isolt griffin
It is difficult to say with any true modicum of certainty why it is that she has chosen the park for this evening's ventures. Her quest for this eve is very much the same as it had been for those that had come before it... a quest for a reminder, a reason to be found for why she might choose to linger here. For a great and generous while following her untimely death, the fledgling vampire had bartered with herself to remain within Sacrosanct, where so few beautiful memories were left to battle the tumult within... tainted and battered by the circumstances that had been dealt her. And so why she had chosen the park, where no good fortune had ever befallen her, was an enigma to which there was no concrete solution. Perhaps the answer required no scrupulous dissection; perhaps Isolt had merely chosen this locale for its isolation, for its solitude and the impenetrable quietude that was its trademark.
Quietude that was abruptly splintered by the frantic skittering of pigeons within the dried and discarded undergrowth... and the echoes of footfalls upon the same carpet of fermenting flora. With a certain measure of hesitance does the young auburn-haired girl rise to her feet, crystalline eyes gleaming in the moonlight as they swivel about, surveying the pregnant shadows that writhe before her. An ineffectual effort it would seem, for it is the thickly-accented voice of the unseen that greets her rapt ears moments before she is to lay eyes upon his figure. "So we meet again, Vampire," comes the sickly sweet notes upon the night's crisp zephyr, the telltale German heft of each syllable breeding a phantom chill to kiss the deadened nerves along the curvature of her spine. He emerges, looking every bit as domineering as he had during their previous encounter, the flame of hatred, of vengeance, a tangible thing as it burns within his light-colored eyes. "You will pay for what you and the monster have done." The words are a mere whisper, a verbal kiss to which Isolt can no sooner formulate a response before a chorus of low rumbles seeks to rattle the marrow of her bones.
Canine figures emerge, birthed of the shadows, to encircle the slender redhead, their cacophony of snarls mounting until they are very nearly deafening. Isolt's eyes flicker to the approaching figures for a moment marked by brevity, mounting anxiety dictating that she dared not remove her eyes from the blonde gentleman before her for too long a time. And it is rightly so, for as his eyes bore into hers, a subtle nodding of his head heralds the gnashing of teeth and the sudden rushing of paws upon earth.