Wrath & Iso ;pt.4

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : :: Wrath could not have anticipated that these events would’ve transpired as they had. He certainly believed that Deathstalker Castle, being the bastion of knowledge and wealth that it was would give them answers. Though not this quickly. Unsure whether this was testament to the stronghold’s mystique or if fate itself was responsible and Wrath had just been an unwitting pawn. Again he found himself reflecting on Melinoe and the part she’d played. Prompting him in this direction. He missed the soothsayer and amidst the conversation between Viktor and Isolde, he found himself thinking of her. Perhaps for no other reason than he was alone with his thoughts while the other two discerned Isolde’s ancestry together.  Though unlike his father, he wasn’t controlled by his jealousy. Only mindful of the situation. Up until now he had the florist all to himself, then suddenly the General of the West -chief ally and confidante of his father- had confronted them. As if he already knew and was waiting to steal Isolde from him. The warrior wondered if this would be the start of a trend once knowledge of her power began to spread. How soon would it be before the Emperor himself summoned them? Nevertheless, coming here to the fortress had been no mistake. Furthermore Wrath recognised his own bitter feelings to be selfish and begrudgingly pushed them to one side.  Expressing his gratitude to the Archduke and wishing him well when he departed, affording Viktor a stern nod and a clasp of forearms, much the same as his father would have. Alone again, the second-generation Nephilim was sat across the table from Isolde. Unsure what the future had instore for either of them, until she brought his knuckles up to her mouth and kissed them. The intimacy between the pair stirring desire in the gruff warrior. It hadn’t been his intention to ever take advantage of Isolde. An argument could be made that she was too young for him. Though in light of recent events, Isolde possessed an ancient power in her veins comparable -yet different- to that of the Nephilim themselves. The battle-hardened Prince was certainly no saint either. Thus it took little encouragement to persuade him when the Fallon girl expressed interest in staying with him. “Of course.” He agreed. Keeping his words short for fear of giving away too much concerning his growing feelings. He wasn’t a talkative man at the best of times and usually allowed his actions to speak for themselves. Observing her lips against the man’s monstrous hand until they broke awake and she sipped more of her wine. “I told your parents I would take care of you. I aim to keep that promise.” Recalling his encounter with her mother and father in the cottage. “They are good people, they deserve their daughter returned to them.” Almost implying that this place -Deathstalker Castle- as inspiring and confounding as it could be, might also be a corruptible influence. Catching the brief glimmer of doubt, Wrath assured her there was no need for Isolde to question his keenness. “I want the same thing.” He admitted. Staring into Isolde’s eyes beneath her long lashes drawing him in as the General of the North reached forward. His encompassing palm pushing through locks of hair as his fingers widened apart, prompting her head in his direction. His bearded mouth pressing against her soft lips. An eagerness gripping him as the kiss became firmer. Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, Wrath’s elbow accidentally knocking over the wine. ::

​Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : [ Heat crept up the high neckline of embroidered leaves and applique lace as she sat in the chair at the table with his hand heavy on top of hers. She considered their brief history, wondering at how it was she'd come to such an abiding affection for him. The withy florist wasn't able to explain to herself how she'd come to such comfortable terms in his presence: first recalling waking beside his horse on the bank while naked to the cold fall air and his eyes as he stood in the water reaching into its depths. It was strange, the comfort she had with her own body. Never in her life would she have imagined such an audacious situation, but now things were different. Quite different. When he'd arrived at her home to check in on her, she stood in the door hoping the housecall wouldn't end. At her parents' arrival, she stood unabashed in his arms. Shame simply had no place in her thoughts with him. In truth, she didn't know what her new life was without his presence. Lingering in her thoughts or otherwise beside her, Wrath had been ever present as she traversed the strange mentalscape of self actualization. Critics would have labelled it as jumping the gun. She was certain that