isolt griffin

She moves to him in so graceful and steady a manner that it might have been believed that she would glide rather than merely stroll. Of the many understated gifts she had been granted in the dawn that rose after her life's dusk, this perfection of movement was surely one of the ones she had come to appreciate in the most offhand manner. Her approach is stymied; however, with the curl of a peculiar aroma teasing against the scrupulous sensors of her olfactory. It is markedly vague, though the realization that comes as companion to it is hardly as merciful and as subtle in its advance unto her. It was, irrefutably, the bodily perfume of a woman... a woman with whom, presumably, he had shared more than one intimate encounter. It is a realization that draws taut a coil of barbed wire about the desparately-tender mass of her heart for every reason and for none at all; in the same scattering of moments Isolt is her own paradox. She is glad for him and this partner unseen, and yet in the tenebrific dregs of her most private self her heart bleeds its lament. He had always and would forevermore hold his own prestigous place within her heart.

A nod to this is the embrace she gives, her approach accented by far more trepidation than ever it had been before, unknowing if he would accept such advances as he had before. And yet, she risks his disapproval, his rebuttal, for she can think of no greater way in which she might be soothed (if only just) than by the embrace of this man she held in such high esteem. "I'm so glad you came," Isolt whispers, bolstered by his presence enough so that her voice does is not sent aquiver with the overwhelming despair that has been the archetype of her past fortnight. In this pathetically-brief morsel of time the demure young vampire had lost... everything. She had returned to her abode one eve not long past to find that Nadya and the twins of whom she had grown most fond had gathered their belongings and vacated. Chizue likewise had not been seen about the pub in quite some time and perhaps the dagger imbedded deepest into the still vessel of her heart was Damon's sudden disappearance. He was gone, she knew this now after having attempted to fool herself and all around her into believing that it was merely a fluke. He was gone as if he had never been, as if she had dreamt him... he was gone and he had left her standing in the ruin of splinters and shards of the hope she had dare let blossom within her. He had left her to bleed the pain of his departure, to endure silently the torment of his abandonment of this place they had dreamed and built together. His abandonment of the coven, though small, within which they had found solace... together.

A phantom knot coils and constricts within the youthful vampire's throat as she extracts herself from her companion, her steps hasty as she retreats to the kitchen, gesturing only for Tetradore to make himself comfortable in preparation for her return. Isolt can offer little else in these moments, the thick warmth of tears yet to be shed already searing at the backs of her eyes, tears she has battled far too long to keep from spilling. It is a cruel trick played by the callused hand of fate, for here she was. Here was the vampire girl with the mane of flaming gossamer hair, just as painfully alone and frightened as the night she had woken in the darkness, her mouth slick with the metallic tang of her own blood from the fangs she had cut. She had fallen to the murky depths she had managed, in some ways, to crawl from over the long months... only to find herself made too weak by the circumstances that heralded her descent to find the strength to grapple for purchase and climb free once more.

Isolt returns to him with the same gliding movements as she had before, depositing before the Were king a plate of steaming shephard's pie and a frosted mug of their finest, darkest ale. He need not have asked for such things, for Isolt knew full well of the desire. She folds herself into the chair opposite him as the last remaining employees announce their departures for the eve, the dazzling azure of her eyes drifting for a few moments to things unseen, her ailing mind ever-racing in the hellish ether of her thoughts. But in time she does find her focus upon him, trying for an expression of warmth as she punctures the silence between them. "So how are you... really." She poses the question with quite a measure of delicate care, laboring beneath the hope that she might soothe what obviously ails him since she cannot perform this feat for herself.