isolt griffin
It is an overwhelming sensorial festival, a veritable cornucopia of sights, sounds, phantom recollections and the overbearing fragrance of thick, spiced blood as it flows easily through the network of veins contained within the three individuals before her. It was no kept secret that Isolt was famished, the ghastly pallor of her delicate flesh far more blanched than even death could have boasted... and yet she is still far too deeply rooted in the fresh memories of her humanity to even for a moment consider biting any of them. Even the green-eyed gentleman she fears with such anticipatory fervor and the unshakable knowledge of what he had done could not have coaxed her to harm him so out rightly. And in truth idle considerations of the intensity of her hunger are all but cast aside as the young brunette traces a straight line to her companions, seeking first to inquire of her identity to this Tetra before finding it far more suitable to address Isolt directly. The moniker she might have offered withers and dies as crumpled ash upon her tongue, though, for the brief explanation that her green-eyed assailant offers.

Surely it is a memory that they both yearned to have scrubbed from the porous surfaces of their memories; though Isolt suspects that not even the longevity offered by immortality would ever prove enough to eradicate the memory of what he had done, what he had allowed to happen. Crystalline eyes trace an erratic pattern against the dusty floorboards before the words of the other female in the room see her careen back into the present. But, it would seem, for the moment Isolt's eyes and ears are kept solely for the man whom she is to presume is the leader of this gathering of Weres. It is with trepidation, anger, and the most morbid sense of curiosity that the auburn-locked woman stares silently towards him... would he lie? Or would he rather allow the pregnant silence to weave the fallacy of his innocence for him? She arrives at the realization that, though it does still matter to her whether he believes himself acquitted of his transgressions, perhaps it should not. Irrevocable damage had already been done, and no confessions would ever be capable of altering the course their lives had taken.

Oceanic eyes soften exponentially as she turns them to the young woman, offering but a few syllables in answer to this question that was graciously, wholly simplistic. "Isolt." What follows is a proverbial maelstrom, ebbed to life by little more than some derogatory prodding that ultimately culminates into a squabble which sees Isolt's delicate features cringe. This, it would seem, proves to be the single grain of sand which tips the scales of this particular encounter; these strangers have infiltrated her home, her sanctuary, only to at once proceed to squabble amongst themselves over seemingly insignificant personal matters. It is then that the young redhead finds her voice, grappling through the choking miasma that is an amalgamation of starvation and of exhaustion; and though her words are not unkind, the syllables bare a peculiar sort of finality. "Stop," she urges, awaiting the lull in their bickering before she deems it suitable to continue, "I'm not going to bite anyone. And I don't care if you stay; all that I ask is that you leave the room at the end of the hall alone. That's all I want." And, it would seem, that is all she might have to offer her impromptu guests, casting a pointed and lingering glance towards the green-eyed man before traipsing into the communal living room and to the small cupboard in which she and Harley had stowed what few linens they possessed.

It would appear as though Harley had not deemed these particular items worthy of taking with her upon her departure, and remarkably they all appear free from the fine film of dust that has settled upon the surfaces of their apartment. Gingerly she extracts what few pillows they had stowed away for impromptu visitors, a pair of thin sheets, and a surprisingly comfortable blanket the duo had pilfered from the dregs of one nondescript shop or another at some point in the past. Isolt offers these to the brunette woman, coaxing the barest hint of a soft smile to the brims of her ruby lips as she motions to the sizable leather coach. "That folds out... the bed is far more comfortable than sleeping on the coach itself, trust me. And the bathroom's at the end of the hall on the right... I imagine Harley might have left my shampoo and stuff in there, so you're welcome to use it," she lilts before retreating soundlessly into the corridor that will see her to her quarters. It is, in truth, all the fledgling vampire finds herself capable of doing in the way of welcoming them, the dire nature of current circumstances having diluted her otherwise naturally warm demeanor. And so, finally, Isolt closes the door to the bedroom that had been her own, and allows the wave of nostalgia to break over her...