there were many, many things she didn't know about the behemoth of a man beside her. What she knew, however, was that as sure as the ethreal bond between she and the Fallons was-- it was just as well twined with Wrath. Despite her chastity, the girl had known a spectrum of love. Affectionate and gentle, compromising and abusive. Toxic and unsavory. This was not any of those, but some combination of them all in moderation. The warrior was not known for his gentle nature, and the Deathstalker name preceded him. There had been moments that she'd seen the vengeful flicker in his eyes, if only briefly. She'd heard stories of the kinds of men that were bred in the capital city. More specifically of the Emperor's line. The Fallon girl knew she ought to  weigh her choices considerably. He was far, far different from her. Or what she -thought- she was. Having only an hour or so to process the revelation Viktor laid out for her, she recognized the irrational (but correct) thought that she and Wrath might not be so different. She'd seen flickers of her previous lives-- or what she thought might have been. The horror of a blade in her own hands had been startling, but it was real. The wooden handle of a dangerous staff felt like an extension of herself in a way she couldn't deny. It had been a vengeful tool of her distaff-- an ancient and powerful wild woman inside of her. All of these things occurred subconsciously, and perhaps a bit wishfully. The nelipot wanted nothing more than to remain in his grasp for the rest of her days, and she was greedy with every justifying thought that came her way. When he spoke, she slipped from her reverie, soul a verdant flicker beneath her flesh and bone. His words were cautious, but his voice was hungry. Hearing it, she intuitively knew without a second thought the weight they carried. Despite herself, she smiled coyly. As he advanced on her, the chair beneath her skidded over the wooden floor, whining loudly. The sound of a glass tipping its contents on the table and her muffled sigh against his lips joined in the chorus, hands eager at his shoulders as his mouth collided against hers. The breadth of his palm at the nape of her neck and into tousled curls drew goosebumps from her, lips gentle and untrained in return. The bristle of his beard was surprisingly motivating in the back of her more primal mind. A flicker of memory passed, as if they'd done this before. Her hands slid up his shoulders to grasp him by the jaw firmly, a squeak of surprise escaping her as he bit down on her lip. A frisson played at her ribs in response, corners of her mouth raised in a grin that tugged her lip gently back. Her back had arched in response and in realizing it, she made a distinct effort to relax her muscles-- suddenly very aware that they were in a public room and the cooling effects of wine ran off the edge of the table and down the length of her skirts. Warm with the heady effects of the wine in her belly, Isolde encouraged him a bit further with body language she was hardly conscious of.]

Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : :: The Prince knew without needing to ask that Isolde was pure. Perhaps the purist woman he’d ever met and therein lay the irony. Though also the problem. Knowing he’d shown restraint in part because he was mindful of his own history with women. He hadn’t always treated them fairly. At times even exploiting them and so he didn’t necessarily think he was worthy. The very same corruptible influence he attributed to the castle, also existed in Wrath he knew. If Isolde stayed with him, the fear was he might taint her and cause a deviation from her true purpose when she was undoubtedly meant for something special. A bright future amongst the Fallons. While he always strived to do the right thing, the dark legacy of his bloodline wasn’t easily dissuaded, and Wrath was almost instinctually inclined to resort to his violent, base instincts that were bred into him by his father. Wrath was no Fallon. He was Deathstalker. A family motivated by power and strength. Were it not for the Iron Code he followed, the behemoth knew he had the potential to be an evil man. Thus tried his hardest to adhere to it and as consequence, do the right thing. But what was the right thing now? He didn’t know. Only conscious that when he stared at Isolde for too long, he felt invisible vines binding themselves around his stone heart, until its grim exterior cracked and life begun anew. Had shone within.  