isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

The tension was a palpable thing, Tetradore himself seeming to exude it in horrific waves that crashed against Isolt's every sense. It was a bitter stench that she could nearly taste as it settled as bile upon her tongue. His heart thrummed vigorously within its bony cage, the quickened pulse of it tapping against her hand as it rested insistently upon his chest. She had never born witness to her companion in such a state; a man so full to the brim with practiced austerity and calm that he had drawn her envy so very long ago. Now, though, he was frantic, stripped of his emotional restraint in a manner so plainly absolute that it served to plant the seed of dread within her mind's furtile loam. What could have possibly bred the aura of disquiet within this man of so very few fears?

His answer invites a quizzical expression to the woman's delicate features, though quickly does her veneer harden into something much more akin to skepticism with the realization of exactly to whom he was referring. He did not speak her name... he did not have to. However, rather than succombing to the budding fear within her as was surely the most accurate reaction to such an epiphany, Isolt's fire-crowned head issues a slow shaking to echo what is perhaps a diluted form of exasperation. "No," she states plainly, fixing her counterpart with a gaze marginally more authoritative than he may have been accustomed to from the vampire damsel. "I felt it, I felt the stake go into her heart. Tet, I felt it in my heart that she died." Subconsciously does a single hand travel to the expanse of silken flesh over her heart that had, in the aftermath of their shared defeat of the undead wretch, born the hideous mark of the deed that she had done. "It was a nightmare, okay? She came for you in a dream, I have them all the time."

The aroma bludgeons her the barest moment before the words reach her ears, an aroma that had curled and constricted about her olfactory sensors every moment of every day that the young redhead had been confined within that villainous cesspool. It was the allure of pheromones coupled with the promise of agony, both emotional and physical, baring notes of such insidiousness that Isolt could never fully anticipate what it would herald. No jubilation, no calm, had ever come of that fragrance. Isolt's eyes, glistening anew, bore into Tetradore's for a long and suspended moment as if to speak the unspeakable before slicing to the woman who had been the purveyor of such sorrow and anguish.

Risque seemed to slither from the darkness of the foyer with all of the practiced ease of the serpent, Isolt rising from her perch upon the table in the same moment in what could have been a dance of sorts were it not so subtle. Her petite nose bunches, cherry lips curling in the afterthought of a sneer upon features that were traidtionally so angelic. "I was a woman when we met... or have you forgotten?" It is impossible to discern from whence the words had come, even this miniscule display of defiance so uncharacteristic of the younger vampire in her dealings with the woman who had slain her. Perhaps it is the unadulterated panic that is evident in every part of the man seated at her quaint dining room table that coaxes this from her... or, perhaps, the presumptuous ease with which Risque saunters about her home, her sanctuary. Whatever the reason, Isolt issues a single, resounding, and inviolable command. "Get out of my house, you hateful bitch."