isolt griffin
Sparse and fragile are the moments within which hope seems to blossom as some newly-sprouted seedling, its whimsy nearly pulling a covering of wool tightly over her eyes and whispering the lie of her escape coyly into her ears. But it was not to be... so salacious and misguided the consideration that she might, for the second time, escape the wanton spire of a Hunter's stake. Indeed her lithe frame does recoil from his own, the reflexes that death has gifted her proving far more astute than even she had realized. Slender hands slide against the feminine curves of her denim-clad hips in but a small sampling of the true extent of the anxiety that corrodes whatever sapling of hope had dared emerge... the remnants of it merely a mental carapace, dried and withered into so much emotional ash.

For a time Isolt is capable of little else besides the matching of his stare, the molten gold of his eyes would have served to intrigue her were it not for the repulsive hate that seems to sizzle upon her own cool skin with every moment that dissolves between them. It was a lesson the young vampire found difficult to learn, to accept this presumed hatred for a race she had never desired to belong to proving impossible given the demureness of her nature. She was but a delicate rose upon this concrete battlefield, destined to shrink in the consuming shade of his ire regardless of how vehemently she bade her resolve be fortified. So complete is her hesitation that for a time Isolt does not, cannot, proffer him an answer though the question itself bares a veneer of blatant simplicity.

But it is hesitation that is shattered, obliterated by the curse and veiled threat he spits at her. A threat that leaves a fine crust of ice upon the curvature of her spin with the nonchalant ease of his malice for her; malice she had done naught to deserve or warrant. "I don't know, I," she hesitates, barely tasting the words upon her tongue before they, too, are forfeited to the towering blonde before her, "... just didn't want you to get hurt." An answer as simplistic in nature as the question that would coax if from her lips, though Isolt hardly imagines that it will be as easily accepted, her hangs wrung and clutched tightly to her chest with anticipation for what should follow. The tight coils of muscle made ironclad by immortality tense and tighten over the smooth structure of her skeleton, as ready to flee his advances as he was to perpetrate them. But as his eyes fall for a moment, the exasperation of his gestures betraying a glimpse of something far departed from the angst of before, Isolt allows the azure of her eyes to drift over him for the barest hint of a second.

The fledgling vampire is nothing if not profoundly scrupulous, her will and desire to afford any individual even the minutest bit of trust having been drained from her like the final pulse of blood sent purging from her broken body. His question sees her lithe form straighten, hands still held protectively against her chest as the answer is afforded in the gentlest murmur. "Yes." As if it were not already so painfully obvious that she lacked the years that would, someday, make her far wiser than he. Isolt was bereft the confidence and age-old wisdom of those who, like Damon, had walked the earth far longer than Mother Nature had ever intended. It is a consideration that brings about her own curiosity fighting through the tangled net of anxiety that had wadded up inside of her. "You look so young. How old are you?"