Brief is the silence and omnipotent the thrum of Risque's leather heel against the glossed wooden floor as the elder nightwalker advances but a single pace towards the progeny to whom she had never spared even the smallest shred of care. Isolt had always been, and would be forevermore, naught more than the fleshy, docile post upon which Risque could sharpen her grisly talons. Talons that had been taken to the redheaded damsel at every turn, at every chance that was given. Isolt's demise and subsequent reawakening had, all of it, been yet another move upon the proverbial chess board cluttered with the royalties and fallen pawns of her Maker and Tetradore. Risque had bound herself to Isolt for the remainder of what eternity they might share for the sole purpose of venegence, meant only to delve yet another dagger into the already-bleeding heart of the man who now held some value, in one manner or another, to both women.

The clack of her master's heels against the floor sends a shock wave ricocheting up Isolt's spine to pulsate against her deepest core. It is fear that writhes there beneath the newfound heft of the vengeful leviathan stirring to life for the very first time, fear that had always existed there. Fear brought to a rolling boil by the ire, the purest white hatred that screamed from every darkly-beautiful part of Risque's intransigent frame. The sound is lost though, swallowed wholly by the scuffle that follows as a pair of the wench's sycophants proceed with the execution of their mistress' unspoken desires, progressing towards the youthful vampire bearing little hesitation in their respective strides. This battle would not be brought to an end in the snapping of bones, however, for the unmistakable perfume of the undead rolled from the pair of gentlemen in waves unseen.

Isolt knew as well as any other how one might extinguish the otherwise-eternally flickering flame of a vampire's immortal soul; such knowledge had been quickly obtained when she had found herself amongst the ranks of those destined to forever haunt the night. But still does she hesitate, newfound courage, new ire, clashing harshly with the irrefutable knowledge that this young, demure woman was not yet practiced in the art of battle of any kind... much less battle with her would-be brethren. And thusly does the first attack come unseen, too fast even for she who had become quite accustomed to her own gifted velocity. The fledgling vampire finds herself upon the floor, the form of her assailants looming above her, an insidious shared smirk perched upon respective maws. The metallic tinge of her own blood against the fleshy slab of her tongue is all that registers within Isolt's mind for a drawing moment until, all at once, she bursts forth in a blur of motion. It is unclear from what tenebrific, despicable place the idea emerges; however, the redheaded nightwalker finds herself at the bar, her bar, the jagged and splintered shaft of a wooden beer tap in her hands as she spins to face the attackers who surely follow.

The viscous sound of the squelching of cool flesh sends Isolt's skin crawling against its muscular beams, though her eyes do not leave the widened orbs of the man impaled upon her makeshift stake. Surprise finds its footing in every rivet of his facade in the smattering of moments before grotesquely dark veins rise to the surface of the pale skin-tarp and then... he simply disintegrates. Steam rises in shrewd curls from the pool of blood and viscera at the feet of young vampire as her eyes avert to the second man who, upon staring in shocked quietude for a lingering moment, darts from the pub in naught more than an eerily sallow blur. She looks to her Maker then, the nucleus of all of this carnage, all of this agony... and she finds rage, searing in a hellish conflagration beyond the azure surfaces of the woman's eyes. Rage and a promise.

A promise for recompense.