isolt griffin

There was something inside of her that was festering. Something putrid and acidic that sizzled at the tender flesh at the back of her throat like some tide of bile frothing just beyond her tongue. It was barbed, pinching its jagged spires into the tender stillness of her heart and filling her gut to the brim with ice. In the beginning she had presumed that it was grief, a childless mother's subconscious attempt to fill the endless void, the gaping chasm of a womb left desolate. An attempt to wrap wanting, reaching arms around something, even if that something was little more than desperation and bereavement for a life that could have been. But she had been mistaken, for she knew what grief felt like... knew the crushing weight it pressed upon the body and soul. Grief had lain its implacable hands upon her shoulder's before: when her brother had passed away, when she herself had met an untimely demise, and again when she feared Harley to be forever lost. This fetid, gruesome thing inside of her was not grief.

It was rage.


She cannot help but chance a glance over her shoulder, certain that at any moment her husband would realize that she had taken leave and pursue her. He had hardly allowed her to leave his sight in the days following her... incident. She placed no blame upon him, sure that she would behave the very same had the circumstances been reversed; however, she requires his absence for this evening's outing. The circumstances were quite inherently complicated without the added intensity that would surely accompany his presence.

Isolt pauses for a long moment, bathed in the halo of the blazing neon overhead. It had been a great many years since last the redheaded woman had ventured to this place, having put a not-inconsiderable amount of energy into actively avoiding this den of horrors and, specifically, its matron who had only ever brought pain to Isolt and those that she held dear. Yet despite her valiant efforts to the contrary Isolt was doomed, it seemed, to carry the vengeful despot with her wherever she went... Risque's presence a omnipresent, phantom tickling at the nape of her neck. Here and now though the sensation intensified exponentially, her very blood seeming to hum with the proximity to her Maker. Did the same happen for Risque, she wondered idly? Surely. Blood was binding, after all.

The pressure of memories long-repressed hurtling themselves towards the forefront of her mind's eye is nigh unbearable as she traverses the threshold that brings her into the belly of the beast, as it were. Had she breath it would surely have been stolen by the crushing weight of all of her recollections as they press down upon her. She battles against the urge to allow her eyes to wander about the pulsating mass of Syn's patrons, to find her dear ones that she knows haunt these halls even now- afraid in no small measure that she shall find them. As cruel as the thought undoubtedly was, there was no place for them within her thoughts this night... no room in her mind for the regret and apprehension that their appearance would harold. Tonight was not about them; tonight belonged to reprisal, to retribution for sins unforgivable. Tonight was for her daughter. Tonight was for Lillian. Surely there existed no other force that would have proven capable of compelling Isolt to venture to this place.

Liner conceals the red-rims of her eyelids, an indisputable homage to the sleeplessness that has plagued her, foundation masking the sallowness of her flesh... she had not fed for many a night. Vanity, it seems, has offered Isolt a confidence that she could not profess to feel in any part of her. The physical manifestations of her sorrow would only betray a façade of weakness that, truthfully, was hardly a façade at all. Yet to present herself in the presence of such a hellish leviathan would have been inexcusably asinine.

Before long Isolt finds herself in the bowels of the establishment, set away from the raucous crowd, somehow knowing that Risque lingers just beyond an otherwise inconspicuous door. But as the redheaded woman reaches to embrace the doorknob a monstrous hand envelopes her wrist, tepid breath cascading over her shoulder. "What do you think you're doing?" The man at her side is not vampire, this is readily apparent, and therefore Isolt is well aware that she could dispel him with relatively little effort even in her compromised state. However, she gives a moment's pause before inclining her head every so slightly towards him though she does not allow her eyes to venture from the door before them. "She already knows that I'm here, and I imagine she'd be very displeased if I was... hindered." A fallacy, she's quite certain, and yet it has the desired effect- with little more than a growled and incoherent retort does the behemoth swing the door ajar, passing into the room beyond ahead of the fire-crowned vampire, motioning for her to follow with an undeniably impatient flick of his wrist.