For the barest moment do her eyes and her mind take to wandering, sifting through the mass of costumed bodies... questing for an individual she knows she will not find. It is merely a practice in diligence that is, after so many years, quite instinctual. The scathing welt of reality cannot be avoided or ignored any more than it could have been at any point in the past year; however, there lingers some modicum of hope nestled within the still heart of the crimson-haired vampire that Harley would venture through the heavy oak door laden with whatever leather, studded costume she would have undoubtedly doned. She would have presented the antithesis to Isolt's Greek goddess, a paradox of her in nearly every way... and Isolt would have adored her all the more for it.

But it would not be so. Not this night or any other to follow, a daunting axiom that had finally begun to find its niche within the heart of the vampire Harley had left behind. Isolt had ventured the agonizing avenue of grief: she had been forced to her knees with the shock of her dearest friend's disappearance, she had fought reality with the sword of denial only to see it splinter in her hands, and she had known the greatest and most searing anger that a person could... anger internalized upon herself for not having been present to make Harley stay. Finally had she begun to draw nigh to the bittersweet light that was acceptance, a light that had illuminated an entirely new cache of individuals that had, themselves, found acceptance for the shy, demure young vampire.

It is the soft baritone refrain of one such individual that draws her from her idle quest for a ghost long absent, a smile already blossoming upon her lips as her eyes flitter to the infamous Nightshade King. "And you make quite the striking pirate," she purrs, taking in his outfit with genuine intrigue before finding his gaze cast rather intently to Damon. Instinctively do her own follow, the supple scape of her brow furrowing as she finds her companion all but seething upon his perch. It was no tiresome feat to surmise the truths of his agitation, the realization causing the redheaded hostess to make a rather bold decision... a soft wave of her hand beckoning Damon to join them. To know was to understand, and to understand was to accept, so what better way to quail Damon's misgivings than to introduce him to this stranger he met with such malice? Perhaps, with time, acceptance would trickle through the fissures upon the facades of both men. Perhaps, with the proper hand to coax them, an alliance might be forged. For surely this would serve all of them just as well as any surge in numbers amongst their respective clans.

Then does distraction arrive in the welcome form of Tobias... or, rather, forms of Tobias, the sprightly vagabond's half-transformed frame and veritable suit of adornments bringing a beaming smile back to Isolt's features. "Where on earth did you get all of that?" Her inquiry though, is forfeited to the resonance of glass crashing against the pub's wooden floor, cerulean eyes slicing to Raven in such haste that the golden leaves atop her head are nearly flung askew. "It's alright," she cooes softly, placing a hand gently upon Raven's shoulder in some small attempt at comfort before bending to retrieve the decimated tumbler. At the touch of her magic do the shards form themselves anew into the tumbler they had only just been, the whiskey evaporating as quickly as it had been spilled as Isolt rights herself. Effortlessly does she trade the emptied glass for one brimming with amber liquid before passing this to Tetradore and motioning to the bartender to replace Raven's libation. If it was a stronger drink the Were required, then a stronger drink she most certainly would receive.