The 13th age of Midgard
Spymaster, Ambassador of the Dark Elf Kingdom, Daughter of the Clockwork City, Hero of Briarfort, Honorary Knight of Magdar, Vanquisher of the Three-Headed Dragon of the Screaming Deserts, Foiler of the Diabolical Red, Member of the Gray Ladies, Slayer..
Primary motivators: Beneficence
Emotional disposition: Joyful
Quirks, Habits and Oddities: Self-inflicts pain, foot tapping, smelling things
Hobbies and Enjoyments: Boating, drinking (only the finest), music appreciation
Intelligent, well-liked, the beautiful Isabella was on top of the world. True, her parents had both died; but that was about seven years ago. She missed them, but could hardly remember them. Her older brother—her idol, best friend, and parent—had taken control of the family fortune and was handling it splendidly. Not content for a life of leisure, as other ladies in her social station seemed to be well adapted as they drifted between households, hosting parties and gossiping, she used some of the money to open a doll shoppe, where she sold her marvelous creations to the upper and lower class (but mostly upper class) girls, delighting in how their eyes sparkled when they found a doll they could cherish. At just 17 years old, Isabella’s own eyes sparkled when the local duke, Duke Igthorn, paid a visit to her store. Her star-struck turned to horror as he forced himself on her; but she fought back and in her terror a bit of magic snapped from her fingers, flinging the half-dressed duke through the shoppe’s window. In that moment, Isabella thought she’d won. But that would soon change.
The duke trumped up charges against her brother, arresting him, sentencing him to death. However, he agreed to have him released. It would only cost Isabella a night in the duke’s bedchambers and her virginity. Of course, she endured that dreadful night, the sweaty hands, his stale breath. However, the duke changed his mind. Now satisfied, and not wanting a scandal, he tossed her into jail. After weeks of languishing, a kindly jailer told the distraught girl that she was to be the next hellhole sacrifice. Upon the day of her sacrifice, the duke sent her a last meal, a last token: her brother’s head. The horrified, screaming girl was then sent to the hellhole.
For two years, the Duke grew fatter, helping himself to Isabella’s fortune and estate. After all, the two were guilty of treason. Then, one day, he found a life-like doll outside his summer home. Familiar looking, it almost looked like that black-haired girl he had sent to that hellhole years ago…He took it in to perhaps give to a niece.
The next morning, the servants found the duke manacled to the chandelier, his body swaying, his guts ripped open and dangling, his cold blood pooled on the floor.
By means of the Diabolist or the Prince of Shadows, or her own tenacity Isabella had survived and had reaped vengeance upon the man who had destroyed her. Stealing just enough of the Duke’s fortune as she fled the house, she set up shop in Zobeck (spelling?). Changed, the blue-eyed Isabella once again sells her dolls to the upper class, but she sells secrets as well, secrets regarding the layouts of certain wealthy houses, who guards the grounds, and when the family might be away—secrets that thieves might find very valuable. While she practices that strange, almost disorganized magic that saved her from the hell pit, she has become a broker of information.
Did someone say, being beaten? Who knew Isabella, that snooty doll maker of the upper crust was into that stuff and that she would fall for a woman named Celeste, whose commanding attitude ran shivers over her skin? But does Celeste swing that way? And what of Isabella’s old flame, Fjorbjorginson—the tribal leader of the North? Does he still desire the beautiful, the ravishing Isabella? After Isabella’s quest, will Celeste be waiting at the doll shoppe with riding crop in hand? What would the nobles think if word ever got out! Favorite moments: Fjorbjorginson, Celeste, and Isabella’s begrudging admiration for that raving monk. Don’t get me wrong, she would rather step on a nail than be seen with him at a public function. But he’s an ok guy, despite his lunatic ideas. He’s been upgraded from “probable murder victim” to “possible doorman at the doll shoppe, as long as he keeps his trap shut.”
When last we left Isabella, the character voted to be most like Rarity from My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, she had been stood up by the commanding Celeste. Days—nights! The nights were the worst—went by, and no word. After their electric encounter, Isabella heard rumors, channeled to her by her faithful handy Kobold, Rafferty, that her dream girl had left Zobeck without a word. Crushed, she sulked inside the shop, her chaos magic rippling over the city block, causing frequent rains of toads and rotten apples, and purple vines to creep out of the sewers. Business suffered. Citizens complained. But she didn’t care. After listlessly spinning a headless doll around the table for most of the afternoon, fighting uncontrollable fits of sobbing, and inadvertently causing the front door to transform into pure milk chocolate, clever Rafferty came to the rescue.
He had heard, through his vast network, of a council of elves who were in talks about something important. This was right up Isabella’s alley. And so he insisted she attend. Eventually, she relented. But so sullen was she—so red eyed from all of the crying—that she only packed up three trunks of fine dresses, gowns and other majestic clothes. Enlisting a clockwork luggage carrier that she rescued from a visiting Baroness, she left town, leaving the shop in Rafferty’s hands.
Things have been going well for Isabella. For once, she’s actually happy. She no longer feels the need to feed the flames of her hatred of the nobility by stealing from them, a hatred that had developed when she was betrayed by a noble and cast into a hell pit. Life among the elves has been blissfully riveting, particularly among the dark elves, whose dangerous courtly life enchanted the noble-born Isabella. Her charm, her adept ways of discovering secrets, her tenacity, and her beauty caught the eye of the dark elf spymaster, the rakish Zeerith, who promised her further fortune if she would work for the shadowy Szarkai, the spy network of the Dark Elves. Eventually, she agreed to his charming requests, and even began coyly accepting his romantic advances. Still, there were some loose ends that needed to be tied up.
“Dear Kierkegaard,” she wrote to her Kobold friend back in Zobek, “I hope this letter finds you well. I have some glad news. I have finally found a home—who knew it would be with the dark elves! You have always been a good friend, and I know our paths will cross again. As a gift, I give you my Doll Shoppe to do with what you please. Please, know that you have a friend among the elves and are always welcome.