isolt griffin
It would have been resolutely disingenuous were Isolt to deny some measure of trepidation in discarding the ornate wreath into the hands of her companion. So absolute was his seeming aversion to any expression or celebration of the holiday upon them that the demure young woman felt some modicum of guilt for having behaved in such a manner that he might find himself obligated to partake in this ritual with her. He had, truly, already sacrificed his house to her festive whims, far be it for her to expect that he should also forfeit any more of his time for a benefit that was solely her own. "Maybe just a little, it's no secret that this is more for me than it is for you," she utters softly, sweetly, and without the sarcastic bite that might have accompanied the syllables beyond any other lips. She is grateful to him for his patience, thankful in a way that eludes and defies all necessity for explanation. And so she relinquishes her grasp upon the leafy ornament, the sparkle within her crystalline eyes serving to extinguish whatever darkness doubt had painted there.

Determined, Isolt sets herself to work, carefully extracting various Christmas trappings from within the chasms of her shopping bags and flittering from one immaculately pristine corner of the foyer to another, pausing every few moments in order to inspect and wordlessly critique her own skills. In time her eyes travel a smooth line to her counterpart, landing upon him with gentle and innocently appreciative glances that merely hint at the greater consideration taking place beyond. Isolt has admitted a monolithic measure of curiosity when it came to many things, Damon himself proving only to intensify an already pronounced vice for the unknown. He was, effectively, every bit the enigmatic creature that he presumed his redheaded companion to be. Isolt wondered of him, pondered the myriad peculiarities of his persona and his actions in some detail during quiet moments in his presence. He was, she had discovered, kind in a manner that she had never presumed he could be upon first making his acquaintance. Beyond the layers of charismatic lothario that he so oft wore for the grander public, there was an understated and yet no less alluring tenderness that drew Isolt in as a proverbial moth unto the flame. The young vampire appreciated this and many other things about him far more than she might ever be capable of expressing; and yet it serves only to stoke the flame that burns so radiantly within. It serves only to see her wonder about him in different ways... how he might have been in a different time. How, she pondered, could a century alter a persona? How would it alter her?

But of all of the wonders suppressed into the secret labyrinth of Isolt's shambled heart, there is one that begs for absolution perhaps more than all of the rest. More so now than ever in the aftermath of her encounter with the wayward blonde Hunter. "Damon," she lilts, busying hands that desperately seek employ with sprucing a length of decorative garland that, admittedly, required nothing of the sort. The crimson-locked girl merely fears retribution for the question she is to place, agonizes painfully over the possibility that he will recoil from her pry and withdraw for her boldness. But, she reminds herself, should nothing be ventured, nothing ever shall be gained. "How were you... turned? What was your Maker like?" Only as the syllables dissolve into the quietude beyond do her eyes finally drift to the solidity of his frame, seeking the comfort proffered by his pale eyes in a moment of unadulterated desperation. And then, as if the product of an afterthought, her final and weightiest question spills forthright from her lips. "Did they want you?"