isolt griffin

Effortless and warming is the comfort to be gleaned from Damon's syllables as they roll from his tongue, his proclivity for ensuring her protection against the myriad evils of this haunted past and treacherous present never failing to impress upon the youthful vampire a hint of what is certainly a shared adoration. And yet, it is naught but the thinniest of superficial guises in this moment, a gossamer veil stretched taut and fraying over the grotesquely hideous axiomatic truth of the matter. For though Isolt lacks no confidence in Damon's ability to proffer her up an unequaled and endearing measure of peace from the lick of Risque's proverbial whip, so too is she of the inexplicable knowledge that her Maker would not be kept at bay for any extended length of time. Nearly omnipotent was the raven-haired vampire, and the gnarled and barbed weed of sorrow and fear she had so long ago sown into the salted loam of Isolt's heart remained unweathered. Even the soulful glee wrought of Damon's presence was yet cast in the shadow of this mental talisman. And yet helpless is she to truly explain the depth to which she has been wounded, abraded by such a mercilessly damaging hand, though it is doubtful the redhead would offer the words had she them to give. She clasps instead to what is surely a threadbare and flimsy attempt at reassurance. "That isn't your fight, Damon. Please don't worry. I'll be fine."

A simper, feminine and angelic, enhances the tempting bow of her lips as the elder vampire acquiesces to her request for clemency on behalf of the emerald-eyed man he (and she, once, should the truth be spoken in its true measure) would condemn in so forthright a manner. There were, after all, greater and far more pertinent truths beyond the one so obvious and damning; however, unspoken are they left, this passing moment bereft an explanation Isolt does not, really, believe he should hear. Not yet, at least. All considerations of Risque's enigmatic liason and his betrayal plummeting once more into the gaping abyss with the gentle caress of Damon's fingers upon the canvas of her chilled skin. The young woman's features placate into a beautifully resplendent relaxation at even this simple caress, and yet this alone is insurmountably conclusive evidence of the adoration she affords this single individual. She does not draw away from his touch as she would have any other, the circumstances comprising her transition beyond death's veil having dictated that such heavily-policed distance be a necessity. Instead, in silent homage to the complexly emotive bond forged betwixt them, Isolt merely allows his hand to linger.

The words he offers, however, touch her in a far deeper manner than ever she could have imagined. This fearsome solidarity is nearly... suspect in how daringly absolute it is. What could she have done, what virtue might she have possibly proclaimed to possess that would crown her deserving of such fealty on behalf of another? Her cherried lips curl and shape about the inquiry itself, the words flittering haphazardly against the fleshy slab of her tongue before dissolving in their entirety. "And I would do the very same for you," she professes, the register of her voice rising little higher than the plesant lilt that was her custom. The oath, though, is there... the solidarity unwavering.

It is to his understated merit that Damon humors his crimson-locked counterpart, nodding his assent to her wishes and forfeiting his automobile to her employ with a flourish that is wholly without the hesitation she feels would have been rightly deserved given circumstances prior. The smile that splits her features is a celestially radiant thing, a single delicate hand venturing forth in order to capture his before hastily leading him from the now perfectly homey confines of his abode and out unto the terrace once again. The prospect of presenting him with this particular gift seems a decidedly pleasing notion, and it is doubtless that the young vampire has spent the better portion of the last fortnight tirelessly mulling the decision over within her mind... and yet still Isolt must admit some modicum of uncertainty inherent within the choice she has made. Only time would tell if she had chosen wisely.

Too little time, it would seem, as faster than she had anticipated the duo arrives at what appears to be a storage unit rental establishment, the lithe auburn-haired woman positioning her companion's immaculate automobile in a far corner of the lot, casting a tentative glance towards the man at her side before extracting herself from the vehicle and bidding him to follow suite. "It's weird, I know, but please just... come with me," she pleas delicately, an apologetic and helplessly demure grin plucking coyly at the brims of her lips. In time the fledgling vampire pauses at the considerably-sized door of one unit in particular, turning swiftly so that she might meet the eyes of her companion. "Close your eyes," she instructs, though her words bear not even the minutest tracings of unkindness. Isolt pauses but a moment to ensure that he complies, placing absolute and doubtless faith within the notion that he will not play her false with attempts to hinder her efforts to surprise him. She makes short work of the lock to separate the duo from what it is she wishes to present him, having done so more times than she would have ever cared to admit even to herself. The grate glides upwards in a smooth and blessedly muffled arc, the dim and dusted bulb flickering to life to cast its dirtied glow unto what was a rather impressive, albeit neglected, workspace. "Okay, open," Isolt coos in a tone that is undeniably tremulous as her fingers curl into the weathered tarp only to pull it back from what lay beneath its protective sheath.

Though the overall condition of the 1967 Mustang had undeniably deteriated as years and circumstance had steadily pilfered from it its brilliant luster, the underlying beauty... the potential for restorative glamor could not have ever been demolished. Aaron had seen it hidden beneath the chipping paint and age-worn aura of the once-beautiful machine... and even after her brother's death, the evidence of his unwavering hope glimmered within his sister's eyes. It had been his dream, and she would not dare allow it to die with him. She ventures a step forth, certainly of the knowledge that this may very well seem a lack-luster gift within the eyes of her favored companion. "I know it doesn't look like much, but... before my brother passed he was going to restore it. He was going to make it what it used to be. And now...," she gives pause then, reaching into the writhing abyss of her own mind in order to salvage from the mirk the words that would serve her best. "...now I want you to have it. Because if anyone can make it as beautiful as it was before, it's you." Isolt falls silent in the moments that follow, shifting uneasily upon finely-muscled legs, blue eyes searching the stoic features of her elder... for what she cannot rightly say.