I
Izobella knew she'd had lost time. How much time had flown—she had no idea. But in her jittery head, there played a show of images, feelings, sensations. Tentacles, yes; her screams, of course; her stooping pleas for mercy—unfathomable.
Taken from the rage of battle, she had endured some time, some years in direct service of the lowest kind to—she bet—agents of Tzeen'neth. What degradation she endured was beyond fantasy, but now she was back again, naked under the snow-conspiring clouds, before the demon statue in High Pass What an irony. To be supine before a Chaos orderly was symbolic of her abduction. True, she was a high level adept of Chaos, or what knuckle-dragging Order sycophants called, “magus!” But all the pomp and circumstance was for mere show, for here be the raw gallows of her true office.
She arose, sneering at the impression she left in the snow. How angelic. How divine, yet if only the viewer knew what she knew about dark worship, they would be quick to dash crimson dust upon that shadow, for that was her truer hue. Movement between her breasts brought her eyes to see the abomination that squiggled there. Six inches of tentacle, thrashing too and fro, like an infant demon seeking succor. She took it in stride. Run with the agents of change and soon enough they could be driving you, or something like that.
Protectively, she covered the little guy, wishing for a robe, why Tzeentch's teeth, a wide bandage to gird her round and brace the growth before it got broken off. It was a priceless treasure, a gift for her pandering, for her oaths, a herald prophesying her correct direction.
II
Robe in hand thanks to a merchant with darker than average leanings, she gathered her whereabouts on top of the mountain, submerging her shattered memories deep down with the slaughter of mountain denizens. Wild-men burned and screamed by the dozen; dutiful undead over at the ruined manor jangled to the tunes of sizzling bone marrow, dancing in magus fire, falling into a heap of smoldering nothingness at the end of the dance.
She was as she once was...again. The quest for perfection licking at the coals of her mind, Izobella took in the delightful realness of the frost laden air, swearing that never would she mistake the average world as mundane, not after the dark reality of her abduction.
“If once, then again will I seek to rise to the peaks of peril where greatness dwells, though Tzeentch himself be not impressed with such matters. The main is the personal quest for betterment, and the thread used to sew that blanket is nothing but adherence to the work of Tzeentch. Let no man come before that shadow even if highest day has the field.”
