isolt griffin

"What on earth is this about," she giggles, the surprisingly dextrous fingers of her companion making short work of the fastening that swathed her eyes. Her delicate fingers skate tentatively against the fabric that now obscures her vision, the loss of any one of her invaluable senses serving only to hydrate the seedling of unease buried within her gut. However, for this sole individual she would oblige, for him she would allow this weakness to be temporarily perpetrated upon her, delicate fingers entwining with his so that she might be lead to whatever mysterious surprise she presumed he had concocted. A featherlight excitement tickles coyly at her insides, the amalgamation of anticipatory glee an unexpectedly titillating emotional cocktail that has the youthful vampire positively abuzz by the time that Damon sees fit to halt her.

And then as the fabric of the blindfold billows about her fair features, falling away from the expanse of dazzling azure eyes, Isolt is capable of doing naught but simply staring, simply allowing her gaze to caress every leisurely dancing flame, every playfully crackling sparkler, the quaintly simplistic cake perched so innocently upon their shared desk... and the man who had made it all so. It is he who heralds the resplendent simper that spreads widely across her features, delicate hands rising to cover the plump cushions of her lips in a moment of unadulterated and intrinsically angelic wonder. Astonishment dictates the silence that robs her tongue of the words that might otherwise have been and merely allows a tactfully vigorous shaking of her copper-crowned head in due response to the inquiry he places. Rhetorical though it might have been, Isolt still admits, inwardly, that his announcement is one unforeseen. In truth this place, this haven, was a product of both their toils, the culmination of dedication on behalf of two individuals reaching for a singular ideal. They had dreamt and built it together, and thusly this honor acted as the proverbial icing upon the cake. Pun absolutely intended.

Isolt considers him, this man she has come to know in a far deeper way than perhaps she is even fully aware, for an overlong and lingering moment. It is not as though the younger vampire is gazing upon her elder for the first time, for she swears that she could recollect him in stunning clarity even beyond the veil of closed lids; however, it is a glance that faultlessly betrays her gratitude, her veneration. And though she breaks it in time, it is only so that she might round the desk normally consumed by the clutter of their evident preliminary success, and draw him into a comfortingly secure embrace. "Thank you so much, Damon. I am so grateful for you," she whispers softly, gently, before the spell of her appreciation is undone by the raucous drumming of hastened footsteps beyond the closed office door.

Her lithe frame departs from Damon's in the barest moment before Davante's unceremoniously yet all-too-characteristically flamboyant arrival. Unbidden the initial hint of an amused simper pulls at her sweetheart lips, sparkling blue eyes trailing after the frolicking shadow before flicking to its puppeteer as he unabashedly possesses the space at their door. A nod of reassurance is but all the flame-haired woman offers to the young girl as she flutters her lashes in Damon's direction, a covert and teasing nudge given to the man who lingers at her side before her full attention is captured so effortlessly by him once again. The scintillating azure of her eyes and the politest of pleasantly warm grins travel to their shared guest. "We've met... it's good to see you again, Davante," Isolt coos, wordlessly hoping that she might presently evade Damon's inevitable curiousity regarding the knowledge she possesses of his comrade. She knows of the worry that will sully his depthless gaze and she has offered consideration to the rage that may come as its companion should he know of the debacle not so long ago transpired within Davante's shop. Denial of the axiomatic truth that Isolt wishes to keep the details of her encounter with Davante safely concealed by the veil of tactful omission would have been a fruitless venture; for no greater truth exists in regards to that particular eve. Faultlessly aware is Isolt that said omission surely constitutes dishonesty in a relationship that was heretofore barren of such a parasitic weed, and yet it is to protect Damon from himself that she would allow this particular grain of salt be sown into the otherwise bountiful loam of their partnership.

To his esteemed merit, however, her favored friend moves steadily onward, gathering yet another vessel from the collection of tumblers kept for private celebrations such as this. Yet in time her own fingers curl about the weighty cup, a reassuring grin plucking subtly at her cherried lips before Isolt moves to destribute tumblers of impeccably fine bourbon to the gentlemen and then to herself. "To what do we owe the pleasure," she lilts towards Davante, immaculately genuine intrigue flickering across the span of her gaze.