isolt marcello

I'm more alive than I've ever been

The rebuke of her maker comes as no surprise to the sullen vampire, their distaste for one another absolute and mutual in no insignificant measure. They, the both of them, had long ago chosen to navigate the infinite labyrinth of this afterlife upon paths that did not cross. Parallel to one another and never to meet. As far as Isolt was concerned she had dwelled in the long shadow of evil enough for the eternity that spread out before her, and the memories of what she had endured at her maker's hands would last for whatever years may come. It is this that speaks so assuredly of the desperation that has brought her here, to this den of sadistic malice, to grovel to the one individual who might prove capable of assisting her.

She does not falter a hair's breadth even as the unfortunate Silas turns to, presumably, force Isolt to take her leave of this place. Even in her semi-emaciated state she harbors the strength needed to dispel him. She is a coil of jagged wire concealed only by a veil of pale flesh, a viper poised to strike him should he prove foolish enough to lay his hands upon her. He nearly does, reaching up as if he meant to forcibly remove her before... that voice. Her voice. Like warm honey sliding languidly down the cool edge of a saw's blade. That voice echoed in the very darkest corners of her nightmares sometimes. And now it beckoned her onward.

For a fleeting moment do her eyes capture the glint skating the curves of the silver shackles affixed to the far wall but hardly do they linger there. Instead does her full attention fall to the undeniably regal woman settled upon her duly-appointed throne. She saw this face in her nightmares on occasion as well. And those eyes... so oddly akin to her own, Isolt's life had ended and began anew whilst careening into the cold abyss of those eyes. Eyes that, somehow, convinced the redheaded woman that she was every bit the quivering child that she must have appeared to be, a notion that sets her fists to clench, the soft curves of her nails pressing crescents into the cushions of her palms. Crescents that grow violet beneath the mounting pressure of her crunched digits as her name slides across the meager distance that separates progeny from maker. Estranged but for this moment of desperation that brings child back to mother... a cruel analogy that was not lost on Isolt. And yet even as the realization of this festers within her gut she remains planted in the center of the room, eyes only for the woman perched before her.

She offers naught in the way of introduction for what could she possibly have said? There existed no niceties that could have been offered between them, the history they had written with one another far too dark, too violent, for such frivolous things. Risque realizes this too, as evidenced by the command that she issues with such practiced coolness that it licks its crackling frost down the sloping plane of Isolt's spine. Pride. She thought that Isolt had pride to offer her- pride that she might pilfer away as a prize that she had long been due. Little could she know that pride had long taken its leave of Isolt, accompanied by the shambles of her dignity and her vigor for life. However, if it was her progeny's phantom pride that she desired, then the redheaded vampire would relinquish it wholly and completely. Slowly Isolt lowers her knees to the ground, her weight settling against her heels as her eyes once again meet those of her her maker. "If I had anything that I thought you would want I would have brought it. Maybe you could save us both the time and tell me what it will take to have you hear me out."