isolt griffin
It could never have been confidently and rightly presumed that Isolt would be meant for this. That she might somehow morph into an equally as savage facsimile of the dark-haired cretin that had sought to destroy her. The palette of her demeanor could never have proven so dark, so macabre, as to be able to serve her maker in the ways that the elder vampire demanded. The young redhead had failed so miserably in all of the proverbial arenas within which Risque had seen fit to throw her for she was bereft the practiced brutality that her maker quested for with such unadulterated lust. No matter how the other vampire might have wished it, Isolt was not as Risque was and no amount of pillaged lifeblood, gifted fangs, or ancient enchantment would ever truly come to bind them to one another. And so there had always existed the certainty that, should the two immortal beings ever encounter one another again, something would be forced to give way... some imperceptible and constrained dam would buckle beneath the insurmountable pressure of two souls never meant for harmonious co-existence.

Perhaps it came as no surprise that the broken soul, the soul devastated and crushed by the will of the other... was Isolt's.

The spheres of her eyes swiveled about listlessly within the alcoves of their sockets, a tedious dance not choreographed by either rhyme or reason. A movement dictated solely by Isolt's clandestine need to remind her conscious self that she was, indeed, present. That this was no nightmare crafted by the artisan hand of slumber, no dream from which she might shake herself awake. The faces of these strangers and the indefinably wretched pain in her neck seemed to verify the reality of her present. So consumed is she by the pervading numbness of her consciousness' attempted evasion that Isolt senses his presence far later than she would otherwise have desired. The girl with the mane of crimson hair has made valiant attempts to avoid the individuals who haunt this fetid place in endless pursuit of their bloodlust and devilish intent; however, perhaps the singular individual she avoids with just as much vigor as she does the bar's iniquitous matron is the man with the emerald eyes.

Isolt spins to face him, the movement itself far more sluggish than would have been expected of a vampire; her slackened pace betraying the desecration of will power, as does the predominately vacant look with which she fixes him. In truth, she does look at him as much as she peers through him and to the crowd beyond. Surely whatever agenda he seeks to satisfy has been crafted largely by their mistress, and in truth he is hardly the first wayward gentleman to attempt to subdue her in the many darkened recesses of Syn's labyrinthine space. This time, however, Isolt does not immediately move to stay his attempts at whatever lurid savagery his mind has concocted on Risque's behalf. Not until he draws nearer to her, his calloused hands reaching for the apparatus at her neck does Isolt react with what remains of her survival instincts, dainty hands clasping with surprising strength about his wrists.

And yet his digits do not linger upon lace, nor do they appear intent upon clenching, forcing the sadistic barbs further into punctured and parted flesh. Instead his fingers work fruitlessly at the buckle of this beautifully ornamental farce, the sizzling of burning skin crackling unheard beneath the raucous cacophony that surrounds the duo. It is when his lips seek the collar and, by extension, the tenderness of Isolt's flesh that the tremor rips through her body and nearly robs her of her footing. The deadened weight of her body begs support of the wooden bar at her back, the grip she maintains upon his wrists tightening as his teeth gain purchase upon the lace and metal that constitute her collar and, for but a moment, Isolt's eyes fall to a close in preparation of what will certainly follow. Surely the kindness with which he had regarded her in the clearing and his attempts to ease her agony now have only been a ploy so that he may have whatever it is he seeks. But then... he draws away, heralding the most welcomed relief as the silver thorns are eased from the flesh at her neck.

The heavenly azure of her eyes appear from beyond closed lids and for the first time in the weeks since she had been dragged back to this hellish place, Isolt sees him... truly sees him. Relief and calm echo in a distant flicker within eyes that are otherwise lifeless, evidence that perhaps all is not lost. Isolt releases him then, delicate fingers traveling to her neck as parted flesh mends of its own volition, leaving only the supple expanse of before. The tenderness of his words begs clemency of the redhead who wishes only to withdraw from him as she had done before, to slither about in darkened corners so that she might not catch the attentions of him, the man who had ushered her to the mouth of the leviathan that had consumed her. She fears him in the basal manner in which instinct dictates that she must, and yet she whispers her gratitude to him, her own words seeping as honey beneath the music that blares to deafening highs in the background. "Thank you."

But it is not to last, this moment of salacious calm amidst the tumult of Risque's unending circus of blood and booze. It is but a helpless bud to the crashing storm of her making, cut down in the dawn of its rather short life. "HEY! What the fuck is going on here?" He appears as if from the shadows, a feat owing some merit given his heft but one that is an homage to what he is... just another of Risque's feline lackeys whose presence is maintained by a proverbial leash that cannot be seen but is surely felt. And yet, aside from the emerald-eyed man beside her, this gentleman poses Isolt the greatest threat for it is he who abides her actions so intimately... he who tells of her failures and guarantees that punishment is swift and cruel. Punishment that so often comes of his own hand.

He reaches for her now as he has done on more occasions than Isolt cares to recollect, no doubt confident that he will have her as easily as he has done countless times before. Confidence that wanes in a single beautiful moment of exposure, of weakness, as her hand clenches around his wrist, the snap of the bones therein swallowed entirely by the obliviously mulling crowd that writhes beyond them. The green eyed man beside her is forgotten momentarily by the young woman, forfeited to the intensity with which she regards her tormentor, a domineering and guttural rumble echoing from his throat and into the silence betwixt them as her fangs descend with a subtle click. It would appear that something besides sorrow has bled through the fissures of a fractured soul, if only for a moment. A moment that proves undoubtedly precious as the hulking tattoo-riddled man gathers the remnants of the discarded collar within his unharmed fist and hurls it in a swift arc towards the demure young vampire's face...