Ysabelle

Information

Appearance

Usual Equipment: Her custom-fit plate mail offers optimal protection against conventional weaponry, while her bracers are fitted with a minor strength enchantment. A ceremonial Knight's cloak-and-spaulders adorn her shoulders, held together by a clasp bearing an insignia of Stromgarde. A tabard bearing House Beltharu's colors cover her breastplate, the telltale insignia of a golden two-headed serpent emblazoned on the front.

Other: Ysabelle's steel battleaxe has a Fiery Weapon enchant, while her bracers are fitted with a minor strength enchantment to aid in combating various beasts, namely those wandering the war-torn land of Arathor.

Personality

Ysabelle has the disposition of a natural-born leader, being both charismatic and honorable. Her Arathorian blood is most prominently displayed in her innate reckless courage and fierce fighting prowess, but her reliance on gut-instinct often leads her to make rash decisions, as she can find herself biting off more than she can chew trying to do 'the right thing'. She carries the weight of survival's guilt and the despairing thoughts that come with it, inner voices belittling her when she's alone.

She bears a calculative militant demeanor, and her mannerisms are swift and concise. She's an altruistic but vindictive individual, one that's driven by the grief of Stromgarde's decline. Ysabelle values strength and honor first and foremost, resulting in a deep respect for the enemy's orcish warriors. Her time spent warring with the Witherbark Tribe has solidified her disdain towards the savage trolls, but she resents the ogres of the highlands above all.

She's hesitant to talk about her feelings, seeing it as a trivial endeavor that would only freshen old wounds. That being said, she doesn't openly deny her emotions, as she feels inclined to speak honestly. She's also open-minded and assertive. She won't sugar-coat the truth, nor will she punish someone for challenging her tactics, or voicing their opinions.

She goes into battle with a circlet in place of a traditional helm to face her opponents, making sure her shouts and commands are clearly audible. Ysabelle gives worthy adversary's an honorable killing blow rather than leaving them to slowly bleed out.

History

-I- (Year -2: Humble Beginnings)

Ysabelle was born and raised in the kingdom of Stromgarde, a land in turmoil renown for its strict martial philosophy. The foothills of Alterac became a home she would gladly protect, bleed for, and strive to reform. Her parents both hailed from common hard-working folk. Her father was a healer aiding Stromgarde's militant ranks, and her mother was a soldier stationed within the city. They were caring and stern, grooming Ysabelle for the honor of military service with high hopes.

Her youth was spent wandering the streets of the great city, acting as a page to the Beltharu's – a noble family, the lord of which served as a vassal to warrior-king Thoras Trollbane. She lead a happy if not mundane and at times busy childhood full of quirky friends and larger-than-life dreams. Her small mind couldn't have known most of those she cared for would be killed off in wars or stricken by poverty in the years to come, nor did she know the horrors of battle first-hand, so her existence remained jovial for many years.

She was taught a wide variety of menial tasks in her time as a page, including how to saddle and care for horses, how to hunt, and even how to play her lute; an instrument she was rewarded for exceptional service. Her well-rounded education served her well, though she had little free time to pursue personal interests.

She became a squire to a loyal knight by the name of Leonor at the age of fourteen, six years after the Second War began. Ysabelle accompanied him, performing simple but undoubtedly important tasks in his stead. She saddled his horse, cared for his weapons and armor, and acted as a shield-carrier. It was around this time that she was dubbed 'Champion of the Mundane', an appointed master of tedium that came before knighthood. She admired Ser Leonor's humor and sense of propriety, though she found his cleanliness lacking.

She mingled with the other squires when time allowed, making friends whenever she could. She was the frequent sparring champion, being around the same height as her male counterparts. Quick-witted and fleet of foot, she made quick work of her pretend adversaries, though her swordplay could use honing.

