mountains, split by an abyss, located beside a dark city that brooded over a forlorn landscape.

At first glance, the land was like Eberron, but less civilized. She discovered this truth only by observation of the new realm’s beings over the course of a month. You had the Empire populated by humans, and you had Chaos, populated by humans like her (humans who did not care for the strict niceties of laws and regulations). There were elves too. Like Eberron, there were the straight-laced, snooty elves devoted to formality, magic, archery; and their opposites, dark elves, elves who resembled the Drow who were oddly named, The Druchii. And vampires, yes vampires also existed in this land, but unlike the undead she was used to in Eberron, these vampires were lawful in their habits, living by odd codes she herself found cumbersome and quaint.

And yes their were orcs too, benighted beings who reveled in their ignorance, lovers of illiteracy, proudly going by the term, “greenskins.” As far as she could tell, they were the unconscious slaves of Chaos, too stupid to realize they were being manipulated by intelligent human control. She personally despised their hooting antics and illogical actions; however, she did not they seemed to regard her as a being who fought on their “side” in some distant, obscure manner.

“Inevitabbbbbblllleeeee City,” snarled a little being no bigger than a gnome as it hopped and jumped in a manner one might consider a type of lopping run. Following after the odd green being, a beast that ran only on two thick legs snorted after, its slobber trailing, sticking to whatever the goo touched.

A drove of pilgrims slolwy came into view, seemingly following the snotling to the city’s main gate. They were gray of skin, solemn, stolid. They were like the boulders that surrounded the city, an odd personification of vengeance and strength. Cloaked in their traveling robes, they made their way up the hill past her, so she fell in line with them, taking up the rear. As she would discover later, this was her first encounter with the scowling Druchii…

 

Malikus: The Question

Posted in Uncategorized on April 13, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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Malikus could feel the minute change in the way the wind blew, bringing the scent of Chaos on the winds of magic. Her spine shivered with the energy, the thought of heresy. And if rumors were anything close to truth, this magus, this Izobella was a change in the way the wind blew.

She opened her eyes finally. Malikus had lost herself in dark elf meditation, an art that grew easier to her by the year. But despite her discipline, Malikus couldn’t shake the shred of teaching Izobella was rumored to teach: “The gods of the dark elf are no more special than the gods of the Empire, for both want nothing but your eternal servitude.”

That thought, heresy to the gums, ate at Malikus’ insides, made them tumble with doubt, roll with a sense of uneasiness she was not accustomed too. It conflicted with her training as a sorceress of the dark elf nation. What were the Naggarothi without pride in servitude to Malekith, or even darker, the great ineffable Khaine? But alas, take away those two mere props, those two whips of the flesh, and what had she left?

A gust of dead leaves tumbled past her, bringing the ever present scent of burning villages and the cold scent of death. Death. Was not that the theme? What all beings shared in common was their death, which of course, was the opposite of their crude, ignorant, short lives. And what else did mortals share in common? Ah! Belief! That multi-headed beast that gives animation to the servants of the human Empire and their darker skinned antithesis, the Druchii. And that was the riddle that this Izobella and her cult answered in spades? For what were mortals without their belief but oysters and clams without their shells? Only soft innards vulnerable to the ten-thousand beaks, mouths, and daggers of the world itself, a world embroiled in the Ever War.

The gods in her heart shook when Malikus rose from meditation. The questions in her mind were heresy, yet what if they were right? What if this human magus had questions that the gods of the Druchii could not answer withtheir swords and magic? What if all mortals were really nothing more than slaves to the gods they admired?

Where was ambition?

Where was glory now in being a slave?

She would seek out this Chaos magus and hear her words, for the question the magus was raising would not allow Malikus to sleep.

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Author’s Note: This piece was inspired by Prince Hamlet’s “question,” and of course my own character, Izobella. vampyreisobel

A few selfies from The Return of Reckoning/WAR Private Server

Posted in Uncategorized on April 11, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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Haven’t played my healer in quite while. Life is rough as a healer. It’s just not me.

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Playing a Black Guard? Better. I’m getting better at Black Guard.

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Playing a magus? Ohhhhh, yeah. Magus is where “it” is at for me. Yum!

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More Magus love….

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Izobella in Inevitable City. Home, Sweet Home!!!!
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Interlude: Grains

Posted in Uncategorized on April 7, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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Tzeentch…
Like grains of sand scouring the gears,
And crimson rust biting your blade,
Never sleeps, never seasons.

Controlling the moment even as you
Eat your meal by a glowing campfire,
Dreaming of loot, violence, glory.

II. Parasite (part of the ongoing Warhammer journal)

Posted in Uncategorized on April 6, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

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Izobella watched the putrid smoke from the most recent fracas drift solemnly to the sky like a coiling serpent, catch a wind, and disperse into gray, tattered wisps.

Like Tzeentch, she told herself, like Tzeentch. It is no-thing, yet an all-thing, a whirling pandemonium of form encroaching upon emptiness, a storm eternal, a full harvest without having planted the first seed.

