isolt griffin
It was almost as it should have been, as it used to be. The fragrances curling as some unseen tango into the air were just as delectable as Isolt remembered them. She can recall with faultless clarity the image of her eight-year-old self flittering excitedly about the kitchen as the slender yet solid figure of her grandmother had beckoned that various items be fetched for her. Only once all of the various accoutrements had been assembled did the true fun commence... that aged Irish kitchen having proven the birthplace of Isolt's love affair with the culinary arts that was fostered even now in the cool hands of death. However, a mournful shade cast itself upon the radiance of this most cherished hobby; no longer did the fragrant vapors of each dish stoke the anticipatory flame for what was to come... but rather the steaming plumes reminded the young redhead that the glorious creations made by her own hand were quite literal forbidden fruit. This meal was not hers, really, but a holiday gift to the eclectic trio of Weres who had so unceremoniously stumbled into her life.

Blue eyes travel a deliberate line to the doorway that had once been Harley's but now belonged to someone who was, admittedly, quite similar to the infamous raven-haired woman. In truth, Isolt's dealings with Nadya could be nothing other than shamefully abbreviated, an unfortunate byproduct of the fledgling vampire's apprehension that the Were might, as so many before her undoubtedly had, judge her solely for the stereotypes of her race and not for the soul contained therein. It is, perhaps, a similar fear that has seen her withdraw from the unique adventure that is Tobias' company. Their shared green-eyed companion, however, is a matter entirely set apart. The anguished way in which he looks at her is... agonizing, a phantom stake taken to an ailing heart every time his eyes pass over her. It was an axiomatic truth that the dawn of their brief series of interactions had been crippling, an eruption that had left them both to fumble about in the dark smog of its aftermath. And yet the fearsome tide of her fear, her scorn, has ebbed.

Given the current state of her distant affairs with the feline pack and the tension that was nearly palpable, Isolt allowed the possibility that they may not even find her invitation worth accepting settle over her. She may very likely end up spending the evening with no company apart from her own as she so often was destined to do, the gorgeous meal currently occupying the entirety of her oven and stove top likely to prove a casualty of this precariously disjointed relationship. But, nonetheless, the slender redhead merely dances on, the beautiful simper perched upon her lips a beacon of the hope that she dares allow to warm her heart.