Leonor oversaw her martial training, offering his years of wisdom to her with open arms. She started questioning their safety in the wilds of Arathi when, on the brink of her seventeenth year, a squire was captured by a group of Witherbarks. She'd seen trolls before, but realizing it could have been her in his place was a somber thought. She followed Leonor and the others into the small troll encampment to recover the lad, meeting light resistance; but the creatures were tenacious and enduring, their regenerative abilities prolonging the would-be short fights. The battle raged on for an hour before they proclaimed victory by setting fire to their huts. They rode off with the battered-but-not-eaten James, who grew distant after the incident. He'd later be crushed while playing 'Poke the Angry Ogre' with the other squires, but for now he was alive and well.

Ysabelle wouldn't soon forget the first time her blade tasted troll blood, nor the boiling resentment those nimble creatures evoked. Stumbling upon the speared remains of trading caravans became the new norm. She began to see the world for what it was; a harsh, dangerous place, full of beings who'd stop at nothing to stomp out the flame of Arathor. It would be another two years of minor skirmishes before everything she'd worked for would be put to the test, but nothing could have prepared her for the toilsome days to come.

-II- (Year Seventeen: Adaptability)

Ysabelle parted the flaps to Leonar's hexagonal tent and peered inside, letting the sunlight in. He was hunched in a chair with an empty bottle in one hand and a sweat-stained missive in the other. She spoke up when he didn't react to her presence, but his distant gaze was focused on the parchment, and the parchment alone. His tone was void of the senseless humor she'd grown accustomed to. "Come find me," he stated, avoiding eye contact. He dropped the bottle and got up, handing his squire the letter before he exited the tent. She called out to him before he made it too far, but he kept on walking.

She scanned the report in her hands with a growing fervor, collapsing on the matted grass with muffled sobs. Her parent's unit was overrun by a large Witherbark patrol, fifty soldiers and their commander killed just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. To make it worse, they were headed this way. The news took a day to reach their encampment in the eastern reaches of the highlands, so she had little time to grieve. They had to prepare to face the oncoming threat.

"You should have waited to tell me," she said as she approached the knight. He shook his head and went to work saddling his own horse; something she's never seen him do. Her hands were calloused from performing all of these tasks for him, and part of her wished he'd let her do it to keep her mind from wandering, but everything was suddenly different.

“It was better for you to learn to compose yourself during compromising circumstances than to sugar-coat the very real threats you'll be facing. You must adapt, or you will die like the others. I estimate roughly four hours before their forces reach us, which means we'll be fighting through the night. Find Quartermaster Johnson to aid in fortifying our encampment, then arm yourself and find me. It's too late to run. Too late for reinforcements.”

The rational part of her being knew he was right, but she was still suffering from the news. She left without a word to find Johnson, who was instructing a group of men to barricade the hill. She tagged along with them and set to work turning their camp into a more defensible position, creating choke points to control the flow of battle. The hours slowly passed as chaos turned into controlled efficiency. These knights and soldiers were the pride of Lord Beltharu, Ysabelle's commanding vassal. They were highly disciplined individuals, numbering eighty-six in all, tasked in protecting Arathi's wilderness from encroaching threats, as well as patrolling the interment camp of Hammerfall.

A scouting party returned as they finished their makeshift fortifications, bringing news of their adversaries. Beltharu was outnumbered two-to-one -- odds he didn't like, but they held better ground, and among his ranks were a half-dozen wizards enlisted from Dalaran. With the clever use of their firepower, he was confident they would make it through the night. He kept up morale by citing their past victories, reminding them of their unwavering courage in the face of devastation; words that filled Ysabelle's broken heart with undeterred pride.

She found Ser Leonar in front of the camp with the rest of the mounted cavalry, his blood-red cloak draped behind him. “Take your spear and hold your ground with the rest of the infantry, Ysabelle. I'll be following Lord Beltharu in the initial charge to break through their ranks once the wizards rain down fire, then we'll circle around and fortify the front lines, rinse, and repeat. The trolls will bleed through, which is where your role becomes most important. Don't let them overrun the camp. I have the utmost confidence in your ability.” She was frightened, but now wasn't the time to second-guess her orders.