“Here she comes,” grunted the Chosen, his mind torn between the sounds of pillaging that yet welled from beyond the valley, and a glimpse of the dark elf casually treading their way with wary step. He could tell from the woman’s face that she was only in a lightly sour mood, for its embittered alter-ego, anger, was now a thing of the past.

“You are right, magus,” Raavana said, staring into Izobella’s glazed yellow eyes. She dropped a collection of severed heads to the magus’ feet, presenting due sacrifice to the mortal, but not to Khaine, the Bloody-Handed God.

She was now apostate.

“Tzeentch,” Izobella said, eyes wide, “manipulates even the gods and heroes of your dark elf kindred, so—“

“—why serve the low instead of the exalted,” Raavana finished the statement flatly.

“It is much to drink in,” said the Chosen, his eyes lingering on Raavana’s sharp nose, chin, eyes. All things with this woman, he mused to himself, was a sharp angle. He liked his women wily and wild, sharp like an ax, driven like a storm.

“I am sure you are the very prophet of the hour,” Raavana sneered.

“I have had no profit in this endeavor,” he remarked, “but you and I might join forces to aid Tzeentch repopulate the world with those worthy of anointment.”

“Do so, Chosen,” Raavana, “and you’ll wake with a dagger in your craw.”

“If we three cultists,” Izobella said calmly, but this time from the back of her disc, “are you going to spread this dream we have been given by our lord and master, we must agree to disagree.” Naked flames licked suggestively from her fingers.

“The fall of a siege engine begins with the rust brought by the dawn,” the Chosen said, nodding, remembering the dream that brought them together. “We are that rust.”

“And you, dark elf,” Izobella asked, “do you yet possess the dream?”

Ravanna nodded, remembering the night weeks ago when she—like her fellow cult members—awoke from that shared revelation. “My powers are granted to those—”

“—willing to say no to what was,” Izobella said, finishing the dream’s strange statement spoken to them undoubtedly by Tzeentch himself.

“Leave us briefly,” Izobella murmured to the Chosen, “for there is more to be said between Raavana and myself.” Izobella’s yellow eyes shifted to the man quickly, her reassuring smile strangely unsettling.

Izobella let Raavana have a moment. She watched the woman, shoulders sagging, world crashing down inside her. Black Guards were driven from youth to kill relentlessly. Kill others not of their own tribe. Kill those within their tribe. Kill in general when to kill was not ordered.

The shadows of early evening lipped greedily at them when Raavana finally turned.

“Do you remember what I taught about the forest ant and the mind-worm,” Izobella asked softly.

“Of course,” Raavana said, sheathing her sword. “The ant who crosses the path of that worm will find it is no longer truly just an ant.”

“And why not?”

“The worm finds its way into the ant, just like how the beliefs of the dark elves, the sacred hierarchy, and the prideful stories of murder found their way into me as a child,” Raavana said.

“So what have you done about?” Izobella pushed.

“I have taken control of my existence. I am no longer an ant possessed by the worm.”

“Such is the wisdom of Tzeentch,” Izobella praised, “for even a tiny grain of sand over time may become a pearl by way of a shellfish.”

“You are wise, magus” Raavana whispered, feeling her past shatter within her. Tzeentch was greater than all gods, for Tzeentch was undefinable, continually defining, redefining, evolving into and out of its last form.

“What about your sister? The Disciple of Khaine adhrent?”

“Let me deal with her,” Raavana said, raising her chin. “She has always been a most unreasonable child.”

“Be a grain of sand,” Izboella said from her disc, smiling suggestively.

“I’ll try, but it will likely be the hammer that is required.”

WAR: Raavana

Posted in Uncategorized on April 2, 2017 by isabellawolgoth

Being the record of my new passion over at Warhammer: Return of Reckoning server

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i. Hunter

The wind brought the scent of the human, but also the delightful scent of burning timber, and the cries of the bewildered. Raavana stood on a hillock, wind wiping her purple cloak into rivulets to stuck close to her armor. She was thrown into a revelry of the past by a chance comment from one of the Warbreakers, “that dark elf has pride.”

It was pride first and foremost her father, Grythnyr, taught her when she yet a battle brat. “Become proud and arrogant like the ravens that rifle flesh from bone in the war yards, Raavana. Be like your namesake for the rest of your long, elven days.”

Chin up, lips locked in a sneer, she did what father told her, always being the first to lure human villagers into the night with her cries for help, and the first to stab them deep in the liver with a curved, black blade.

When father died, she took his sword from his cooling body, his dirk, but gave the armor to her sister, Druzella, the brooding, young Disciple of Khaine. “When you can be as cold as I, you will find that such thrift and economy of means will do you well on the fields of battle,” she said to Druzella.

And that was all of two years ago, two years of constant war, two years of creasing humans open with her father’s bladed, a blade she called by father’s name, Grythnyr.

“The human hunter hides amongst the villagers,” said an angry Chosen, his yellow eyes lighting on her raven black hair.

