isolt griffin
Had she the proper prospective regarding the myriad relationships amongst vampires Isolt might have pilfered some sliver of pleasure from the knowledge that this was how having a maker was supposed to feel. This was what it was to not feel alone, abandoned to the sorrow that was inherent in transcendence from life into the shadowy beyond of death. This was what it was to not feel slighted or forsaken or aimless. Had she been made aware of the sacred bond that should have existed between a vampire and their maker, Isolt would have lamented the lack of such a thing in the afterthought of her existence. The fledgling vampire felt no such bond with Risque, the elder night-walker having thus far only succeeded in sowing venomous pods of terror and suffering within the sod of a mind already rife with both. By Risque's hand Isolt had been taught only to survive through the torture that was every waking hour at Syn; a gift that, while offhandedly invaluable, was paradoxically and methodically eroding what was left of the young woman's will to cling to this life of constant pain.

Perhaps this is why she yearns for his companionship as fiercely as she does; perhaps in the quiet sifting of her thoughts Isolt is aware that this is as it should have been. He is what Risque is either unable or unwilling to be... he is the small ray of light that pierces through the darkness within which she exists. Subconsciously this breeds the smile upon her face and the question upon her lips. Whatever outing lies beyond the shroud of his mystique she cannot yet know; but, strangely, this does not perturb her for in this moment she succumbs to the thrill that tickles at her insides. In this moment she allows herself to abandon, in some small way, this life she has been forced to live alongside those who terrify and torture her. The grip she maintains upon his hand tightens ever so slightly, as if by grasping unto him she might, too, grasp unto this moment that is both liberating and alluring all at once.

It has taken a long while for the young redhead to become accustomed to the ethereal hypersensitivity of her every sense, and still the clarity with which her ears absorb the distant ruckus is a peculiarly exhilarating thing. As they draw ever closer to what she may only presume is the destination that he desires, familiarity dawns upon the obediently following woman. Isolt harbors an intimate familiarity for the college district, having spent many years meandering about the two-block portion of downtown before traveling further uptown to begin her pre-med studies. However, never before had she been to this particular neighborhood, the raucous celebrations hosted by the myriad fraternities and sororities a particular garden within which Isolt had never been wont to play. Always devotedly studious in her academics, the demure nature of the crimson-locked girl dictated that she avoid these types of wantonly lascivious gatherings... though the tickling of curiosity had always been there. It was, after all, one of her greatest weaknesses.

The sensation of Damon's fingers sliding from hers is a vaguely remorseful thing, and for a lengthy moment she finds herself wholly incapable of following him. "Umm," she nearly whispers, "I'm not really sure I understand, Damon." Her footfalls tap a hesitant tempo upon the concrete pathway as Isolt finally sets herself into motion. A wavering smile creeps slowly unto her upturned features, hardly wishing to offend her companion by failing to match his enthusiasm with her own. Whatever his plan might ultimately be, some dominant portion of herself was willing to trust that negativity would not spawn from it. They enter the quite antiquated home, the full extent of its timeless prevalent in aura despite the masculinity that seems to have seeped into every corner dusty corner. For a moment Isolt basks in the naïve hope that their entrance, sans invitation, might have transpired unnoted... before an amiable and slightly slurred exclamation echoes from a neighboring corridor. "Damon! Long time, no see! What's up?" The bellowing gentleman in question appears from a mass of bodies mulling about in the room just beyond, the emerald neck of a beer protruding from his lazy clenched first, a toothy and devilishly handsome grin coiling at the brims of his lips. A calloused hand is extended in the direction of her companion before pale green eyes fall upon the auburn-haired woman who lingers just beyond the shield of Damon's towering form. A single brow pitches skyward and something... else flickers across the span of his gaze as he looks upon her. "And who is this?"