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:   https://ilyanastombofdoom.wordpress.com/troll-country-1/


Posted in Uncategorized on April 14, 2017 by isabellawolgoth



                    (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


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.


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


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


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


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


More Magus love….


Izobella in Inevitable City. Home, Sweet Home!!!!

Interlude: Grains

Posted in Uncategorized on April 7, 2017 by isabellawolgoth


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


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.”