isolt griffin
"I know it was, but that doesn't make me feel any better about it," she retorts, her words certainly not unkind in their insistence but rather echoing without flaw the insatiable guilt that clings to her back with its hooked sabers that she has been henceforth unable to dislodge. There were many details of that particular night that had served as bait for the proverbial monster upon her back, the undeniably unintentional mangling of Damon's automobile surely amongst them. And yet, with his assurances, the soft caress of her hand upon his seems a gesture meant only to ebb the tide of trepidation that lingers within Isolt herself for the damage that had, apparently, been undone by his hand. His lingering glance has the young woman succumb to the glacial wash of doubt as it sloshes about against her innards, for she hardly can ascertain that he would deem such physical contact appropriate or acceptable. It could not be denied that he found some level of physical contact between them favorable, the kiss he had bestowed upon her (and the soft caress of her own lips moments prior) irrefutable evidence of such; and yet those, too, had ended just as quickly as they had been gifted. This seemingly simplistic caress could, and likely did, represent something entirely separate.

Tactfully Isolt withdraws her own hand, laying it without employ into the cradle of her lap as her eyes divert to the window, seeking distraction where surely not can rightly be found. In life Isolt had always been one to be comforted by the loving warmth of innocent physical intimacy, to be soothed by the touch of another individual's hand yet now, as she had in life, the demure young woman must be a reminder unto herself that not all around her might be of the same mind. She accepts Damon's touch more than she does willingly to any other in this afterlife, her still-ailing soul soothed by the invaluable trust that has been tirelessly cultivated between; and yet she still cannot know that he feels the same, cannot know the true level of his tolerance for her.

To her greatest relief, Isolt finds the solace, the distraction, she quests for with such vehemence in the lightheartedness of their merry banter, the crystalline of her eyes traveling to his only to narrow in salacious scrutiny. "I'm sensing a great deal of doubt in my design skills, but I'm guessing I'll just have to show you what I can really do," she quips before whatever flame of false confidence that had been flickering away within her fizzles to but a silken plume of smoke with his mumbled assertion. The rosy kiss of a blush sweeps its way against the rounded apples of her cheeks as Isolt, herself, turns to once again divert her gaze to the path that lay ahead. Unbidden, the words forming almost of their own accord, the flame-haired vampire responds with her own audible whisper. "Who says that we need mistletoe... or that it has to be secret?" Ivory teeth rake against the supple cushion of her lower lip, the young woman unable to glance in the direction of her companion for a time for fear that she might have overstepped some clandestine boundary that ought not to have been trifled with.

It is a troubling consideration that is, blessedly, put asunder at least momentarily by the extravagance that abounds about every dazzling corner of the neighborhood within which they find themselves. Isolt finds that her wonderment is so that, at his rebuttal, her eyes seek his in abject puzzlement, plump lips forming pleasantly about a silent plea for explanation. A plea that, though left within the realm of things politely unspoken, is answered moments later at the conclusion of a rather quaint and secluded lane. The awe of before descends upon the young auburn-haired vampire once more and without mercy, the intensity of it echoing tenfold as she merely sits within the leather cradle of her seat as the car draws to a stop, unable to afford any expression apart from the one of pure and unadulterated marvel that radiates from her features. Her lithe frame slips from the confines of the automobile with understated grace, unable perhaps to quall the smog of amazement that billows and writhes within her. Blue eyes travel over every last acre, every bit of stone, so absolute in her appraisal that for a moment she is very nearly saddened with her lamentation of the beauty withheld from her in the daylight hours. How marvelous it all must appear beneath the dazzling rays of the dawning sun. Even so... at the present hour it is nothing less than wholly and completely breathtaking.

"Ma'am?" The voice of the truck's driver somehow manages a modicum of penetration into the alluring smog of her intense consideration, Isolt turning to offer him a demurely dazzling smile before turning to Damon. "Where would you like the tree?" The young redhead departs from the two gentlemen then, allowing them those few moments apart from her in which to negotiate the placement of the spectacularly elegant tree she had chosen with such admirable care. Extracting her other chosen accoutrement from within the casing of the trunk, Isolt finally (and with much anticipation) transcends the threshold into Damon's home and is, once more, overcome by her own admiration for the lavish space. "Oh my goodness," she whispers, "where should we even start?"