She bolstered the barricades with the rest of the infantry, anxiously waiting for what fate had in store for them. The sun started to fall below the mountains as the hour passed, casting elongated shadows across the darkening land. Beltharu's commanding tone echoed across the front as the trolls began charging at the encampment, wizard-fire raining from the sky. He led the cavalry down the hill, where they broke the line and started the battle, a hail of arrows following suit. Ysabelle couldn't see all that was going on from her position, but Leonar was right when he said the trolls would bleed through their charge.

The battle raged on for hours into the night, suffering heavy casualties on both sides. Beltharu's horse was felled by an axe thrower after the sixth charge, causing him and most of the other knights to fall back. Leonar hauled his vassal to the encampment while the fighting continued. Ysabelle stood stalwart while trolls continued to pour into the choke point she and the other men were defending, her hair matted to her head with blood and sweat; a battered chivalric visage of hope among her peers, resolute and unwavering. There were only a few stragglers left when the sun dawned over the distant hills, signaling the coming of day in a fiery display of orange light. It was then she realized how much blood had been shed, when the shadows slunk away to reveal the broken bodies of men and troll alike amidst the shattered fortifications.

Lord Beltharu had lost over half of the warriors sworn to his service in the attack. His leg had been twisted when his horse was taken down, but that didn't stop him from addressing his soldiers. He raised his sword in the air in silent defiance of any who would do harm to Arathor. His men and women followed suit, their courage intact. Ysabelle followed along, all-the-while masking her uncertainty.

-III- (Year Nineteen, Prelude to the Third War)

The past two years following Ysabelle's first taste of battle were full of conflict for her vassal's party, combating orcs, ogres, syndicate, and the always-lingering trolls. Beltharu had once again raised an army after suffering heavy losses at Hammerfall, when the once-lethargic orcs were rallied and freed. Tensions continued to rise between the Boulderfists and Syndicate in the west, and the Witherbarks in the south-east. Leonar had continued her training in spite of recent events, branching into mounted combat, which required quick-calculations and precise timing. She jousted her fellow squires to gain the favor of nobility, who, while skeptical of her common blood, couldn't deny her prowess. It wasn't long before she began winning competitions with some semblance of frequency, earning a name for herself among her more-privileged peers.

She was dubbed a knight by Lord Beltharu following a duel with a lancer who'd made an audacious remark belittling her vassal's honor. Her lance shattered on his armor and struck him to the ground, proving both her loyalty and her art of war. Ser Leonar resided over the ceremony, giving an impassioned speech in his squire's name while imparting with more than a few bold jests and stories. It was a memorable event of better times, times she often thinks back to wondering where it all went wrong. For now, however, in this moment, she was the woman of the hour; a freshly dubbed knight with the world ahead of her.

Beltharu commissioned a set of steel plate mail to be fitted for his newest knight, along with a weapon of her choice; a mighty steel battleaxe, chosen to reflect her tribal ancestry. An axe, she thought, felled tree, troll, and beast alike, while bearing strong ties to the Arathor tribe of ages past. Ysabelle accepted these gifts with pride, but the night was still young. She attended a feast in her honor and reveled in the joy of good company.

It was nearing the end of the celebration when she was approached by Lord Beltharu. They talked of small things as the night stretched into morning, departing only when the sun peaked over the distant hills. The encounter solidified her respect for her vassal, showing the kind and genuine side of her stern leader. Still she slept with the discomfort of a cold certainty, for she knew that history would soon repeat itself. War would find her vassal's party, one way or another.

-IV- (Year Twenty: The Darkest Hour)

The sudden assassination of Thoras Trollbane left everyone in disarray, heralding Stromgarde's darkest hour. They were soon under siege by the Syndicate and the Boulderfist ogres, who won several victories against the weakened kingdom. Lord Beltharu struggled to control the chaos around him as the adversaries' forces began taking ground, not only surrounding the capital, but within the city itself. Ysabelle and her fellow knights were fighting on their last legs as the hours turned to days. Beltharu had no choice but to barricade him and his remaining army in his estate, residing in the south-west corner of Stromgarde. Ysabelle took the night to regain her strength.

