isolt griffin
It was nights such as this that Isolt's mourning of Harley's departure intensified to such an extent that it was nigh unbearable. It had always been, and she supposed that it would continue to be, a string of razor-wire pulled taut against the ailing fiber of her heart; however, it seemed that the abyss left in her dearest companion's absence was a veritable vacuum to all of the superficial fillers Isolt desperately employed to appease it. The young woman could find no solace this night in the company of the Were currently invited to occupy Harley's quarters; in truth the two women rarely spoke for Isolt's fear that she might prove to be just another individual too blinded by stereotype and legend to entertain the idea of befriending a vampire. She would have sought Damon's treasured company were it not for the guilt she felt for her youthful ignorance of the ways of vampires, a matter that had seen him forced to explain more than a fair few things to the fledgling redhead.

And so she finds herself posed at the crossroads of a bustling intersection, peering about in all possible directions for something, anything, which might coax her from the miasma of loneliness to which she had fallen victim. She sought distraction, even if only to last her until dawn. And, as if heralded by some omnipotent cue, a rather tall gentleman meanders past the lingering redhead... headed directly for the perilous hustle of the intersection just beyond. Isolt acts upon the reflexes that, with death, have blossomed into something rather impressive and gently but insistently grips the gentleman's elbow for a moment marked by brevity before withdrawing her arm all together. "Watch out," she insists pointedly, her tone bearing no notes of agitation or anger, though the last syllable is forfeited to the night's cool zephyr as a brutally familiar aroma assaults her senses.

Isolt's experiences with Dark Hunters had followed her transcendence beyond life rather swiftly, her first night amongst the ranks of the undead having born a particularly terrifying experience that had almost seen her afterlife ended just as it was beginning. It was a brand upon a malleable mind, never to be sacrificed to the erosive hand of time. And, the realization sinking in her stomach like a stone, she recalls this particular individual from the night of the masquerade. The young woman had afforded him little thought, as most others at the party certainly had, though memory served her well in confirming that the blonde monolith before her was indeed present that night.

It is with a façade of impeccable calm that Isolt manages to retreat through the crowd gathered at the curb-side, surprising even herself with the manner she is able to support the farce of her nonchalance until her lithe form is free of the oppressive closeness of the smothering crowd. Teeth rake nervously at the lush cushion of her bottom lip as Isolt's pace hastens, wishing now for naught but to disappear into the darkness of the night that surrounds her.