isolt griffin
It had come upon her in the depths of one cool night.

Raven's townhome had been left empty, the two young women who had acted as her impromptu roommates having vacated the premises in pursuit of some mysterious venture that had, Isolt presumed, been concocted at least in part so they might not have to abide her presence for the greater portion of the evening to come. Not that she minded terribly, the redheaded woman having long ago suppressed the headache bred by their sidelong glances of apprehension and the subtle and ever-present tension that seemed to choke the corners of every room. And so this night she had wandered, seemingly aimless, padding about the place in a thoughtful daze that had been very nearly trance-like.

When the pain had come, a crippling throb that had pulsed and writhed behind the cage of her breastplate, it had driven Isolt to her knees, a series of breathless gasps torn from her as the sharp crescents of her fingernails grappled for purchase against the smooth flesh of her chest. It was as if her heart, that lifeless mass that had hung uselessly within her chest for so weeks now, had once more been coaxed to beating. She had knelt there, crumpled and weakened, for what seemed an eternity, spindly avenues of blood leaking from her ears in a timely trickle before she felt it... an urge, a pull. A pull that had near-instantly set her ailing body to motion, leading her beyond the threshold of Raven's home and unto the proverbial grid that was the streets of Sacrosanct... directly to the black-lit and darkened doorstep of a place that Isolt had promised herself she would never lay eyes on again. Syn. And yet each curving letter casting its eerie neon glow unto her upturned face had confirmed, beyond even the minutest shadow of a single doubt, that she was here again. The young vampire had fought valiantly to flee from the stoop of this place that had been part of her every nightmare, but panic and pull had taken their knives to the decrepit shards of her shattered heart until she could do naught but stumble through the doorway and into the world she had so long been running from.


Her soft and slender digits tremble as they curl about the doorknob, the continual glacial wash of fear having pilfered from her every last store of energy to which she might otherwise have been privy. The demure young redhead desired nothing more than to coalesce into the dismal dark of her assigned quarters, to disappear into the ether and escape from the blue-eyed fiend that ran this establishment and her ever-present emerald-eyed manservant. These considerations twirl haphazardly within a mind that, once filled to the brim with the most innocently childlike hope, could now focus on naught apart from sorrow and disenchantment.

The doorknob is wretched from her slackened grasp by one of only a few of Risque's legion of loyal imps, this particular individual a rather husky, towering boulder of man who seemed to take particular pleasure in tormenting the youthful redhead. For a moment only the most pregnant silence sloshes about in the void betwixt man and vampire, the muddied brown orbs of his eyes caressing every curve of her body with practiced diligence as was so often his custom. He was wanton and unabashed in his appreciation of the corseted top that accented every feminine curve, the garment itself representing only part of a required uniform put into effect by Risque herself... a stipulation that was policed ferociously by not only the bar's vampire owner, but the hulking gentleman who stood before her. "Hunter's in the crowd tonight and the Boss wants you to keep an eye on her," he barks into Isolt's sensitive ears as she slithers around the widened girth of his frame, slender arms rising to cross against the garment that constricts her body into seductive curves. Isolt had always been given to modesty in all things, and death had not succeeded in changing this or any other quirk of her personality.

The young woman finds herself at the bar before her mind fully realizes that it is done, an amiable and fangless grin offered to the woman that had been indicated. The experience Isolt has had with Hunters, albeit brief, has engrained the deepest of fears within her consciousness. And it is for this reason that she must tread exceptionally careful. It is to Isolt's extreme merit that the tumult of her inner self does not bleed unto the fabric of her outward façade, for though the smile she offers appears poised, inside the demons of her own terror have begun to once again gnaw away at whatever wherewithal she might have left. "That's a lovely dress," she coos, genuinely taken with the subtle glimmer of the crimson fabric. "Where did you get it?"

Yes Isolt, tread so very carefully.