isolt griffin
It is, perhaps, a deeply fortuitous sequence of events that Isolt's time spent confined within the snaking corridors of Syn had transpired without knowledge of Harley's departure. Thoughts of the raven-haired woman's presence had proven the only thing that Risque could not take from her, a phantom solace that had been clung to in the cataclysmic desperation that had dictated every second in the wake of Isolt's murder. The elder vampire and her emerald-eyed counterpart had successfully pilfered from her everything that had once been deemed of value, everything that had ever mattered... with the sole exception of the knowledge and ethereal certainty that her dearest friend existed safely beyond the walls of that nightmarish place. It was this thought that had shone as a beacon of light within the otherwise-impenetrable darkness. A light that, in this moment, flickered and coalesced into the shaded ether as if it had never been, leaving Isolt to crouch into the fine film of dust that had gathered on smooth wood of Harley's floor in her absence.

She does not flinch nor does she move to distance herself from the green-eyed individual she has come to fear as much as she fears his devilish mistress. They, both of them, were the eager hands of Death itself, and yet in this moment of greatest anguish the young redhead cannot bring herself to move from him. The distance he offers is, for now, acceptable... if only just. Delicate lids clench tightly over blue eyes that shine brighter than they ever had in life, fighting a battle that is already lost against the thick crimson tears that threaten just beyond the thin fleshy veils. As much as Isolt fears relenting to the vice-like grip of sorrow as it clenches around every piece of her, as much as she dreads allowing him to witness her crumble ever further, she cannot find within herself the strength to do much else. Red-rimmed eyes wander from him, skimming idly over the empty space... looking but no longer seeing. Her mind fights valiantly against the tenderness of his words; the knowledge that he is an expert artisan in this particularly salacious craft has been a lesson learned the hardest way.

"No," Isolt nearly whispers, crimson locks swinging as gossamer pendulums with the shaking of her head. "I should have come back after th-... after that night. I could have, but I was afraid. I was so afraid about what she would think of me that I just left her here all by herself." She surrenders wholly then, for there are no words left (and surely the ones she has spoken fall so embarrassingly short) that might justify the gravity of what she has done. Isolt had abandoned the single person, apart from her late brother, who had stood beside in her all things, glory and tribulation alike, for all of the moments of her life... because of her own uncertainty, her own fear. This thought alone is resounding, wholly consuming the timely approach of the disheveled vagabond, Isolt's eyes cast immediately from the shock of his nudity, though it is perhaps homage to the might of her emotional distance that she utters not a single syllable. The auburn-haired vampire offers no assurance, no rebuttal, and no explanation for truly the questions he poses wither in the choking shade of her inner turmoil, his confusion failing to trouble her as it might once have.

Only the subtle click of the metallic tube as it rolls innocently to her feet coaxes the demure young woman from the miasma of her thoughts, a curled finger to draw her even this small bit closer to reality when she wished so vehemently to stray. But no further can she stray as the methodical clicking of heels echoes in the barren halls of what had once served as her homestead. It is a small thing, a noise that could have easily been ignored, and yet so momentous have the last months been that the familiar echo sees Isolt's head snap to Harley's doorway. The clicking of heels had nearly always heralded some manner of suffering, whether emotional or otherwise... the clicking of heels had always foreshadowed her maker's arrival. And though the young woman who appears is the farthest cry from the elder vampire she fears so, Isolt rises slowly to her feet, blue eyes ever watchful as the pretty brunette joins the gentlemen before her.

All words, and it is doubtful that any exist, collide with the fibrous knot that has gathered in Isolt's throat as she slowly moves to retreat from the trio. The disheveled young man is the only person in the room with whom she holds even a modicum of fond familiarity, and even this is so distant, so insignificant, that it is eclipsed in its entirety by the realization of just how close he is with the emerald-eyed reaper. The numbers are daunting, the odds stacked against her; Isolt is no match for her tormentor and his companions, she teeters upon the precipice of starvation and really her demeanor dictates that she might deal them only so much damage were they to set themselves upon her. A crimson tear traces its squalid heat down the otherwise perfect pallor of Isolt's cheek as her back collides decisively with the wall. A decided lack of her usually intense modesty dictates that she does not move to wipe it away, nor does she seek to cover her rather scandalous state of dress... she merely waits for whatever is to come.