She was awoken by the sound of an Ogre drumming against Beltharu's door. The low light leaking in through the windows told her it was just past dawn, but the shouting orders from downstairs stopped her from thinking about the little hours she'd spent resting. She uncomfortably slept in her armor as most of her party had, so as to be ready to jump into action at any given time. She rushed to the aid of her brethren to reinforce the door.

A familiar voice shouted for her to stop as she neared the door, just in time to see it shatter under the ogre's might. The blow sent three of Beltharu's soldiers flying through the air with a thick hail of splinters. They unceremoniously thudded against the floor and slid into the wall, groaning incoherently. Ysabelle covered her face to protect her from the shrapnel as blinding light poured into the dimly-lit hall. A deep silence infiltrated the room with a growing cloud of dust. She cautiously backed up to join a line of Beltharu's soldiers, gripping the haft of her battleaxe in both hands, counting the passing seconds to herself.

A soldier wearily shuffled forward to peer through the haze, hesitantly raising a hand above his brow. The silence was broken by a warhammer the size of a purebred mustang sailing through the air. It crushed the soldier beneath its might, denting the wooded floor and parting the cloud of dust. The ogre followed in its wake, large plated feet pounding against the lordly rug in a bloodthirsty charge. Ysabelle jumped out of the beast's path without a second's hesitation, but not all of Beltharu's men were quick enough to react. One of them stood dumbfounded as the gigantic creature crushed him into the fireplace at the end of the hall, ending his charge with a loud roar. He grabbed the crushed plated body and turned around, throwing it at the first unlucky man he laid eyes on.

Ysabelle and the remaining soldiers led the counter attack, hacking and slashing away at the monster's plated calves to try to ground the beast. A few archers loosed arrows from the banister above, most of them bouncing off of the ogre's armor. One hit true, slashing through a fold of fatty flesh on its neck. The ogre fell to his knees and grabbed at his neck, leaving him exposed and vulnerable for the others to continue their attack. Ysabelle let out a battle-cry and brought her axe down on his shoulder, embedding her weapon in it with a flash of red. The ogre cried out and made a broad sweeping motion, the soldiers around him flying to the walls. Ysabelle was caught at the end of the gesture, sending her soaring to the shattered door.

The smoke parted in her wake as she exited the building with a flurry of splintered shavings, tumbling down the cobblestone path leading to Beltharu's estate. She choked out wordlessly as she came to a sliding stop, laying on her side in a twisted heap. Her left arm had snapped beneath her weight and was now resting uselessly on the pavement, her breathing becoming labored and erratic while she struggled to stand. Leonar was among the soldiers that ran out of the estate to defend the fallen knight, standing between her and the approaching ogre. She was as afraid as she had been at her first taste of battle, watching helplessly as the scene unfolded.

“You won't die while I'm still breathing, Ysabelle! We'll fight off this rampaging bastard to any end!” Leonar raised his emblazoned longsword over his head as he leaped into the air, bringing his cold steel upon the ogre's breastplate in a sundering arc. Metal parted in its devastating trail before snagging on the heavy belt. He thrust his blade forward to sink into its fatty flesh, a blow to fell the beast once and for all; a sea of crimson flooding over Leonar. The ogre dropped his warhammer and slowly teetered forward, drawing the seasoned knight's eyes upward before collapsing atop the brave soul.

Ysabelle cried out to him with an outstretched hand, but all that remained was the crushing weight of a mammoth-sized ogre and a pooling sea of thick crimson. “No! Leonar! ...Leonar!” She clutched her bloodied tabard and wept wordlessly, her vision blurring as she stared in choked desolation. Lord Beltharu and his men wearily surrounded the dead ogre, but there was no boasting, no silent defiance of any who would stand in Arathor's way. There was only a seeping melancholy and the broken demeanor of those who'd lost a beacon of humanity, a hero, and above all, a beloved friend.

-V- (Year 21: Recollection)

Ysabelle ensured Leonar had an honorable burial, marking the end of the only squire's task to carry into knighthood. It took a long time to recover from her beating, and longer still to accept the death of such an influential figure in her life. Lord Beltharu continued to suffer heavy casualties until there were only a dozen men and women in his service, Ysabelle included. Prince Galen Trollbane took over Thoras's responsibilities, and in recognizing the vastly changed circumstances since his father's rule, agreed to rejoin the Alliance.

