isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

Isolt's mind had already begun to elevate itself above the present, to travel beyond the carnage that pooled at her feet, anticipatory scenarios of how the next few hours might unfold already unfurling within her head at a remarkable velocity. These contemplations were not the offspring of cowardice and fear as both men seemed intent upon asking her. Her trepidation was not for the inevitable appearance of the elder vampire upon her doorstep, but rather for a wavering confidence in our own proficiency in holding together the fraying patchwork of peace that had been wrenched at its seams mere moments prior. It was not for herself that she need worry, but for the assemblage of companions to whom she had dedicated herself to protecting, for it was always with them in mind that she came to any decision for and in regard to Elysium. The piercing shard of doubt that she might fail them in this was the cause for the crease furrowing her brow as she walked in heavy silence towards the waiting vehicle. A slight, somber shaking of a fire-crowned head is all the response she proffers to Arlo's rebuttal. This was not, and had surely never been, what it was about. What they were about. Maybe he would allow her to show him one day.

Maybe.

For now, however, there were far more pressing matters at hand than settling the misgivings of a wayward vampire. Isolt extends her hand silently towards her lover, beckoning wordlessly for the keys to the Mustang that had once been her brother's before positioning herself effortlessly within the driver's seat. It is with the purring of the engine that they take their leave of the carnage in their wake, Isolt catching Arlo's glances in the reflection of the rear-view mirror in a pregnant moment of silence. Without uttering a syllable does she flick a single switch to allow him the reprieve he seeks.

The vampire queen speaks then, pointedly neglecting to offer either gentleman the weight of her glances as she does so. "No, I'm not afraid of him, but I also don't relish the visit that I'm inevitably going to get. That's why we're headed to the pub, because that's where he'll come looking for me. I would rather he find me there than in the middle of a pool of his coven's blood." The lilt of her tongue, though not unkind, leaves precious little room for rebuttal or further query after any presumed fear on her behalf. And then, perhaps out of realization of the perceived verbal slice does the barest hint of a simper tug at the brims of her cherried lips. "On that note, you both owe me a new pair of shoes. I'll never be able to get the blood out of these."

Their arrival upon the doorstep of Red on the Water is swift, the stone steps lit only by the halo of a single latern as hours prior had seen the establishment closed for the night. Ushering her gentleman companions inside, Isolt meanders beyond the crescent of the bar to place three tumblers upon its polished surface. It is unclear why she seeks to serve them as she does, given the circumstances surely libation should have been at the bottom of the laundry list of far more urgent concerns that pulled and prodded at her. Perhaps it is only a guise, employ for idle hands. Whatever the reason, the auburn-haired woman fills two glasses to the brim from a carafe of warmed blood stowed away for their vampiric patrons. The third, though, does she fill with her own blood, sinking her fangs into the tender flesh of her wrist to allow the eerily-dark ribbons of blood to find their way into the waiting maw of the glass vessel. Without a word, Isolt nudges the tumbler towards Arlo, offering him the gentle quirking of a lip and a knowing glance.

The good-natured simper evaporates nearly as swiftly as it had blossomed, withering to ash upon the cushions of her lips at the hardly gentle rapping upon the pub's oak door. An irrefutable announcement of the arrival of their awaited guest. Isolt straightens, subtly squaring the line of her shoulders before making short work of the distance which separates the gleaming wooden bar from the entrance to her dominion. The night's cool zephyr toys with a stray copper curl as she swings the door ajar to reveal a regrettably familiar face. Xavier towers above the youthful Supreme, as broad and laced with piles of muscle as he is tall; however, and for reasons unknown, Isolt had not and did not even in this moment fear the man who stood before her. "Xavier," she offers by way of greeting as her counterpart imparts her with a notably unsettling smirk. "Isolt," he growls, coal-black eyes meandering in entitled leisure down the slope of every curve in a manner that has her, for the first time this evening, regretting her chosen garb. "You look positively ravishing tonight. Might I have a word?" It is a hardly a request, this she knows, and one he knows full well she will not deny him. Not this night.

A curt nod of approval is all she offers her guest, leading him in the direction of the pub's office, casting a glance to her lover for she knows all too well of the possibility that he may seek to impede the privacy required by this meeting. In her eyes she forbids it; right now, tonight, she requires his absence from the negotiations that lay ahead in a harrowing and proverbial minefield.