isolt griffin
The felled gentleman merely glowers at the redheaded vampire as she makes to retreat a step from him, gossamer blonde locks falling in disheveled clumps upon a brow that now glistens with perspiration, light-hued eyes casting metaphorical daggers into those of his would-be aggressor. However, though ire burns a hellish inferno beyond the tar-black pits of his pupils, he does not move to rise nor does he stir to beset her with any physical manifestations of his rage. This lull in his marked aptness for violence coupled with the searing pain that has consumed her wounded shoulder has the fight pour from Isolt. The venom of her own anger flees from her as quickly as it had laid into her with its sizzling embers, leaving only the demure young woman that she had always been... vampire or otherwise.

The garbled and foreign screeching of the blonde man shatters whatever lull their might have existed between them, the intensity of the fear that consumes him seeing Isolt's spine crusted in a merciless coating of metaphorical ice. She turns as quickly as her ailing frame will allow, wincing as shards of white hot pain rocket anew along the appendage that is now useless and up her neck to lick fire through every synapse of her brain, only to see... a monstrous beast occupying the grassy patch where only seconds before Raven had stood. The familiarity that her mind supplies wages a tumultuous war with the scene that unfolds as some macabre film just before her eyes; she knows that Raven exists within the body of the gargantuan wolf lingering just before her, and yet the primeval viciousness that seems to radiate from the creature in thick waves is wholly foreign in its maliciousness.

Isolt stumbles a step back from the gruesome blood-sport that is made only more macabre with the garbled wailing of the plump gentleman; wailing that fades as if swallowed by the very trees that tower above them as silent witnesses, nullified by the approach of death's stilling hand as life's light is extinguished from the glistening surfaces of his eyes. Though the desire to avert her eyes tugs at every screeching fiber of Isolt's inner, she discovers that fear has her frozen; gawking instead at the carnage until the behemoth turns its sights upon her. A tremor of adrenal anticipation rips through her lithe frame, the vehemence of the reaction coupled with her body's own weakness nearly steals her footing from beneath her. "Raven." The syllables fall from between quivering lips, a lament and, perhaps, a plea coalescing into this single uttered word. Even had her body been whole, unaffected by the kiss of the blonde's silver bullet, Isolt knew in the deepest and most private portion of her soul that she could not bring herself to harm Raven... not even in the defense of her own life. There is naught left for her but to run, as fast and as far as her body might allow given its current state of malnutrition and disrepair.

But, just as trembling legs finally shift so that Isolt might attempt whatever escape she could, recognition whispers as some phantom thing across the gaze of the beast who draws ever nigh to her. Somewhere, and it is impossible to discern how very far down, Raven's aura shines through the choking miasma of tumultuous feral energy; and it is this realization that has the spark of hope catch into the tinder of Isolt's still heart. The young redhead winces, a cringe digging its deep furrows into the smoothness of her face as the wolf nuzzles her side before turning to the whimpering blonde. The words that filter from between bared teeth, though broken, echo the promise of further violence. Violence that would, indeed, prove far more damaging than any the youthful vampire might have waged against him. Visibly trembling, the towering gentleman moves slowly to right himself, clamoring to his feet upon legs gone gelatinous. For a long moment he does not move but to cast a spiteful glance towards the redhead and then the wolf in turn, before departing from them and into the pervading dark that lies beyond.

"We should leave," Isolt offers, her proposal shattering the silence, crystalline eyes surveying the grisly destruction scattered about them. Slowly she, too, departs, listening astutely for her companion. One arm rises to support the other, long fingers of darkened blood stretch from the circular wound in Isolt's shoulder, thin wisps of smoke curling from the silver bullet as it slowly emerges from its fleshy cradle, dislodged by her body's ethereal will to heal itself. In truth starvation hinders the process, and yet even still she can feel the flesh begin to mend around the cylindrical cavern the bullet has carved in her silken flesh. Ever so slowly the hand of her uninjured arm rises, slender fingers curling into the coarse fur of her compatriot as she had done on one occasion before this. She speaks only briefly, a single sentiment offered to the wolf before silence bleeds in once more. "I'm sorry."