<div align="center">(http://img153.imageshack.us/img153/4275/postpic.jpg)<br/><strong>Izolda in the garden</strong></div><br/>Orange, red, brown, and yellow alike, they all swirled and whirled around the satin of her skirt; leaves dancing with her as she twirled in endless circles around the ivory column. Her pale hand cupped the carved façade, her expression empty yet serene while the leaves made dry, skeletal noises on the cobblestones as they moved in the wake she caused. Finally, she let go and the dancing came to a silent end as all of the leaves collapsed around her. Reaching up with one pale hand, she brushed a few curled locks of her from off of her shoulder and let her hazel gaze scan out into the garden. Izolda stepped out from beneath the eave of the veranda and approached the aisles of roses, unafraid of the land on which they grew. Reaching out, she let the tips of her fingers lightly glance a petal off of each rose which nodded after the pressure of her finger withdrew. She paused, glancing over her shoulder towards the aging castle as it yawned up before her, defiant against the ravages of time and war. Vlad's newest toy would be arriving any time now.<br/><br/>Another toy for beloved master's pleasure, Izolda's mouth curled into a mischievous as she wondered if the newest pretty would squeak. Well, if he couldn't do it,<em>she</em>could. This made her giggle mirthlessly as she paused to admire a particularly lovely red bloom. It had just opened and its velvety, bright youth was evident on its fresh petals. Mischief sparkled in her eyes as she plucked the elongated stem, with one sharp, hooked thorn marring its verdant perfection. She spun on foot and wandered back beneath the veranda and into the sanctity -- for her anyways -- of the castle. Through the passage of years, she had acquired her own skills and could sing as well as play the pianoforte. As she paced steadily through the passages with her solitary rose in hand, she hummed a few bars of some long forgotten melody from her motherland which filled the castle with appealingly haunting echoes, reminding its inhabitants that time still marched ever onward.<br/><br/>Izolda emerged from a passage that led into the great hall, where the master waited so very patiently for his new doll. Her humming faded away and she brushed an erstwhile leaf from her hair so that it fell desultorily to the floor. Her gown swept along the mosaic tiles as she nonchalantly approached Vlad. Suddenly she spun dramatically like a passionate lonely dancer and came to a stop near his side with her arm extended, the youthful rose poised between her middle and forefingers, offering it to him as she bowed low.<br/><br/>"Would master be wanting to give a lovely rose to his new doll? Pretty dolls would be loving pretty flowers, no?" she said in practiced but flawed and heavily accented English. She didn't like English, it lacked the romantic qualities of Russian. But she was trying -- most certainly and entirely to please Vlad and perhaps to allow her to later better play with the dolly. She lifted an angular dark brow up and glanced up at her lovely, expectant master, the familiar sparkle of cruel amusement dancing in the vivid recesses of her eyes.