isolt griffin
In the days to follow this particular incident Isolt would fiddle, quite extensively, with the notion and the suspicion that the ire she feels in this moment, the scorching and all-consuming anger, was not a byproduct of the man slumped before her. It was not he who had sowed the seed of discontent into the garden of the redhead's heart, not he would had salted the loom therein so that trust should wither and rot into so much ash. No, that crime had been her Maker's; it had been Risque's constant and successful efforts to torture the progeny she had never truly desired to make, much less nurture, which had woven anger and fear into the threads of Isolt's formerly untainted personality.

And now, with the attack upon herself and Raven, whatever previously-fortified dam had acted as catalyst between this anger and the world had surely buckled. The fissures had been too great to suppress, far too deep for any mortar to repair, leaving the animosity to wash over her as some merciless tsunami would the delicate sands of the shore. But it is not hers to quail... not this time. The fate of the antagonistic blonde Were was a precious thing placed within the hands of her companion so that she may decide what punishment, if any, should be perpetrated against him for his continued series of violent crimes against them. It is for the best, perhaps, for despite all of Isolt's anger for him and his comrades, she would no sooner be able to end his life than she would any other. Despite the wretched vessel within which it was contained, even his soul was precious, his life a thing to be cherished even with his hands plunged into such dark deeds.

Trepidation nonetheless percolates into every buzzing nerve as Raven allows their blonde assailant to limp from whence he had come, his form swallowed by the darkness that is the backdrop to their veritable battlefield. As Isolt's eyes travel to Raven's wounded and diminishing form, the seething anger dissolves from her stilled bloodstream, the youthful demureness that is her custom returning to body and mind in a moment of heavily pregnant silence. "I'm alright... but you're not." Creases pass deeply into the soft brown of the crimson-locked vampire, the wound in her companion's side a truly disconcerting thing. A soft and kindly hand passes over the she-wolf's head in some subtle showing of support and comfort whilst the crystalline blue of Isolt's eyes dissect the laceration and the dagger that has been its cause. During the relatively brief expanse of her human life, the youthful girl had possessed goals to become a medical doctor, having been accepted to a quite prestigious medical university upon the eve of her untimely death. This, it would seem, would undoubtedly serve her well at present.

Isolt knows that what is to follow would be undeniably painful, a process that required a steady and tender hand in order to lessen the damage wrought upon her friend at the hands of her former leader and his posse of miscreants. Kneeling before the patterned canine, her whisper is naught but a breath upon the night's cool breeze. "I'm going to help you, Raven, but you have to stay very still... and you have to trust me that it's going to be okay." With that, delicate fingers curl gently about the handle of the dagger, extracting the blade with precision and practiced ease.