isolt griffin
Two infinitesimal domes of impossibly-dark lifeblood swell from the relatively shallow punctures she has inflicted upon herself, punctuating the otherwise pale tautness of her flesh in the glow of the moon's taunting smile. It was self-retribution and it was repentance, an apology and a sacrifice spliced into one singular offering to this woman she knew not. Guilt had, after all, always been amongst her greatest weaknesses a serrated blade taken with vicious intent to the tenderness of a still-bleeding heart in a mournful plea for the end to the suffering of others. And for this suffering, for which she was solely responsible, Isolt would give nothing less than her own blood, her own suffering... regardless of how little and how miniscule it might prove to be.

And yet, it would seem that for this young woman, the promise of healing, of an end to what was surely excruciating agony, would not suffice for the dues Isolt owed her. The budding vampire pulls her arm back, tucking the offending appendage close to her chest as the bitter look of utter and undeniable revulsion pulls the girl's otherwise beautiful face into a tight sneer. Just that simplistic glance, that moment seared into the malleable fabric of her memory, wrings the greatest and most all-consuming shame from a damaged soul not yet prepared to accept the body which contains it. A wringing that grows only tighter, more insistent, with the broken young Were's plea for another, for any presence beyond that of the two damnable leeches at her side. Pained confusion mars the dazzling pallor of Isolt's features as she looks once more to Damon, his guidance a thing she pleads for in this moment within which the redhead seems naught if not entirely at a loss.

Isolt rises with the injured body of the Were, her teeth raking into the luscious pillow of her bottom lip at the notion of venturing to The Witchery. She had heard tell of the extravagant resort before, had driven past it on more than a single occasion when she and Harley had found themselves adventurous enough to pretend that they might actually have possessed the resources to one day beset the place with their patronage. And yet more notorious that the establishment itself was the hotel's infamously nefarious matron... a woman, a witch, who Isolt found herself far less than excited to come upon. If the spun tapestries of the fables held even a modicum of truth within their verbal threads then they, surely, were in for quite the production. However, if begging the aide of such a woman might undo the horrid damage Isolt herself had pillaged upon the female curled within Damon's arms then surely such an avenue could not altogether be avoided.

She offers only the obedient nod of a fire-crowned head as her elder vanishes, swallowed whole by the billowing dark of this deepest night. Isolt lingers in solitude but for a moment, crystalline eyes slicing from one patch of darkness to the next, searching for what cannot rightly be gleaned... before, herself, vanishing beyond the curtain of impenetrable dark. A relatively short trek is it for a vampire before the petite redheaded girl finds herself at the barred doors to The Witchery... and a cast of characters the likes of which she could have hardly imagined congregating upon the frosted slab of the sidewalk. The oceanic blue of innocently-probing eyes flicker from the quite stunning brunette witch, to a familiar lupine figure before finally alighting with leaden suspicion upon the blonde Hunter she had come upon only twice before this. Though she wishes for nothing apart from immeasurable distance to be placed between she and the moppy-headed man, there were quite greater issues to be dealt with than his biting sarcasm and Raven's obvious displeasure.

It is with tremulous steps that Isolt extracts herself from the comforting shelter of Damon's shadow, addressing the brunette sorceress with the utmost in polite directness. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but... can you help us?" A soft and insistently pointing finger motions towards the Were still cradled protectively against the chest of her companion. "She said someone here could help her. She was in the road and I didn't see... I'm sorry," she pleads, unable to truly express the depth of her guilt for this pain that has been her doing. Isolt quiets, looking instead to the young witch with eyes that echo a need that shall, she hopes, transcend the racial divide which separates them.