Stromgarde's numbers had dwindled severely in the year following Thoras's death, but they weren't alone in these struggles. In the past year alone, Stratholme had fallen to plague, Dalaran was demolished, and the High Elves of Quel'thalas were slaughtered by the merciless Bastard Prince. On top of this was the growing undead presence in her homeland, who'd claimed Hammerfall as their base of operations. The world was falling apart in front of her, and hope was fading; Not only hers, but Lord Beltharu's as well.

Without an estate to return to, Beltharu and his remaining family sought shelter elsewhere, eventually reaching Refuge Pointe, where he commissioned a new estate to be built. Ysabelle followed him to join the newly-formed League of Arathor, established by like-minded survivors to reclaim their home from the Forsaken Defilers in Hammerfall. Ysabelle took on a squire who'd served as a page for Beltharu's family before Stromgarde was overrun, taking the girl under her wing as Leonar had done for her.

The following years were full of skirmishes with foes both new and old while she, with the assistance of her young squire, aided the League of Arathor to the best of her ability. She started leading a handful of Beltharu's men into battle as she learned to command others, revealing the quick-witted tactical mind hiding beneath her visage of reckless courage. She struggled to live with the fact that men and women would die under her command, but it took a toll on her. She frequently sought out Lord Beltharu's council, who shared with her his ways of coping with the great responsibility that came with leadership.

Ysabelle was promoted to Leonor's previous role of Knight-Captain after years of unwavering service to Lord Beltharu and the League of Arathor, who held a ceremony at the site of his new estate. A meticulously-woven cloak bearing Beltharu's colors was awarded to her, replacing her old faded cape. She began helping him recruit and raise soldiers, rekindling the flames of his once-respected unit. Her squire, in the meantime, grew both wiser and stronger with the passing years, trusting both Beltharu's and Ysabelle's judgment.

-VI- (Year Twenty-Five: A Sparked Flame and a Strength Rekindled)

Ysabelle was now a distinguished Knight-Captain of twenty-seven, the years turning a once-jovial child into a battle-hardened warrior of Arathor, the Alliance, and most importantly, Lord Beltharu. The estate had been rebuilt in the foothills of Alterac, which served as a base of operations for her commanding vassal's pride; disciplined men and women sworn to his, and in extension, the Alliance's service. The years hadn't been kind to Beltharu, but he and his unit persevered. His beard was gray and his head was balding, and although he may not be as quick on his feet, his commanding presence was unquestionable.

He was grooming his first son, Kelron, to inherit the house when the time came, a man Ysabelle was tasked to keep an eye on whenever he was in the field of duty. Kelron was a cautious individual. While he did share his father's charismatic approach and dutiful sense of leadership, he wasn't as courageous. He wasn't spineless, mind, but to become the head of the house, he'd first have to overcome his fears.

Ysabelle, despite all of her accomplishments, knew her true strength lied in others. Without them, she was just another soldier, perhaps more privileged in her current rank, but a soldier nonetheless. The thought that the next battle could be her last continued to nag at her, despite her relative luck so far. At least she was in one piece, something that couldn't be said for some of Beltharu's retired soldiers. Being killed in the chaos of war was as simple as standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. A stray arrow didn't discriminate between targets. It could take her life just as easily as her men's, but now was not the time for doubt.

Lord Beltharu had regained his strength. His unit flourished under his command. He began bowing to Ysabelle's wisdom with an increasing degree of frequency, collaborating with her on important tactical decisions, as well as less important ones, such as her opinion of his clothing and general philosophical discussion.

Ysabelle pulled her dusty lute case from beneath her bed after a particularly strenuous day of training recruits. She ran a hand over the smooth dusty wood with a melancholy smile, remembering the day she first played it, and how terrible it sounded. She laughed to herself and wiped a falling tear from her cheek while she began to strum the cords and carefully tune the instrument.

