isolt marcello

I'm more alive than I've ever been

The silence that follows her proclamation is so complete that it is nearly solid, an invisible yet no less tangible, impenetrable wall. Just as tangible is the movement that she can sense off in the darkened corners of the office- the redheaded woman can smell the posse of felines as they scurry about, can hear the whispers of their padded feet against the hardened ground, and feel at least a half a dozen sets of glistening eyes peering out at the pair of vampires from the shadows. Perhaps it is a much-diluted sense that she has inherited from the woman who looms above her. The woman who forces a single, perfectly-chiseled talon into the tender flesh behind her chin. It is not the nagging discomfort upon which she focuses, however, but her Maker's words- words far more poignant than the raven-haired temptress could have ever imagined. If only she knew how very close Isolt had been holding this rage- coiled about it like a viper protecting her most precious offspring. It was a part of her, and she carried it with her all of the time.

Revenge is a language I speak fluently.

If ever there had been uttered more of an understatement, Isolt had not heard it. Had the very act of her turning not been a direct consequence of the towering woman's affinity for revenge? Revenge against Tetradore- for what she had never quite been certain. And it is hardly a matter of conversation she cares to pluck at in this moment. In fact, it is this penchant for revenge that has brought her, nearly cowering, to the feet of her Maker- seeking this fluency from one who had mastered it in such brilliant fashion.

"Yes," she offers in a choked whisper, unable to proffer up much more given the exaggerated angle of her neck. She would, indeed, behave. This, she was good at, for she had been taught obedience tirelessly during her mortal life. This was a language in which she was fluent. This affirmation seems adequate enough for Risque to allow her greater control over her own head. At her Maker's questions, though, her eyes drop to focus on a point off in a darkened corner of the office. Her eyes strayed from the woman before her... and so did her mind.

Dark memories came flooding back as readily as if some manner of dam had broken within her mind, a cracked and fissured thing that had only just succeeded in holding back the darkness that had been her time with the New Eden. It takes mere moments for the memories to right themselves, coming into focus as if they were recollections from only yesterday. "When I was with them they were in the tunnels outside of town but... sometimes I would hear them talk about a place they called 'The Tower.' I don't know what that meant. And I only ever saw them once, that first day... they had me blindfolded the rest of the time. He's tall- at least six five- well-built with dark olive skin. His hair was dark, black, to his shoulders and he had tattoos all over his arms. Weird symbols, like runes almost. He's strong, almost as strong as a vampire." A shiver rattles its way down the young vampire's spine at the recollection of the man who had held her down that first night, the man who had "visited" her so many times thereafter to partake in the pleasures of her flesh. Her eyes squeezed closed as if this small movement might prove enough to banish these memories back to whence they had come. But she cannot banish them... not yet. "I don't know his name but he called her... Maya. She's an old woman, well into her nineties if I had to guess, hunched at the back, dull grey hair. And she's blind in one eye." The redheaded woman recalls the old crone's hands upon her, the roughness of advanced age and use and... something else. "I couldn't ever be sure but... I think she's a necromancer."