Something he didn’t think was possible. Feeling vibrancy in his veins and a light behind his eyes, not dissimilar to the Ents. Something had awoken in Wrath that he didn’t understand. Though when he gazed at her utterly perfect face, he found himself marvelling at the simplest things. Isolde’s fragile features, her high cheekbones and alluring eyes that promised him a future he didn’t deserve but was there to seize. It all happened so fast and before Wrath knew it, they’d embraced. The grizzled Prince allowing his wandering hands to seize at her hips and effortlessly lift Isolde from her chair, pulling the florist into his waiting lap while her thin arms enclosed around the warrior’s thick neck. The pair kissing more fiercely, mouths barely separating for breath. Gripped by a primal urgency. Wrath’s possessive hands pressed against the base of her spine so she couldn’t escape him. Then cautiously exploring the contours and gradients of Isolde’s hips and shoulders, fingers widening apart as they ran up her back. Renewed appreciation for how small and delicate the florist was comparatively to him. Hardly an ounce of weight on her. Something told him that he needed to exercise restraint. A quiet voice in his head Wrath reluctantly chose to listen to. This was neither the time nor the place. “If we don’t stop, I won’t be able to control what happens next,” he whispered as their lips separated. “Though be under no illusion Isolde. You belong to me now.” He whispered. Steel grey eyes filled with seriousness, his gaze eventually softening though. Exhibiting kindness as well. For she need never fear him. ::


​Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : [Isolde's heart quickened as her weight was taken up into his arms and transferred to his lap with seamless transition. Wine dripped from her hemline and she hadn't a second thought about it. The curve of her small body aligned against his massive one, filling the spaces with near perfect contour. She felt as if no other embrace had been so comforting in her life-- lives. Without considering it, her hands and everything attached to them seemed to know where to settle. The chair beneath Wrath supported them without complaint as his hands traversed her svelte outline. The dress had been flattering, more fitted than most frocks she'd worn in the past. The modest neckline at her throat and the hem brushing the floor were an offset to the way the velvet draped her chest, the cinch of her waist and over her hips. The velvet was warm and soft, yielding under his touch and hearty in its heft. It left enough to the imagination by appearance. But under his rough palms, her warmth was tangible beneath. With a callipygian figure once commented on by the Emperor himself (though Isolde had been unaware,) Isolde's modesty had often been the ear marker for her reputation. Perhaps that's what made the moment so enticing. A bit drunk with ardor and encouraged by a slew of memories being opened to her, the girl was radiating with that which was in her by Fallon-gifted nature: fertile, blossoming life. 'Come touch me', her body language coaxed, whilst she'd spent her human years out of anyone else's reach. It was Wrath's restraint against his own nature with drew her in so fiercely. It was palpable in him, speaking a primordial universal language. It tapped directly into her psyche and bloomed unrequited attraction. His bristly, stony demeanor cracked beneath the surface. She felt the unbridled growth flourish and her grasp tightened at his jaw. Her hips shifted gently beneath his hands as she drew a cautious breath at their parting, internally quaking with anticipation. His gaze was steely and luminous, offering a glimpse of the celestial powers within. In response, the gentle florist's glaucous hues searched them in silence. Its intensity bolstered the words he spoke, their gruff texture soothing to her as his voice ruminated and vibrated in his chest against her's. Long, delicate fingers relaxed, slipping to his brow as she considered a scar there, trailing it gently as she considered his words. The florist had no fear of the man, though she knew that most had every right to. Her smile hadn't left her lips since they'd parted his, eyes a bit vague with a light headiness. She felt as if she'd somehow bewitched him-- unsure of how she'd done it, but grateful she had. Her thumb grazed his brow afterward. "I am." she replied with a softened, quiet tone. Leaning in, she let her lips graze the crook of his jaw gently. The scent of lilacs light in her hair against his face as she lifted her nose, brushing his ear as she breathed against it "Make me yours," she murmured, recognizing the gravity of her own words. Had she felt anything short of love for the man, she wouldn't have dared consider such words. But as their paths had become so entwined, and fate itself seemed to have conspired such an event-- the girl recognized that this body was simply a vessel for an old life. One which coaxed her toward him over and over for eons before this. One that finally found the fruition of its efforts and had no reservations in committing to it.]

​Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : :: Wrath had believed he’d done the right thing by breaking away. He’d exercised restraint going against the natural compulsion to claim Isolde here and now. Maybe it was Isolde’s real desire or perhaps just the wine, but he wasn’t going to take her in a public setting, not when anyone could walk into the dining area they’d occupied. What if Viktor came back? No. His respect for her was genuine. Enough so that he intended to treat Isolde with the dignity her parents would’ve expected. Yet another kiss would follow. Deeper and lingering, their mouths never separating for long, sharing the same breath. Words spoken, promises made. The florist telling him what he already knew. Their hands all over each other as Isolde tempted him, encouraged him with her wilful desire. Though his heart -until recently- was made of stone, his body was not and the physical urge to take this too far was ever present. The creeping temptation to slam her against the wall suddenly had Wrath rising from the chair as it abruptly fell backwards. His immense strength carrying her impulsively across the room, as if her weight was non-existent. It might as well have been. Her small back colliding with the concrete surface, as the florist was hoisted up. Her legs dangling either side of him. The mountainous warrior pinning her there. The sound of fabric tearing as he dragged at the collar of her dress, exposing more of Isolde’s neck. His beard bristling against her virgin skin when he kissed the side of it. The Nephilim feeling his heart pounding in his chest like thunder, electricity coursing through his veins while he held her. Wrath’s face lifting again, kissing her hair and her eyes. Not understanding what was happening, only that this was going too far and that they needed to stop. At least for now. “Let’s go upstairs. I have a room.” Which was the only adequate comprise he could muster. Catching his breath and reluctantly setting the florist down on the tips of her toes. The tall warrior looming over her. Their disproportions in height thoroughly ridiculous. Steel grey eyes marking the expression on Isolde’s face to memory, knowing there was no going back for either of them. He wouldn’t tell her he loved her. He didn’t need to. ::

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ [Isolde's life had been docile and gentle-- nothing like what she was sharing with the leviathan at present. One might have considered her vastly under prepared for the primal urges that overtook Wrath in that moment, but her curious nature beckoned a long starved part of her. It stirred with wildly encouraging susserations as he lifted her delicate frame and stalked across the room to pin her to the unforgiving stone wall. The cloth whispered away from her skin, tearing at the neat needlework collar that clutched her long throat. It pulled away like tissue, wiry cloth line bordering the crests of yielding flesh that hinted at heft beneath. The deep green velvet was stark against her rosy flesh, collar bones prickling with anticipation. The girl's lips tingled, palms numb with excitement as the brittle edges of stone behind her clung to the velvet, tugging it at her hips and coaxing the fabric off of her calves as her knees bent reflexively to catch herself against his hips. Long fingers held the boulders of muscle beneath his clothing, grasping needlessly in an effort to hold herself up. Her clutch was likely barely notable to him, but it was firm. Her chin turned to one side as his mouth offered the only grazing the skin had ever experienced. It was soft under his coarse mouth, sweet and warm. The florist's cheeks offered a soft pink, modest glow. Full lips parted to extend a reflexive sigh, chest heaving against his where it thundered. As his ravenous mouth traveled, her eyes closed and her head turned to lean into them. Her thoughts were quiet, mind at peace as the pair hurtled toward pairing. As Wrath set her to her feet, her knees felt weak with adrenaline. Wobbly, she felt light and airy. Her features were in repose, lost in the lofty thoughts of his mouth and hands. With her head gently tilting back to gaze up at him, it rest against the wall in a daze. Offering an alluring smile that was sure to reassure him, she nodded. The Nephilim's expression was both parts thoughtful and intense. Isolde knew that he was drinking her in out of instinct, and she did nothing to encourage it outside of what came naturally. Outside, the flurries blew threw bristled forestry. The trees groaned in response to the wind, ominously omnipotent of their gentle caretaker's persuasion. "Lead the way." she replied with certainty. Their size desparity hadn't been a consideration of hers until she stood between he and a wall, considering what might happen behind closed doors. But ancient memories assured her-- she was resilient.]