isolt griffin
Well aware was the crimson-locked vampire of the possible consequences for the aide she proffered so readily, for no amount of kindheartedness could have dampened the inherent and primeval draw to defend oneself against any purveyor of physical pain. Intent mattered not when it came to this game; it was a measure upon this particular scale. Recollection of Raven's particular proclivity for the whims of the feral mindset weighed heavily upon Isolt in the moments that her fingers curl about the too-large hilt of the blade that ails her, the redhead unable to assuage the recollection of the primitive brutality that had blazed within the otherwise kindly eyes of her friend mere weeks ago upon the occasion of their encounter with this same blonde-haired gentleman. A sinister darkness, it could not be denied, lingered within every single creature, an oft-dormant wraith content merely to wait in faux and placated quietude until a catalyst, a vessel to what lay beyond their host, presented itself. Just as axiomatically sound, it would seem, was the notion that some demons lay far nearer to the surface than was to be hoped.

"Well you're not going to heal at all with this thing still inside of you," Isolt replied flatly, though truly the syllables are bereft the dosage of venom that very rightly could have dripped so thickly from them. To allow the blade to remain nestled so parasitically within tender flesh was an absurd notion, and one the fire-crowned vampire was entirely averse to entertaining. The notion itself evaporates in the presence of the heated moment that follows, Raven's head snapping upwards, a cage of ivory cutlery displayed beyond the fleshy curtain of the she-wolf's lip. The threat of retribution bleeds from every strung fiber of the taut form at Isolt's fingertips, and yet just as the clandestine marionette strings of instinct tug petulantly at Raven, so too do they draw the infant vampire to deflect. Urged, perhaps, by the residual adrenaline of moments ago, Isolt turns to face her companion, plump lips parting to reveal her own set of impressively treacherous weaponry. It is a matter of absolute truth that no diminutive force would have ever been capable of moving Isolt to take fang to fur in any act against Raven. And yet, for but a moment, the instinctual draw to protect herself eclipses the notion of companionship, the idea that whatever shard of Raven exists within this canine carapace would never perpetrate harm against her.

The moment is blessedly short, but a stolen breath in the grand chorus that has been their evening as Isolt returns to her crouched stance at Raven's side, the blade acquiescing to the command of her practiced gestures in a manner that is pleasing for its ease. A single delicate hand is placed with loving and gentle care upon the wound at her friend's side, the tepid warmth of blood as it oozes thickly beneath her slender fingers pinches a deep furrow into the smooth brow of the redheaded vampire before the flickering of blue eyes against her own arm draws her attentions. Blood, so obviously her own for its sinisterly dark hue, decorates Isolt's forearm in an artful spatter wrung from a wound long spliced by the fingers of immortal magic. The movement to follow is swift, innocent, and choreographed with a generous measure of stealth in order to hide her intent from Raven; Isolt's fingers swipe hastily at but a smearing of the blackened liquid before bringing it to the gaping wound at the wolf's side. The effect is near-instantaneous, the walls of the fevered lesion coming together in a way that is flawless enough to betray that the macabre gap had ever been.

Satisfied, Isolt sets back unto her heels, allowing the hand baring a thick and glistening coat of Raven's blood to fall against the sodden loom beneath her. For a lengthy few moments, the demure young woman does not bring her eyes to meet those of the wolf who had, long ago, rendered aide to a terrified and utterly lonely infant vampire curled and trembling within the muck of her circumstances. "You deserve better than them, Raven," she whispers, the words themselves coming to her lips in an unbidden moment of absolute candor, blue eyes finally lifting. "You have better than them... I hope you realize that."