“He has no honor, being born of a bitch cow in the stockyards of Middenland, or am I no true sister of battle.”

“Even now he flees,” the Chosen remarked, holding up his ax as if in a gesture to stay the prattling presence of the hunter. It was no use of course, for the human fled back to a distant camp to inform of their position more the like.

“Let us back to the war,” Raavana said, “my blade grows cold.”

“I’ll lead, for who knows what waits around yonder belt of cottonwoods.”

“Even so,” she said, “I would like that hunter’s head for my collection.”

“What is shall be,” the Chosen said simply. “There are more heads to take, for look where the raven’s flock beyond the valley: battle, blood, screams.”

“Lead the way,” she said, her husky voice enchanting his ear, forcing his body to act and not question.

Such were the fruits of being a brooding, dark elf Black Guard.

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Note:

Great server ran by a great bunch of fans. Everyday there has been nerd fun!!!

A pact by night

Posted in Uncategorized on November 19, 2016 by isabellawolgoth

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And because the drow recently obtained enlightenment at the figurative teat of Lloth, and because she was fresh from the darkness, her vivacity overwhelming, eyes as a dark as pitch, Isobel felt compelled to help her, this Mizlika.

“You earnestly give yourself to the pact,” Isobel, in wraith form, hovered above Mizlika, absorbing the drow’s ardent passions radiating from her soul.

“I do, vampire,” Mizlika said, teeth clenching for the decision. This would forever sever her tie from Lloth, from the drow, from family, but the power promised was too great to pass up.

“The herald that approaches,” Isobel warned, “will hear your plea, and if you are as darkly honest as you seem, he will hear your pact as Herald of Tharizdun, Great Old One from afar.”

“So shall it be,” Mizlika nodded, eyes yet locked to the earth. And because she had elven sensibilities, she heard the approach of that dark herald, could distinguish how trees moved for its bulk, felt the ether tremble as if its presence in the here and now bordered somehow on entropy.

“What is this offering?” Herald Nyarlzen asked, his voice a growl, a boom, a thing disembodied. Isobel looked with detachment at the shambling bulk of the thing. First, he was a sheath of whirling tentacles affixed to a goat’s abdomen, but then, as if unsatisfied with its appearance, the herald shifted form to an armored ghost, tall and imposing, eyes blazing green, set deep within a rusted helm. She smiled even as the thing’s tattered cape nosed its way to her ethereal form. It could not hurt her, but to bully was to be in such beings of timeless age.

“Drow blood,” Isobel said, extending a hand to Mizlika’s huddled shape. “I broker for your almost forgotten sovereign in the Far Realms.”

The thing’s cape whirled like a thing alive, writhing wormlike out to the trees, to the drow herself. “Power,” the herald boomed, “the lust for greatness. So palpable in one some young. I had forgotten the narrowminded elves. Steadfast to a fault.”

“Will you accept my plea? My life pact to you?” Mizlika dared.

Isobel felt the eternal moment pass over them all, fate balanced on the precipice of decision. Would the herald devour the drow? Would the herald accept the pact for his dread lord? Chaos was a hazardous preoccupation to those cursed to live out their lives in the flesh.

“I grant an initial boon,” the red-eyed knight, now shifting to the form of translucent mollusk with bat-like wings, said. “I will bare these promises to my sovereign in the Far Realm for weighing, yet beware. If he refuses, then the drow is mine to keep…forever.”

“These are the terms, girl,” Isobel said, drifting to the drow’s warm body still huddled in a kneeling posture. “Do you accept?”

“Yes, by Lloth, I do,” she squeaked.

“Good,” Herald Nyarlzen gloated. “It is my hopes he rejects you, for I have not had drow in such a very long time. Kiss me my hand and seal your pact.” The thing shifted to flesh and blood, becoming a human from toe to head. He extended a hand.

Mizlika looked upon the herald for the first time. She wasn’t opposed to humans, so tall and so pink, but the beauty of this one from his hairless pate to his nude waist was a far cry from the slouches she’d witnessed thus far in her young life.

Distant stars blossomed in the man’s eyes when she put her pursed lips to his hand, a hand that coaxed and stroked her lustrous black hair. “Well done,” he said, his attention averted to a distant dimension as if hearing a call she could not. “We will talk again.”

The being vanished in a blink, leaving Mizlika doubting the moment. Standing, she turned to speak to Isobel the vampire, but the being had vanished just as mysteriously as she came.

And because Mizlika had done the unspeakable, a surging power–wave-like–shot from her hands in verdant bolts. Trees sundered, bushes fizzled under the acidic power. Breathing in, Mizlika fell to the power of the Great Old One, an intoxicating dance that whirled to a maddening, distant beat.

——-

Author’s Note:  Herald Nyarlzen is an obvious Nyarltothep archetype I invented for the Greyhawk version of Cthulhu, Tharizdun of the Far Realm. Also, the drow picture credit goes to an artist from Deviantart, her name is inscribed on the image. Look her up, for she is marvelous!