Tales by Bess Fisher

  • Narfell DM

    “Too Fabulous” – Isolde Garibaldi: An Origin Story by Bess Fisher

    "I am pleased to chronicle for the first time, the first in a series of biographical accounts, the true and accurate story of Isolde Garibaldi's birth."

    How was a creature such as Isolde Garibaldi borne to man? You are not alone in asking, for many are the sages that have pondered this same mystery. Ponder no more, for I can reveal to you the sordid origins of this wayward redhead for the first time in print!

    It all began in a simple village in the Dales. In this simple, unassuming village there lived a simple, unassuming baker. This baker prayed daily to the gods of baked gods, which is to say all the namby-pamby gods like Sune, Lliira, Chauntea and so on who put more stock in finger-food than mythical swords or kickass champions.

    One day, this baker’s simple life was vividly interrupted by a divine revelation. He awoke in a state of religious fervour, babbling about his magnum opus (which is a fancy-arse bardspeak way of saying masterpiece). He took his life savings and closed his bakery, leaving his quiet hamlet to travel far and wide. Just shy of nine months later, he had returned, with a creaking, massive cartload of the choicest ingredients his humble neighbours had ever laid their eyes upon (and not just because they were hick villagers, it was actually good shit).

    He disappeared into his bakery for seven days and seven nights. When he emerged, he pushed before him a cart, and on that cart lay the most sumptuous, glossy and rich looking chocolate torte that mortal eyes had ever beheld. They say that season was the rainiest on record, for so inviting was this torte that Faerûn herself salivated for it!
    As he wheeled the cart into the centre of the village, the baker, until now in his prime, creaked and aged before the greedy, enraptured eyes of the townsfolk. Reaching the centre, he croaked his final words before his decrepit body gave up the ghost; “Only the worthy shall eat this torte, and change the fate of Faerûn!”

    Before his crumpled body even hit the ground of the village square, all hell had broken loose. Brother wrestled brother, mothers were strangling their daughters, as all slavered in unbridled hunger for this most auspicious of desserts. The rage lasted three days and three nights, as the torte-frenzy overtook the once sleepy Dale, the portentous dessert never losing its lustre in the centre of the madness.

    Finally, a wiry, non-descript shepherd girl managed to slip through the cacophony, and stood before the mighty meal. Proximity to its glistening, rich perfection overcame her, and she shoveled it down by the handful! Needless to say, this shepherd girl never needed to eat another morsel as long as she lived, such was the satiation she derived from this most chocolate of tortes. Nine months later, she gave birth to a wee squalling babe with a shock of vibrant red hair, and thus was Isolde Garibaldi forever carved unto the face of Faerûn.