isolt griffin
The metallic glimmer that radiates from the silver spikes as they careen through the short distance separating their sinister points from Isolt's tender flesh does not register within the scope of her periphery until the final moment. Recollection of their searing kiss sees a primitive response to recoil scrunch the drawn features of her façade into a most pained expression. The vice-like grasp she maintains upon the shattered forearm of her tormentor slackens, an instinctual call to brace herself against the impact earning him this ill-begotten freedom. Though the festering ire she harbors for him may have momentarily risen as some volcanic froth within the hollowed pit of her soul, the fear of pain, of retribution, proves greater. The young girl would be made to purchase this injury upon one of Risque's brood with her own pound of hemorrhaging flesh... and the thought proves a sobering one.

And yet never do the silver spires lick their fire upon the face of the flame-haired girl. Only when her eyes open upon the scene unfolding just before her does Isolt come to the realization that she had closed them. Mild bewilderment laced with a faultless undercurrent of suspicion saturates her upturned features as the emerald-eyed gentleman she has spent countless hours attempting to avoid means to defend her from the ferocity of her tattooed "guardian". Everything about this quiet Were seems an enigma, a puzzle the pieces to which fail so defiantly to fall into place; in this wretched afterlife he has sought to meet her with serenity, with tenderness, and yet his actions (or, more decidedly, lack thereof) in her final moments of life have cast the shadow of doubt upon all that would follow thereafter. Given the proper circumstances Isolt might have pondered what exactly he was attempting to prove; whether his actions were attempts at farce or repentance.

However, this is a moment she is not afforded by current circumstance, her attention captured in its entirety by the sudden rush of fear that spreads its cool wash unto the face of her aggressor. Never before has Isolt seen him afraid, only the minutest apprehension ever betrayed by his figure in the presence of Risque herself. Though more resounding than the look of terror that claws at and distorts his features is the aroma of fear as it infiltrates the stream of his lifeblood with the increasing pulse of his labored heart. Piqued is the latent predator that hides in a slumbering coil somewhere in the depths of her soul, aroused if only slightly by the fragrance of his blood as it pumps thickly to every limb, spiced by the terror that afflicts him. It is hunger far more than vengeance that sees her venture towards the man as he writhes weakly upon the floor, for it has been quite some time since last she has fed... and never had she done so properly. This hunger fades, though, with the fading of his pulse as the heart that fights so valiantly to maintain him finally fails, the blood within his veins growing still... turning the attentions of the famished vampire to far more pressing matters than her own malnourishment.

For a matter of lingering moments the young woman simply stares, brow compressed into deep furrows, at the green-eyed man addressing her, equally as confused by his question as she is puzzled by the actions that follow. A fraught shrug echoes through her body as she simply nods to an olive-toned bottle perched immaculately upon the topmost shelf. "Jameson." The word is a whisper which would have been lost, forfeited to the chaotic raucous pandemonium that was Syn's trademark, were it not for the fact that said pandemonium seemed to ebb by the moment with the crashing of class against the surfaces of the bar and floor. The brushing of pleasantly warm flesh against the coolness of her own has Isolt turn ever so slightly, the barest whisper of a grin kissing her lips at the sight of the young vagabond from the park. This modicum of offhanded familiarity is perhaps the only glimpse of lightheartedness available to the wayward vampire, and yet his obvious and quite substantial familiarity with the emerald-eyed man has caused Isolt to distance herself from the scruffy boy.

Blue eyes travel a smooth course from the two men now bathing the bar in alcohol to the patrons who have stayed all further activity in favor of their shenanigans. Somewhere in the midst of shattering glass and shouting there is a subtle click as the pieces finally fall into their rightful niches. Gone are the moments of contemplation that would have been as a trio of Risque's lackeys emerges as if from naught, their trajectory quite clear as they draw ever nearer to the bar and the men who continue to wreak havoc upon the vast collection of alcoholic splendor. Isolt is over the bar and placed within their trajectory in little more than the batting of lashes despite the strength and speed she has forfeited to the hunger that writhes within her as some insatiable urchin. She was hungry, navigating the slippery slope towards starvation, and yet still she is faster than many of Risque's brood; and her status as the progeny of the bar's matron proffered its own peculiar brand of notoriety amongst the cretin's "pack", the lesser amongst them often choosing to avoid her rather than find themselves beset with the attentions of their mistress.

And avoid her they certainly do, retreating from the product of their leader's blood and choosing instead to beset her with pointed glares that speak volumes of their misplaced resentment. So too does Isolt retreat, turning to the emerald-eyed man and his companion, the words she offers little more than a whisper to the mounting commotion beyond the barrier of the bar. "We should go...now." The fire-crowned girl reaches out, sweeping up the few bottles that had not been shattered, their contents purged unto the floor below, delicate fingers curling into a clutch of bar rags abandoned by the keep. She turns then, navigating the darkened corridors of Syn's labyrinth as she had done on many occasions before this, slender digits working deftly to pry the caps from every bottle before shoving the end of each rag into its respective jar. It was a skill never before practiced, the act itself merely mimicry of what she had glimpsed in movies and on the television.

The kiss of the cool night zephyr, once so comforting in these her darkest days, does naught to calm the leviathan of apprehension mulling about within Isolt as she peruses the discarded crates and wooden pallets that lay in a garbled mess behind Syn... searching for what she knew she would find, for she had seen her capture meander about on more than a few smoke breaks when Risque's attention had transgressed to other individuals. The soft click of the lighter belches forth a satisfying flame, the fire catching against the white fabric of a single bar rag easily enough, sizzling to life in the otherwise darkened space. Tentatively Isolt extends the bottle to the green-eyed man she had come to fear with such vehemence, some part of her silently admitting that to fling this first blow was not for her to do. He may have existed at the very core of all this, her greatest heartache, and yet it could not be denied that he too was suffering. "Here," she whispers, "you should do it." Plush lips set into a hard line, the syllables that follow echoing stronger than the ones that had come before. "Burn it down..."