isolt griffin
In the silent moments left in the wake of her inquiry, Isolt toys with the notion that, perhaps, she had plunged too deep far too quickly. In truth she had only sought to peel back the veneer of stoicism he oft chose to bear, and to glance briefly at what might lay beneath. An approach that, to her hardly concealed surprise, he seemed at least marginally receptive too and willing to indulge. Isolt is unnervingly expectant of what is to come, and yet when the words leave his lips it is no less distressing. No less heart-breaking; not only for the calamitous tragedy he had suffered at such a tender age, but because this, of all things, was the one he chose to offer her... as if it might somehow define him. The deep furrows of a frown crease against her brow as she must finally divert her gaze from the man beside her. "I'm sorry," she whispers, a peculiar brand of guilt tugging eerily and unbidden at her heart strings. The blood of Risque, his tormentor, was the only thing animating Isolt's body... Risque was part of her in a way that she would always despise, that she would always resent. Her guilt-fogged mind reasoned that this might somehow tie her to Risque and the atrocities she had committed against him. It is a notion that is fleeting, but its implications no less devastating.

His correction of the use of his name is a welcome distraction, though Isolt cannot deny some measure of shame for presuming the use of such a moniker would be accepted. "Tetradore it is then," she says simply, the still of silence stretching not a moment between them before he offers his own inquiry in timely exchange for the one she had coaxed from him. A beautifully fond yet undeniably pained smile creases the bow of the redhead's lips, a soft and muffled chuckle billowing from within. "Harley and I met in a sandbox at a playground when we were five years old. She poured sand in my hair and we'd been best friends ever since. Me, Harley, and my brother were just about inseparable for most of our lives." The young woman swallowed hard around the fibrous knot threatening within her throat, her mind absently seizing upon the opportunity to torture her with memories of the two loved ones she had lost to time and circumstance.

Pulled from the perilous trap of her own thoughts, Isolt turns to face him, starting a bit at his changed position. Confusion and then concern take their respective turns upon the angelic pallor of her façade as the oceanic blue of her eyes shifts from the emerald of us, to the cargo ship that is but a domineering shadow upon the night's canvas, and back again. She had attempted, once, to unearth the truth of this supposed Ark that he had not desired her to see... an outing that had met her with far more hostility than she might have been willing to brave again. But, perhaps it would be different in his company; perhaps the curiosity that burned within her would finally be sated by what she could see. Isolt considers her companion for a drawing moment, her consent nothing more than a whisper to ride the roar of the ocean's waves. "Okay."