isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

Given a different collection of circumstances Isolt might have conceded to the nagging curiosity that had always found itself perched upon her shoulder at any given moment, in any given situation. She might have mulled over the consideration of his making... had he consented or had the decision between life and what lay beyond been pried from his hands as it had been from hers? Had it been as utterly disastrous, as heinously and painfully wretched as her own death at the tips of Risque's fangs? Truly, the redheaded woman could imagine no alternate description for such a transition beyond the mortal realm; surely there could never exist a silver lining to that particular looming nebula.

Given different circumstances she might have entertained consideration of these notions... she may have even queried after their answers, but it is the manner in which this red-eyed stranger moves about that has the fine cords of muscle tensing in Isolt's shoulders. He conducts himself in an overtly predatory manner, though truly she has made no move to provoke him. The vampire queen finds herself bristling as he shifts himself nearer to her, issuing his terse response through clenched teeth. "That she did," she offers flatly, succeeding (for the moment at least) in keeping the serrated barbs of tension from her own voice, "but that does not mean that we are hers." Content to have this decidedly unsettling interaction draw to a close sooner rather than later, Isolt moves as if to pass the peculiar young man... only to find him yet again blocking the path that she intends.

The fire-crowned woman must put forth effort to keep the pearly daggers of her fangs from revealing themselves as Cobain moves ever closer, the intensity of his attention this time afforded to the impressive swell of her belly. Despite her forgiving nature, her predisposition for benevolence, he would be fool to shift himself closer, to make even the most minute attempt to touch her. She had found in this ordeal that her maternal instincts had endured through the destruction of death. It is an axiomatic truth that, in these moments, makes her far more dangerous than her counterpart might be given to realize.

The line he toes is treacherous.

Isolt's hands come up to settle protectively upon her swollen stomach, a warning of sorts casting its tenebrific shade unto the otherwise quite angelic azure of her eyes. She allows his assertion to pass into the ether without reply, having collected comments such as this from the very moment that her impossible pregnancy had become apparent. The tale of how this pregnancy had come to be is not his to hear, and so she will not dare to allow him this secret. But his query, this draws a stitch into the supple plane between her manicured brows, her tone baring a note of defense... slight though it might have been. "No," she affirms concretely, "she is not like us."