isolt griffin
"Get in there," he snarls through painfully gritted teeth, depositing her quite decisively into the barren square that had been established as her quarters before nearly removing the door from its cradle in his haste to shut her in. Isolt spared a quiet moment in which to survey the space that her eyes had traveled over a hundred times or more since she had been plunged into the windowless cell. Never had the young woman been given to the tauntingly curled finger of gross overindulgence, and yet the sparse walls, barely humane cot, and laughably small wooden bureau seemed only to shed light upon the true degree of her captivity. She was Risque's captive... her mind, body, and soul slave to a woman who would only ever look upon her as some spoiled toddler might look upon a shiny new toy. Isolt was a talisman of her maker's power, a testament to strength of will that was the product of nearly seven hundred years of artisanal crafting. She was but an inmate in this place of lust and darkness.

And yet even inmates were due their yard time.

Slender fingers work diligently at the gnarled drawers of her bureau, deftly shifting about the myriad articles of scandalous clothing that Risque had dictated she wear on a nightly basis before brushing against the svelte fabric of the garments she had squirreled away for such a time as this. Never before would the demure redhead have been so daring, and yet weeks of being subjected to the presence of Risque and her barbarous entourage had dictated that she taste freedom... if only for a moment. Isolt made quick work of the wardrobe change; dark wash denim jeans set against the pleasantly light pastel of her peasant top a far more suitable homage to her former self. Swiftly pulling on a black hooded jacket with which to conceal the gaiety of her garb, the young vampire gazes at the reflection, as foreign now as it ever had been, that peers back at her through the grubby surface of the miniscule vanity.

It begins as a palpating tickle beyond her ears, subtle electricity that courses through her body in cleverly placid and titillating waves. The transformation is swifter now than it had been in the times previous, ode to the handful of hours spent in private practice of the skill that had seemed to manifest as if from nothing. A cascade of brunette locks hangs where once there had been auburn, luxuriously brown eyes swimming in what once had been a sea of crystalline blue, pale pink lips where once crimson had reigned. It was a peculiar and abjectly frightening thing to be able to alter the very fiber of one's own skin, to be able to craft this farce of your own flesh. But, in the times of desperation that had become near-constant in the life of this newly-turned vampire, such a skill continued to prove invaluable.

Exiting the confines of Syn was a feat far easier than it ever could have been before, Isolt making quick work of the block that would separate her from the nightmare of her every waking moment and the individuals that plagued her so. Deftly she removes the black shroud of her hoodie, withdrawing the illusion she has cast upon her own body and, in a matter of moments, she is herself again. Though her trajectory appears aimless the crimson-haired girl finds herself, as she has on so many occasions before this, wandering into the depths of the star-light park. It is a sanctuary of sorts, a place of tranquility and quietude in a world that is otherwise anything but. She is content to be lost in it, awash in this sea of pleasant solitude, the starlight cast from the heavens onto a waterfall of fiery curls. That is until she spies them... a couple, nestled together upon a blanket in the clearing, the intensity of their romance having blinded them to the presence of the nearby vampire. Their closeness digs painful furrows into the soft brow of Isolt, this sizzling romance seeming to cast glaring light unto all of the ways in which she, herself, is alone. Each tender lover's kiss is a scathing reminder of the life that had been stolen from her and the loneliness that would now accent every moment.

So complete is her concentration upon this blissfully innocent duo that Isolt does not feel the presence lingering behind her until the scuffling of shoes upon concrete betrays it. Gossamer curls swing as so many pendulums as the young vampire spins round to face what is surely one of Risque's posse sent to collect her, treacherously-pointed fangs unsheathed... rays of moonlight reflected in salacious beauty upon each ominous cusp.