isolt griffin

Her thoughts all but cease for a time, evaporating as curled plumes of dispatched smoke into the heady and shaded ether as she finds herself frozen before this stranger and his brandished weapon. Her emotive self is transported for the barest moment to a time when such hostility had been employed against her in a normative fashion, when the gentle vampire had known such retched aggression at the hands of her Maker and all those misguided souls in her employ... for sport and, in some cruel way, for posterity. The scenario had differed, of course; however, the bloodlust, the ire in the eyes of her adversaries proved eerily similar... and the myriad correlations between past and present set Isolt's teeth on edge.

It is but the smallest of blessings that Davante materializes in the haze of the doorway mere moments later, Isolt's faith that he might somehow defuse the situation at hand bolstered momentarily by the soothing tone of his voice as it dispatches the words of a foreign tongue. It is a faith that falters, though, frays at its very seams, in the face of this same tongue snarled from the cracked lips of the intruder moments before his weapon is diverted to the newborn and his still-sobbing mother. And then... a cruel demand, the English fractured and yet never could Isolt have been ignorant to what he commanded of her. "Dav." The lament is all but choked out, strained to pass the fibrous knot that has clenched within her throat as the youthful vampire raises a gloved and bloodied hand in some miniscule, innocent attempt to assuage the ire of the infant's armed father. Yet in the moment that Isolt's eyes move pleadingly from the man before her to Davante, the sole nucleus of familiarity amid this veritable galaxy of uncertainty... a deafening blast ricochets within the confined chamber within which they stand.

Isolt does not hear the symphony of cries given from the lungs of the mother, the infant, and the midwife; she does not hear the words of the angered man though her eyes skate over his moving lips. She does not hear anything, no, save for the ringing in her own ears; however, she feels the rush of cool blood as it seeps in a slow rivulet from the bullet wound in her chest. Peculiar that... she had barely been given to feel the incident itself. It is a consideration born of startled numbness that is shattered as the domineering fellow takes a commanding step forth, raising his weapon as if he might move to strike the auburn-haired girl. "I said get out of the WAY," he roars, though the cacophony of his tirade is severed, cut short by the closing of Isolt's falsely-delicate hand about his throat as she lifts him from the cabin's dirt-packed flooring. Ivory fangs pinch at the pouty cushion of her bottom lip, a basal response to the threat he surely possesses to Isolt and those that she yearns so desparately to protect. She is lost to her darker urges for a moment, those urges she had battled against in every moment of this afterlife, those urges that had been given to her with the placing of Risque's blood. The vampire woman could feel the blood as it pooled at her fingers, robbing her aggressor's brain of the blood, of the oxygen for which it thirsted.

And then, all at once, the spell of her primal desires is broken, shattered by the vehement humanity of her logical self. Isolt releases her captive, the brutish man falling to her feet, sputtering pathetically for the air he has been denied. She looks to Davante then, her eyes pleading... her expression one of shock, of terror.