isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

Her eyes remain fixed upon him. Fixed upon him as if in so doing she might see the rest of the world simply fall away as so much withering ash set asunder by the sheer force of her will... to leave only the two of them and the truth of those three words that his lips carve from the pregnant silence just for her. How many times had the ferocity of her want for those words upon his lips blazed to life within her in a manner that was both exhilarating and torturous? A number painful to admit, even privately. But oh how tragic for such an admission to be made when he could neither truly utter it and Isolt was helpless to offer her reply. Instead do her brows stitch closer as Risque seeks to rob the pair of this moment as she had done so very many things countless times before this.

Yet still do the dazzling cerulean of Isolt's eyes remain steadfast upon her companion even as the smooth veneer of his human flesh peels away, parting obediently for the ebony feline that uncoils in its stead. Her eyes do not take leave of his even as Risque's voice permeates a space that suddenly feels far too confined, the woman's words a hateful and raucous bludgeoning to her eardrums, their content the very meaning of insidious. Nor do they part from him even as the first, impish tongues of trepidation lick against the base of her spine, pulling the tarp of her flesh taut against the muscle beneath to expose a field of gooseflesh and calling the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck to attention. This, and the manner in which her stomach roils in a grotesque display of visceral acrobatics, prove sensations that had almost become foreign to the fire-crowned vampire Supreme; phantom sensations summoned from a time when a warm and beating heart had still bade them.

The tremor finds her then, setting Isolt's limbs atremble with such incredible ease that she may well have believed herself overcome with the frailties of mortality once again. She lowers herself to the worn and weathered wood beneath her, moving as if suspended in the gelatinous maelstrom of a dream, though hardly does she feel her knees as they collide with the floor below for just as they do so her lungs constrict as if pressed by an unseen vice, breath that has gone unneeded for many years suddenly sought with such desparation that it, too, breeds its own manner of panic. A series of gasps punctuate the silence; gasps that, though they sting the emptiness of her chest, go unheard by the grounded woman, the final sensation to land its proverbial arrow within her body proving the most unnerving. All that Isolt can hear is the profound racing of her own heart within her ears. Yet still do her eyes remain fixed upon Tetradore's, seeking with such paramount desperation to cling to reality that she knows lies beyond the suffocating effluvium of impending doom.

But, whether little by little or all at once cannot be rightly determined, some unseen well within the young woman spills over, some clandestine dam succombs to the fissures wrought by her companion's manipulation and a most ghastly scream rips itself from her gullet. She does not look at him then. She cannot, for somewhere beyond the labrynthine web of blazing synapses and expertly-crafted horror lingers the realization that he is the cause of everything. Instead does she wither in upon herself, her lithe body folding easily, crumbling as readily as a handful of brittle leaves, hands pressed tightly against her ears... whether to deafen the resonance of her own shrieking or to stymie the unearthly tempo of the heartbeat in her ears, she does not know. Nor, in this moment, could she spare the consideration even the slightest care.

It seems unending, the onslaught of the pure, undiluted terror that holds her betwixt clawed fingers, sobs punctuating the otherwise perpetual screams that take their leave of her. However, unseen and largely unfelt by the ailing Isolt, a shift begins within her. A power that she had not, herself, discovered unfurls as delicately as the petals of a long-slumbering midnight blossom. Something inside of her simply and purposefully collects the metaphorical reins, leading the sobbing vampire from the nefarious avenue of terror that Tetradore and his mistress had set her upon and turning her, instead, towards something largely akin to... exhilaration. Her screams transform to laughter, though it would have been folly to believe that such a sound was bred of any manner of true elation, her eyes lift once more to Tetradore's though they hardly linger. Instead do they seek their shared mistress; no sooner do Isolt's eyes flicker to the diabolical entity lingering to the side then her body is called to action, pulled upwards as if by the illusion of orderly marionette strings. Immortality had gifted the young woman speed the likes of which would have been hard to equal, bringing her before her Maker in the batting of curled lashes. Isolt's clenched fist rises to meet the maw of the woman who had heralded her untimely end, striking with the same vigor and intent that Harley had always taught her in their youth. Adrenaline was her conductor now, adrenaline forced upon her by the very woman that stood before her. It may have been this that ushered the words from her lips, words perched upon the gales of laughter still roiling about in her chest.

"Come on, Risque, if you want to hurt me... do it yourself."