isolt griffin
It is difficult to discern precisely how many moments dissolve into the depthless oblivion that sprawls between them in the wake of her poignant inquiry. Doubtless it is only but a few, a collection of sand grains cast into the yawning abyss that was life's timeline; however, to Isolt the wait seemed endless, infinite and crippling as, for a moment, the brunette witch who had captivated her every attention merely pondered the crimson-haired vampire in a state of quiet contemplation. For the barest flicker of a second a quite uncharacteristic agitation sears to life as acid within her gut, white-hot and daunting as it burbles as if threatening retribution for the delicate young witch's quietude. Isolt's digits tighten about the supple leather of the gloves bound in her grasp, the metallic studs tenting chilled flesh in a manner that might have been painful had she not been numbed to it. So obstinate was the desperation with which she clung to them, and to the emotionally crippling wave of the memories they evoked, that it was doubtless she might ever relinquish them to the woman who claimed their ownership. Ever lessened is the possibility when the youthful witch finally does proffer up an explanation for her acquisition of the gloves, though this earns her little more than a pointed glare from the otherwise faultlessly amiable redhead whose cerulean eyes gleam anew with something... else. A farce, she is certain, for Harley would have never willingly allowed a parcel of clothing of such insurmountable personal value to the fall into the grimy hands of a pawn shop owner. Even before the dark-haired young woman may complete whatever verbal fallacy she intends to weave, Isolt's own lips form around the contentious syllables she intends to provide.

But they are destined never to leave the curl of her tongue.

A festival of movement and sound erupts about them, a cascade of shattered glass swathing the group at large as several relatively hefty parcels of furniture burst forth from the lobby of the nearby establishment only to careen headlong into the space they share. A breathless gasp is all that escapes her as Isolt turns instinctively to extend a hand in the direction in which Damon presumably still lingers, slender digits reaching for him in a desperately protective manner before they close around... nothing. In an instant her legs grow heavy, laden as an uncomfortable pressure builds within each limb, willfully forbidding any movement on her behalf. She is capable of ascertaining this singular fact before she is plunged into darkness by the fingers of a magic that Isolt has come to recognize as belonging to Raven. It is a frightening handful of moments that slips so easily betwixt her fingers, the sole connection she possesses to the present reality merely the voices and scuffling of those who flitter about beyond the writhing capsule of darkness within which she is entombed. And then... naught but a haunting silence as this, too, dissolves into featherlight whisps to reveal the aftermath of what could have only been deemed an attack. Swiftly do her eyes fall upon the neat circle of objects lain with such purpose at her feet, the oddity of it dictating the continued stagnation of her movements though there is a noted lapse in the heaviness that had existed only moments prior.

It is undefined as to what truly draws her body to movement, the young woman quickly extracting herself from the circle of miscellaneous objects strewn about her. Closer does she venture to Damon, seeking as she always seems to do the confidence that he exudes, the security of his presence that is paramount in this moment of greatest uncertainty. It is only as Raven's question rattles through the very marrow of her bones that Isolt realizes that she quakes, that the stillness she presumes is but a salacious lie. The gloves shiver in her hands as blue eyes travel to the singular individual present who may possess the answer that she is absent, a pregnant whisper falling from her lips. "I... I don't know."