isolt griffin
The sensation of his spindly bones rolling about unfettered beneath the calloused tarp of his skin, shattered and parted by the strength that death and Risque's blood had owed her, was oddly satisfying. This is not a conscious consideration, for should the thought have occurred to the redhead outright, she might have cringed at her macabre tendencies even in this moment of abhorrent and unadulterated rage. More alluring still is the fragrant aroma of the man's blood as it courses through his system, urged onward with each heightened and thick thrum of his laboring heart. In this torment of near-starvation there were very few things she would not have given for even but a few ounces of the precious liquid that lay so very close beneath that tender surface. For a moment striations of lilac burst from beyond Isolt's pupils to mingle with the sea of blue in her irises, a silent testament to the hunger that nearly cripples her with the severity of its merciless grasp. But she does not move to delve her treacherous fangs into the succulent flesh of the man's neck, because deep down in the privacy of her heart she knows that she cannot be that. She cannot be the monster that Risque had sought to make.

The insistent brush of Raven's caress draws the attention of the fledgling vampire, enough so that her would-be captive is given to free himself from the clutches of his fanged assailant, foreign curses spat in petulant whispers as the blonde retreats from her. Far from acting as the soothing balm Raven might have desired, her muttered words of assurance herald anything but, and instead roll as water beads from Isolt's back. Confusion and, perhaps, frustration carve valleys into the supple tenderness of her façade, crystalline eyes searching in earnest for sensibility through this veneer of forced passivity. Raven holds back, some internal war raging within that hints just beneath the deadened surface of her eyes... but for what purpose? "Some friend," Isolt whispers, her own words baring just as many subtle barbs as Raven's had, the young redhead extracting her arm from the grasp of her counterpart with perhaps more force than was truly intended.

A timid lilt comes the voice of the plump man, the confining chains still clasped within his hands, the fragrance of his mounting apprehension bubbling from every pore and stinging the delicate senses of the copper-crowned vampire. The plump cushion of a lip curls slightly in derision that is hardly veiled, betraying only ire for this man who would bind her friend and presume to caution her against the same. "Priceless coming from the man with the chains," she hisses, oceanic eyes burning beautifully, backlit by the flames of her anger. The distraction he poses, even for the barest moment, proves detrimental... invaluable even in its brevity. Isolt hears the click, muffled by the garb within which it is concealed just before the flash of chrome heralds searing agony as the silver bullet lodges itself in the meaty wrap of her shoulder. A breathless gasp liberates itself from her throat, Isolt's lithe body caving somewhat as the metal burns away within, the rotten eau of blazing skin stinging her nose and sending her stomach to rolling. The dark crimson of cool blood seeps from the opening in the pallor of her flesh, venomous words spat at her from the too-thin lips of the blonde gentleman as he releases Raven to draw near his quarry. "Zur Hölle fahren, Vampir."

It is this, it would seem, that coaxes action from her. For though she is helpless to the true meaning of his foreign words, Isolt is aware that he means to do her further harm... that he means to be rid of the crimson-haired vampire and the threat she personifies in one way or another. It is to his detriment; however, that Isolt has gained some passing knowledge of the strength she harbors. Limited though it is, it is knowledge that, even in her current state of malnutrition, she is stronger than he is. She is upon him before he can but bat her a single eyelash, the weapon tumbling to the earthen loam at their feet as his entire forearm is twisted in the vice-like grasp of the vampire before a well-placed fist collides solidly with his jaw and he is sent stumbling backwards.

She means to leave him there, for she truly desires to attack him no further... she is, after all, hardly a monster. So tumultuous are her thoughts, though, that Isolt does not hear the gun as it is gathered within the clutches of the chain-wielding man at her back... the weapon raised and locked onto the back of the young redhead, a single plump finger clenching ever tighter upon the metallic curve of the trigger.