isolt griffin
So absolute is the elation she gleans from recognition and remembrance that it is very nearly painful to behold. So desperate is she to hold the proverbial sand of her human life in a protectively clutched hand that even this relative stranger, this man she knows so very little of, has the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia shielding her from the reality of her current situation. She quests for familiarity, for the realization that the life she had been so unceremoniously wretched from had not poured from her as the precious elixir of her lifeblood had. She quests for it with more vehemence and gut-wrenching, desolate desperation than she had ever quested for anything. It is for this simplistic reason alone that light seems to permeate from ever supple curvature of her face, the oceanic blue of her eyes seeming to shine all the brighter for it. For just a moment, but a single sweet morsel of time, she recalls what it is to be lighthearted. For just a moment her mind allows the memory of her current reality to evaporate, leaving only what had been before. When he speaks, however, her soul once again bears the weight of what has been done to her... the fine river of sand slipping unabated through her wanting fingers.

A look of unadulterated and perturbed confusion scrunches the delicate features of her face. He knows. Even through the matrimonial veil of naivety Isolt is fully aware that, somehow, this mysterious and charismatic gentleman knows the axiomatic truth from which she wishes so vehemently to flee. In her relative youth she is wholly green to the concept of the heightened senses and preternatural knowledge that are kith and kin to her newfound species. He would have known who she was, what she was, solely by merit of the senses that serve him as rightly as they would one day come to serve her. And yet she cannot fathom this knowing, and thusly seems to recoil from him... even if only just so. Until, that is, he beckons her forth, his simplistic attempt to herald the young redhead into a nearby bar effectively igniting an internal battle that manifests physically in a full-bodied tremble. Isolt desires more than anything else to delve her proverbial claws into the brief flash of familiarity that his presence has provided... but the notion of this seedy and dimly lit locale is a daunting one given the circumstances of her transition. No matter how differentiated the aura or the leaps and bounds that might separate east from west, this place and all others like it do naught but remind her of the horror that was Syn.

Nonetheless she follows, slender arms wrapped tightly around her lithe figure in an attempt to steady herself against the anxious quiver that reverberates into the marrow of her bones. Crystalline eyes meld exclusively to either the man before her or the questionably hygienic floor, for even in the short while since her turning Isolt has noted the manner in which some individuals seem to look at her. Bereft her fangs she is as any other human female might have been in appearance and demeanor; however, still some individuals seemed to know what it was that she sought so frantically to hide... and it was from these individuals that Isolt seemed to receive the most brutishly damning looks. As if she were a savage purely for her fangs, regardless of the clement demeanor that had been swept into this afterlife with her. So ironclad is her desire to shield herself from them and their viciously ignorant glares that only does she dare glance up when Damon shouts his order to the barkeep who waits to provide them service.

Confusion and weariness converge upon the soft landscape of her façade, the undercurrent of curiosity that she has been battling with such vigor once again swelling within her. If a "Blood Bath" turns out to be anything akin to what she speculates it to be, and he has indeed ordered one for himself, this would mean with little uncertainty that she has found herself in the presence of another vampire. The notion is both exhilarating and, perhaps more so, mildly terrifying. The young auburn-crowned girl traces the masculine contours of his features as she slides into the booth opposite him, curling instinctively in order to make her frame as minute and unnoticeable as was physically plausible. A plethora of silent questions echo in the extensive ruin of her mind, a million curiosities tempted to life by this suspected revelation... and yet none come so readily to mouth as they have to mind. Instead they are sent scurrying to the shadows of the ether with the timely thudding of glass upon the weathered wooden slab of their shared table.

The fragrance alone that curls into her nostrils is very nearly intoxicating, coupled with the pleasant heat of the glass as her slender digits move to ensnare it. She eyes the liquid wearily, peering upon it as Eve might the forbidden fruit in that very first of gardens. Raven had been selflessly generous in her teaching, the two having been on many an excursion to the outlying regions of Sacrosanct in order to procure nourishment for both. But Raven had only ever taught Isolt the age-old art of capturing small game, her aversion to educating the young vampire on the true art of feeding was an unspoken pact amongst them. It would have been supremely disingenuous to say that the tiny squealing creatures had not served their purpose, for they had in fact staved off the crippling pang of starvation on more than but a single occasion. However, the hunger seemed always to linger even after Isolt had thought herself thoroughly sated.

The tender command that filters across the table earns the elder vampire a look of only mildly concealed panic, her whispered response but a manifestation of the same. "You mean... in front of everyone?" The look she gives is pleading... though for guidance or comfort cannot rightly be said; however, the concern that whispers across his own gaze proves enough to see the glass lifted with trembling fingers to trembling lips. The blood slides against her tongue with the first tentative sip, igniting every last taste bud with the subtle hint of... spice it exudes as it traces its heavenly warmth down her gullet. Striations of the most alluring lilac seem to burst from her pupil and into the ocean of blue that surrounds as she gazes up at her would-be companion. Unable to hinder her own hunger any longer, Isolt makes short and rather unceremonious work of the remainder of her beverage, a single dainty hand rising to shield her lips as she whispers to the gentlemen opposite her. "I'm sorry." Had she the ability to blush she might have then, seeming to realize her own uncouth table manners as she shifts the now-drained tumbler back to the table.

For a time she avoids his gaze, knowing that, of all the silent questions that zip about inside of her own mind, his voiced quarry from earlier echoes louder still. However, so all-consuming is her fear of the memories he seeks that she has not, and may never, voice aloud the horrifying tale of the night she was stolen from her life, stolen from the light in which she had flourished and plunged into this irrevocable darkness. She cringes away from him, withdrawing into the plush and cracked leather of the booth cushion as if she wishes for naught but to disappear into its depths. "You... you know how this happened. And I really don't want to talk about it... I can't... please," she stammers, her head shaking from side to side as she meets his eyes once more. Isolt places her own quarry then, one of many that have been cycling through the darkened recesses of her mind since the incident that had transpired outside. "Why are you helping me?"