Beltharu's servants became accustomed to the quiet sounds of her lute, but the tunes were not jovial, nor were they boisterous and proud. They were simple, quaint, even, but they were fragile and warm; the kind of warmth that's only recognized on a particularly cold night, when even the slightest change of temperature resonates intimately with your person. They were gentle. They were peaceful. They didn't lead men to battle, and they didn't deprive beings of life, and they didn't get homesick. They were sacred to her not because of what they did, but because of what they didn't do.

There came a point when the destruction sickened her. What was once thought of as idealistic and honorable was beginning to be seen with distant eyes. Her thoughts always returned to Leonar's last stand, the death of a friend, a mentor, and a father-figure in the absence of one being destroyed by chaotic rage, by bloodthirst. Were they any different than the very enemies they fight? Was there really any honor to be had in war, or was this just an idea that had been fed to her at a young age?

“What is the point of bloodshed?” She found herself muttering aloud after strumming away at her lute, her mind distanced from the current task at hand. For a moment, she hardly recognized her own voice. It was still feminine and charismatic, but it was roughened by years of shouting commands, of waging war.

“Blood is shed to protect those you love,” spoke Kelron's voice, causing her to miss a note. She forgot she'd invited him to her quarters. “We fight so that others can live gentler lives. It's a sacrifice we must make, for if we don't, then nobody will. I believe that is the point of bloodshed.” He stood at the open doorway in silent admiration, his eyes lilting over her carefully toned arms as she idly strummed the lute.

“You're right as always, my lord.” She blushed as she spoke, but her back was facing Kelron, so she was saved from further embarrassment. She focused intently on her lute for a few passing moments before offering a slight nod. “You may come in. I could use some company after today's events.” She spoke quietly, barely audible over the fragile strumming.

He slowly walked towards Ysabelle's bed, moving with the caution of a hunter stalking silently through a glade. Each step was smooth and silent, carefully and thoughtfully placed, as if any sudden movements would startle her. Kelron sat cross-legged on the feather bed inches away from the lute-strumming knight, a practiced motion he'd become accustomed to. Their meetings always went like this. The two would sit and chat of small things into the last hours of the night before departing to their separate rooms, but something was different this time.

Kelron gently rested a hand on her shoulder in a reassuring gesture. He always knew when she was feeling down, but she rarely consoled in him. She became keenly aware of their closeness, slowly stopping her lute-strumming as her eyes lifted from her instrument to meet his gaze. Her soft brown eyes conflicted with her militaristic lifestyle, contrasting markedly her gentleness and brutality. If her hands were swords, her face was a dove; made not for war, but for peace.

And her lips were made for kissing.

-VII- (Year 27: The Frozen Wastes)

Ysabelle's squire was nearly at the end of her training, which meant it was nigh time she began preparing for the ceremonial dubbing. She thought highly of her squire, and she knew she would become a great knight, but it was with a heavy heart that she relinquished her from her service. She knew that harder days were coming for the freshly-dubbed woman.

Word reached Beltharu's estate of the growing threat in the north. As he now served the Alliance as well as Stromgarde's interests, he was honor-bound to heed the call to arms, but due to his deterring health, he couldn't risk traveling to a treacherous foreign land. He tasked Kelron with leading his men to the frigid reaches of Northrend, who appointed Ysabelle as an advisor and his second-in-command.

In all of her years, she'd never imagined leaving the rolling hills of Arathi. Her home's near-constant state of turmoil always occupied her mind. The thought of venturing into unseen horizons filled her with uncertainty and hesitance, but excitement as well. They gathered their supplies and set out through the southern pass to Menethil Harbor.

Kelron led them through the tenebrous wetlands, an aptly named marsh constantly under the threat of rain. The land made traveling slow, as their large horses and soldiers kept getting stuck in the mud. They arrived at the stone bridge leading to the port city without losing any men, which she counted as a small victory in and of itself. They boarded the massive icebreaker and awaited their briefing.

Ysabelle was seasick for most of the journey, as were the other Arathorian soldiers. They were at the ocean's mercy and couldn't wait to get back to land, but what met them wasn't what they'd imagined. She hadn't experienced the bitter cold northern air before, so their docking in Valgarde was a rude awakening. It was freezing and miserable, but she and Beltharu's men were disciplined, so they adapted without complaint.

