isolt griffin
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

The supple tip of a single finger glides knowingly over the scripture and roses that have been etched forevermore into the soft flesh that covers her shoulder blade as she embraces herself, her digit tracing the immortalized ink as it has done on countless occasions before this. Ever since the day that they had been placed there in the aftermath of her brother's demise Isolt has gleaned a plethora of comfort, of strength, from the poetic excerpt... until now. In the past few days it had become steadily clearer that Isolt's bucket had begun to scrap the craggy bottom of this proverbial well, the verse no longer coaxing to life the blossom of fervent hope that it once had. Now she seemed only to trace these lines, her finger performing this memorized dance upon silken flesh, out of the persistent and perpetual need to occupy herself with something that was not the fulfillment of whatever command Risque had seen fit to set her with. Commands she so often failed to fulfill, whether by flaw of design or because, more oft than not, Isolt could not bring herself to perpetrate whatever atrocity the woman asked. The demure young redhead feared her far more than she had feared anything in life and certainly more than she feared anything thereafter, an axiomatic truth that the elder vampire sought to exploit by whatever avenue she was capable. Avenues that had proven macabre and many.

So taken is she by the turbulent sea of her own thoughts that Isolt fails to sense him before he arrives. His entrance is unceremonious as is his custom, the brutish man crashing through the doorway to her assigned quarters with the subtly of a sledgehammer taken to a sheet of dainty glass, calloused hands groping for the nape of her neck before clenching down as some fleshy vice grip and hoisting her unto her feet. She knows better than to defy his grasp, knows that if she were to do so the next caress he would beset her with would prove far more damaging. Better still does she know what is to follow, the timely clicking of heels upon the unforgiving floor confirming that, as so many times before, she is correct in her assumption. The raven-haired woman enters the room and it is as if all light, all hope, has bled from the world. This woman is the personification of death itself, and Isolt can do naught to stay the tremor that seeks to rattle even the marrow of her bones. No amount of time spent in the presence of this demon might have healed what has been broken.

Risque draws nigh to her, the demonic glimmer that flickers so candidly within those alluring blue eyes merely hints at what is to come... it is only an impish tease for whatever brutal act might wait around the proverbial corner. "I would expect that any progeny of mine would prove far better at the simple act of procuring," she coos, faux-seduction oozing thickly from every syllable as they curl from her practiced tongue. A single finger, tipped in lustrous black lacquer, rises to hook mercilessly into the groove of Isolt's jaw, this simplistic act resulting in an immediate and gut-roiling cringe from the trembling redhead that earns her only the tightening of asperous fingers against the vulnerable flesh at the nape of her neck. The woman's next words are whispered, yet the echo of their promise vibrates into the very depths of the young girl's soul. "I shall break you of your insolence soon enough, my child." And with that she draws away, merely a step forfeited before the blue-eyed sorceress nods ever so subtly to her masculine accomplice.

Isolt captures but a glimpse of the collar as he makes to weave it about her slender neck, numerous treacherously-pointed silver pins glistening ominously in the fluorescent overhead lighting before they delve into the tender flesh at her neck. The agony of the silver's kiss is immediate and it is mighty, the crackling sizzle of smoldering flesh a sickening orchestra to play against Isolt's choked and breathless gasp as the man at her back buckles the clasp with surprising deftness. Spindly ribbons of smoke distort her vision for an impossibly long moment, the incineration of her sensitive flesh wholly succeeding in occupying the young vampire's attention, the entirety of her lithe frame growing slack against the calloused hand that once again clasps at her neck causing the pins to burrow themselves only further into tissue and muscle. "Let us have another try, shall we?" The lilting chorus barely registers through the fracas that pain has spawned as Isolt is then ushered quite abruptly from her own quarters and thrust into the black-lit corridor that lies beyond her door.

Had circumstances differed, the young copper-crowned girl would have cowered in the darkened recesses of the industrial bar, modesty having driven her to these shadowed nooks for the attire that Risque continued to force upon her: a lasciviously corseted top that succeeded in constricting her slender frame into obscenely seductive curves coupled with leather pants that clung to every feminine slope in a way that drew the attentions of every eye time and time again. On this night, however, chagrin is eclipsed entirely by the torture of the handful of silver needles disguised quite impressively by the ornately decorated choker. She is offered not even the scantest of moments in which to recover before the harsh claw at her neck curls instead upon her arm, Risque's burly and tattooed minion forcing the quivering vampire towards the swirling mass of the waiting crowd until he deems it fitting to very nearly throw her into the fray.

Chancing a moment of whatever reprieve she might be able to pilfer from this moment Isolt leans, defeated, against the worn slab of the bar, the tremor in her body ebbing. She stills then, her eyes cast to some far off corner of the room... eyes that look but no longer see. Eyes that tell of the horrifying truth... eyes that betray that whatever scrape of Isolt that might have lingered within is dying.