isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

These were the rare moments, the beautiful ones. The ones in which only the two of them existed, together, so far beyond the scope of the outside world that no one could possibly reach them; the wanting, grasping fingers of reality falling so blessedly short. They were few and so very far between, the evenings they spent alone... in the warmth his bed, in the townhome that she shared with Yumi. A special occasion of sorts, and one she had used as an excuse to purchase a new (and embarrassingly high-priced) dress that Harley had issued assurances would "seal the deal"... though what her companion had meant by that exactly remained a mystery. The garment itself was beautiful, far too gorgeous an outfit for Isolt to have indulged in under different circumstances: the black gown glistened in the subtle lighting of the restaurant, hugging the tempting slope of every feminine curve. Backless, the tattoo upon her shoulder that Harley had given her so very long ago gaining rare exposure, Isolt felt almost desirable in a way that she never had before.

Tonight she felt... beautiful.

A slow, easy simper works its way across her features at the impish grin and darkened glances of her lover. The auburn-haired woman was helpless against the rosy blush that blossomed so readily upon the apples of her cheeks at that glance and all that it promised for their evening. It was, too, her greatest hope that this evening might aide the duo in mending the fissures that had appeared upon the previously-untainted veneer of their relationship. That it may be the proverbial breath of life that the two needed in order to once again solidify their connection to one another.

Isolt was hopeful... until Damon seemed to become so utterly distracted from their shared present. Despite her greatest, most sincere attempts to pardon the somewhat agitated behavior of her lover, Isolt could not find it within herself to remain complacent as he quite abruptly ended their date when it had only just begun. "Honey, what on earth-," she pleaded to her fiance's back as he took his leave of her and the perhaps equally as befuddled waitor who had returned with their ticket. She made quick work of satisfying their bill, apologizing profusely to the waitor as she made a hurried departure that would, hopefully, expose the mystery of whatever Damon had found so terribly pressing that he might see fit to leave her in the midst of a romantic evening. The timely clicking of the heels she wore was lost, forfeited to the raised voices that accented the backdrop of the city's bustling hum.

Though as she drew nigh to the source of the ruckus, the sound of her footfalls slowed, glistening azure eyes astutely surveying the scene as it unfolded before her, noting more than one familiar face amongst the gathered crowd. She recognized the peculiar dark-haired man from the not-inconsiderable amount of time he had spent within her pub and his noted insterest in Yumi on one particular eve. But his was not nearly the most troublesome face she recalled, an icy and anticipatory chill licking its glacial tongue at the base of her spine as her eyes fell upon the only woman in the crowd. Isolt had, regretably, met her before; her presense far less than promising of a cordial outcome.

"It isn't yours either, Claire," she purred in far more confident a manner than she was given to feel, appearing at Damon's side as if birthed from the darkness in her wake. Her own fangs remained sheathed even as the seething vampire rounded on her, the points of her daggers pinching divets into the cushions of her lips as they formed into yet another snide hiss. "Isolt, what a pleasure to-". But whatever fallacy of introduction the other woman had intended is lost, dissolved into the chaos of her companion's body colliding with the concrete of the sidewalk with a rather sickly squelching sound. Claire's eyes set aflame then as she swung round to face Isolt again, a bunched fist careening pointedly towards the flame-crowned woman's face. Driven by instinct does Isolt reach out to stymie the woman's advances, immortality and her time spent at the hands of Risque and her sycophants having gifted her with decidedly extraordinary reflexes. Though Claire hardly has a moment in which to register this before Isolt's own clenched fist collides solidly with her would-be assailant's face. Small streams of blood, nearly-black even beneath the sparse light of the streetlamps, crawl a pair wavering lines from the woman's nose as a feral growl builds within her throat. The roar itself, though, is lost in the explosion of moment heralded by her remaining companions as they come willingly to her defense...