Although the setting had changed, the principles of war stayed the same; all that was different were their foes. The keep was constantly under attack by the Dragonflayer Clan, a group of Vrykuls residing in Utgarde Keep. Lord Kelron's party was tasked with fighting them off, often riding out of Valgarde in cavalry formation to meet their forces head on before they reached the Alliance's fortress. Ysabelle fought bravely with the might of the Alliance as they started gaining ground.

Kelron's exploits brought them to the far reaches of Northrend, traveling where they were needed most as the war against the Lich King progressed. They were spared the atrocities that followed the battle at Angrathar the Wrathgate, having been locked in combat with the Drakkari of Zul'drak during the forsaken's betrayal.

Ysabelle arrived at the Argent Tournament after over a year spent on this hostile foreign continent. The knight-captain joined in various Argent activities, representing the Alliance and Lord Kelron's party as she jousted members of the Horde. She won competitions as often as she lost them, finding it easier to respect the once-disdained orc's after facing them in honorable tests of courage, but the worst Northrend had to offer was ahead of her.

-VIII- (Year 28: Fall of the Bastard Prince)

“Ysabelle! Move your men around the east bend to flank them!” Lord Kelron shouted above the clashing of bone and steel as his plated warhorse reared back, giving him a better view of the battlefield. The Scourge were flooding out of Icecrown Citadel like a broken dam giving way to water. Beltharu's unit was just one of the innumerable forces that had joined together to take on the icy fortress. Humans and orcs, elves and trolls, tauren, draenei, dwarves, forsaken and gnomes -- the races of Azeroth had banded together to collapse on the greatest threat to their world.

Ysabelle routed her men and charged around the enemy's flank, the familiar sound of thundering hooves quaking the icy land beneath them. She shattered the shambling skeletons that came across her as she cut a path for the rest of the cavalry, bolstering the enemy's flank with a commanding presence. She shouted orders above the roaring blizzard as they fought against the dark tide of haphazard Scourge. A hail of black arrows rained down on her men, but most of them failed to find the cracks in their armor, bouncing off of their plated steel. She and her cavalry looped back and forth through the enemy's line like a bladed serpent, leaving only destruction in its wake.

A cloaked skeletal mage made his presence known amongst the scourge that stormed past him, hurling bolts of frostfire across the battlefield. Ysabelle knew the destruction an arcanist was capable of dealing, so she shouted out to her cavalry. “Focus the mage before he sends us to oblivion! Take him down!” Her horse archers careened across the battlefield, dodging the undead infantries as they neared their target. The first archer loosed an arrow that soared just past his target, stopping a charging Scourge in his tracks instead. The second's arrow was closer, but the third's struck true, felling the casting corpse with a miraculous shot, but they were now out of position. A frostwyrm descended upon the battlefield breathing shards of ice on any unlucky enough to be caught in its path.

Ysabelle's unit was trapped in the blast of frost, freezing most of her men and horses solid, their momentum propelling the now-motionless icicles into the oncoming scourge. They shattered against the icy ground and barreling undead, leaving a weak point in their charge. Scourge funneled through the hole in their defenses with devastating affect as they slaughtered the soldiers they came in contact with. Ysabelle tugged on the reigns and turned her horse towards the point of contention, narrowly dodging another hail of black arrows. She and her few remaining soldiers fell back to regroup while Lord Kelron pushed the assault.

Ysabelle continued maneuvering her remaining cavalry, making repeated passes through the scourge's chaotic charge to break up their forces. This continued until her horse was killed in another hail of arrows. A lucky shot pierced through her steed's leg, causing her horse to toss Ysabelle to the ground. She tumbled and slid across a straight of ice before making contact with a large rock, shattering her right arm. She laid in a crumpled heap as the battle continued around her. She struggled to maintain consciousness.

She awoke to a dead silence broken only by a steady howling wind and the distant crunching of feet in the snow. Light struggled to filter through the slowly-parting clouds above, casting scattered pillars of incandescence across the battlefield. She spotted Highlord Tirion walking up the battered citadel steps with a band of heroes as she lay silent and still. A thin coating of snow had covered her battered figure.

