isolt griffin
The exact measure of his inebriation is a tangible thing, the stinging aroma of his chosen libation mingling strangely with the fragrance of his blood as it curls against her astute olfactory sensors. This, and the familiar tingle and phantom warmth of whiskey upon her own tongue as she pilfers this single sense from him for the barest moment. Cause for heightened awareness is his drunkenness, no matter how slight, and it is for this reason that her approach is stayed at a comfortable distance. Isolt had bared witness to how quickly the cogs of even his sober mind might shift his demeanor against her, and so considerations of the possibilities that alcohol might breed flicker in a macabre slide show within her mind's eye. A performance only marginally distracted by the weight of his eyes as they appraise her, a gesture that, surprisingly, does not see the young crimson-locked girl cringe into the false sanctuary of the shadows at her back.

Isolt offers only a slight nod in response to the pointed brevity of his answer, her expression contorting into one of innocent curiosity at the request he presents. However, before she might have offered a declination, should one have lingered unbidden upon her tongue, he sets about depositing a fresh pool of whiskey into the tumbler for her taking. "We can," she offers in response to his inquiry, a subtle shrug tugging momentarily at her shoulders. "But it's really more for show. We can't get drunk... believe me I've tried." A simper weaves its way onto her ruby lips, though the expression itself shines nary a beam of its light into the young woman's eyes. More than once had she tried to drown the sorrows that death had wrought in a veritable ocean of whiskey to no avail.

The shrill clatter of metal against ceramic draws forth the young woman's attentions once more, the thick, spiced aroma of blood billowing into the air mere seconds later and causing her picturesque features to crinkle into an expression that could only ever have betrayed apprehension. "What on earth...," she gasps, the remainder of her inquiry lost in her rush to retrieve a towel from one of the time-worn cabinets of what had once been her kitchen. Carefully she draws near to the emerald-eyed man, gently taking his wounded wrist into the delicate grasp of her hand and placing the towel against the still-oozing laceration. The smooth pallor of her brow crinkles with the scowl that pulls at her features, the next words she offers rising naught above a whisper. "You shouldn't do that. Your blood is too precious to just give away." A matter of moments, few and pregnant, pass between the duo before Isolt dares to unveil this wound he would inflict upon himself for reasons she could not possibly fathom. The dark crimson of already-clotting blood hides within the laceration's gaping mouth, the wound's fleshy border bearing telltale rosy agitation.

Curiosity blooms as a flickering spark within the confines of her brain, a deep recess ignited by tales of what vampire blood was truly capable of. Isolt had heard tell of the healing elixir that was inherent in the blood that lay still and thick within her veins, though she had yet to lay eyes upon evidence that might prove it so. Her fangs descend with a soft click, the fledgling vampire raising the tip of a single finger to meet the apex of one treacherous spear, the rewarding pop of parting skin denoting that she had known success. The subtlety of a wince is all that creases her brow as Isolt slowly and deliberately traces his wound with her blood-tipped digit. The result is nearly instantaneous, the life-infused warmth of his unmarred flesh consuming that made crimson, the wound itself closing seamlessly. The smallest of simpers tugs at the brims of her ruby lips as Isolt merely releases his arm gently back unto the table, subsequently assuming her place opposite him.

The tumbler of bloodied whiskey, temporarily abandoned, sits before her, the fragrance of it absolutely alluring given the current measure of her hunger. In silence the oceanic blue of her eyes travel to the man across from her and, for the first time in longer than she can recall, she simply looks upon him... and truly sees him. Ever since her death, as her eyes had closed upon the imagine of him looking on in presumed apathy for the tragedy he had heralded, Isolt had viewed this emerald-eyed man with fear and resentment. But now, for even this brief moment, the damning veil of his transgressions seemed to lift revealing the man she had met at the bar. The man whose smile had flushed her cheeks, whose eyes had captured all of her attentions by their own merit... and she smiled.

It is a moment marked by brevity, Isolt's ever-present modesty dictating that she look away, deft hands gathering the tumbler if only to have some employ, some distraction. Before she is entirely aware to what purpose her hands move, the tumbler is at her lips, the warm liquid skating pleasantly against her tongue. In truth the taste of whiskey had lost its allure with her transcendence beyond the scope of life, and yet mixed with his blood it is far more pleasing than ever it was in life. It is not long before glass meets the wood of her table once more, something pleasant sparkling in the young woman's eyes as she glances towards her counterpart for the evening. "I guess they were wrong... it's not sweet at all. It's more... savory." She offers him the briefest smile before her eyes once again fall to the glass, a single fingertip tracing the circular rim.