Isabelle whips her hair suddenly, and lines her eyes with a shade dark enough to satiate the demons raging inside her bloodstream. An eyebrow perched up on the lava of her flowing fantasies, she glides her palms across the rhythm of her aching darkness, shifting under the numbing callouses of her memories, which bond her into the vintage voices of her body, peeking out under the dark of the texture of her rosy skin that cuts glares and glass alike. Her feet chomp the ground, into wavering sturdiness of her agile whip that stretches along the lines of her marks drawn with the light of a thousand moons, which she keeps concerned under the golden flecks of her dark pupils, which sing eulogies to a wayward imposter mad enough to soak her feet into touches of the chaotic night. Her slender waist is a fiery touch, an inferno to those, choked by the syllables spaced out of them by tongues and tales alike. Fiends and foes gasp their nightmares out as those heavily lidded eyes weave them a tapestry of horror and hell from the chunks of her battle heavy body. A thunder echoes out, bokehs of broken worlds hangs out in the wind that crowds around her in vain to seep inside her bones and taste the feral roses blooming under the curve of her chest as she staggers out, and make a sound from the valleys in the vestigial vagrancy of victory.