isolt griffin
Never, not in all of her life, would Isolt believe herself even the slightest bit capable of taking quite so nicely to a scenario such as this. Never had she dreamt herself built for something quite so uncertain, quite so daring as the timeless effort of business ownership. And though there were a fair few moments in which the demureness that dictated the proverbial lion's share of her persona proved far too dominant to allow for such boisterous outbreaks of confidence... she was, indeed, coming in to her own in some minute and charming way. Tonight, however, the reticent young vampire is wholly contented to merely allow Damon the subjective burden of the crowd's attention and veneration, for it is one he bore effortlessly and with such charismatic grace that she seemed capable of doing nothing but forfeiting ths spotlight to him. He was made for this in a manner that Isolt could never have been, the shy redhead finding herself tonight in the same portion of their establishment that had always proffered her the most comfort. The niche that she seemed best to fill.
The kitchen.
It is a pleasing agony, a lovely torture, to stand amidst the sights and the aromas of the kitchen she had built and to look on as dishes from her and Damon's shared repetoire were prepared with such diligent care. Dishes that were no longer hers to enjoy, for in death the young woman's tastes had become austere in their singularity. She thirsted and starved for but one thing, and all others existed solely as tempting mirages for yearnings that had not yet been nullied by the passing of time. It is for this reason, this regret that stings as bile at the back of her throat, that Isolt ventures from the blissfully aromatic confines of the kitchen and into the concealed back hallways of Red on the Water in search of the myriad other tasks that dutifully summon her... only to find two waitresses tittering excitedly beyond the presumed quietude of their cupped hands. "Ladies," Isolt utters, a gently stern smile perched upon her lips, one of an admittedly small repetoire of devices learned at Damon's hand, though it proves effective as the two young women scurry back to their respective duties.
Coaxed by the hand of curiosity, the crimson-haired woman weaves her way out into the light of Red on the Water's bustling main floor, cerulean eyes cast about the room before they fall in a timely and weighty fashion upon one particularly handsome (and undeniably familiar) gentleman perched in what she knows to be faux-innocence at the pleasing slope of the bar. She glides hesitantly across the room, situating her own lithe frame next to his, delicate fingers playing nervously upon the bars padded edge before a featherlight whisper echoes between them. "I should have known it was you who was sending my waitstaff into a tizzy," she lilts in a tone that is not unkind, instead betraying some modicum of beautifully light humor. "What can I get you?"