She was eventually discovered by a wandering crusader who had noticed her labored attempts to move. The fallen knight was surrounded by dead scourge and men alike, half-covered by the earlier storm. He dusted the snow off of her armor and cast a holy spell to get her on her feet, helping her get back to the camp, where she would lay in a tent until her wounds were mended.

Word soon reached her of Lord Kelron's demise, but not all of Beltharu's men had met their end. Two of the twenty soldiers tasked to her had survived the onslaught. Their fates were now in the hands of Tirion and the brave adventurers that entered the citadel, and so she did the only thing she could; wait.

Ysabelle eventually made the slow journey back to Lord Beltharu's estate with the remaining soldiers. The Bastard Prince had been slain, but the victory was bittersweet, for Azeroth's losses were innumerable. She spent the majority of her thirty-first year recovering from the horrors that plagued her mind, advising Lord Beltharu while refraining from personally participating in Arathi's conflicts. The loss of Kelron had broken her will, and she needed some well-deserved rest.

-IX- (Year 30: The Cataclysm)

Unlike its neighboring regions, Ysabelle's homeland was spared of the Cataclysm. She thought it was fate's way of saying it'd seen enough strife, but the Horde had established a camp near the border. Rumor spoke of Prince Galen's grim fate, but the League of Arathor continued to fight for Arathi in the absence of Stromgarde's ruler.

Ysabelle once again raised her axe in Beltharu's name as she returned to the field of duty as his newly-appointed Knight-Champion. She's sometimes seen leading small parties of men against encroaching threats, be it man, elf, ogre or troll; orc, goblin, drake, or naga. Dead or living, spectral or elemental; any and all that threaten Arathor shall be met with the sounding drums of war, and the quaking thunder of hooves.

Skills and Abilities

[Knighthood]: Ysabelle is more battle-trained than the common warrior. She's seeped in the ways of martial discipline, be it mounted in a cavalry unit, jousting in a tournament, or fighting toe-to-toe. Her upbringing as a page and a squire has left her with a varied skill set, where she earned her first title as 'Champion of the Mundane'. She later became a champion of Lord Beltharu, serving loyally in his name.

[Beltharu's Champion]: Ysabelle is highly trusted by Lord Beltharu, the head of the noble house. While she has no influence regarding political decision, she's often called to assist him on matters of tactical warfare. She only wishes to see her home liberated of her enemies; a goal they both share with equal fervor.

He provides her with room and board at his estate in return for her years of service, in addition to her weekly wages. The House's services include a blacksmith and a stables to maintain or replace equipment and horses.

[Commanding Voice]: Her years spent collaborating with Lord Beltharu has sharpened her tactical wit. She's used to giving and receiving orders, and carrying both out with calm determination. Her shouts and battle-cries can be heard resonating across the battlefield.

Ysabelle can get a total of fourteen soldiers from Beltharu's army to be used in her vassal's interests, which pertains to dealing with domestic threats and the needs of the Alliance. She's capable of leading six cavalry, four archers (mounted or otherwise), and four infantry.

[Brutality]: A wise man once told her to choose her weapon carefully, as it reflects ones personal image. A sword is said to embody military honor, justice, and virtue -- traits Ysabelle strives to uphold. If she were nobility, wielding a two-handed sword in the name of justice would have been the favored choice. She instead chose to reflect the barbaric roots of Arathor with a battleaxe, a weapon as effective at chopping trees as felling trolls. Her foes do not die from the romanticized clean cuts of storytelling; her axe leaves their body and will dismembered and broken.

[Perseverance]: Even in the wake of devastation, Ysabelle rides calmly into battle; the sun on her back and her battleaxe in hand, the earth quakes under the familiar sound of thundering hooves. Be it man, elf, ogre or troll; orc, goblin, drake, or naga. Dead or living, spectral or elemental; any and all that threaten Arathor shall be met with the sounding drums of war. She is steadfast in her cause and enduring on the battlefield.