isolt griffin
"It was," she acquiesced with a soft chuckle upon her sweetheart lips at the memory of how a lifetime of friendship had begun on some obscure and forgotten playground. "But I wouldn't have traded it for the world. That's just the way that she was... that was just Harley." The truth of the statement comes with a fondness that drags the spires of circumstance once more around the tender morsel of Isolt's heart, her intentional usage of the past tense bearing a weighty aura of finality. As if somehow, in some infinitesimal way, the redhead was beginning to accept that, perhaps, fate had for her no shred of absolution clutched possessively within its gnarled hands... no resolve to be found as the proverbial needle in this haystack that was the afterlife. There was, she suspected with no inconsiderable measure of sorrow, no beacon of painfully taunting light at the phantom close of this dark and unending tunnel. Maybe she would never again lay eyes upon the friend she cherished more deeply than any of the others, and... perhaps, it would serve both women for the better. Isolt would have gladly suffered a thousand deaths at Risque's hand if it were to spare her seeing even a flicker of the hatred she knew Harley would have for her should she discover what had become of her childhood friend.

A soft chortle echoes into the silence between them as Isolt employs a conscious effort to keep her from the perilous downward slope of her own considerations. "He's certainly a character," she muses, a kindly smile plucking gently at her features before it, too, is forfeited to the current circumstance. The acceptance of his offer, however tremulous, heralds naught but silent consideration on behalf of the emerald-eyed man for a long and drawn moment. Her eyes, as light and dazzling as the clear day-time heavens flick to his in the moment that he reaches out to her, only but a fizzling spark of anxiety skitters about where once there had been spires of emotional agony at the prospect of his touch. But it meets its end just as swiftly as it had dawned; a peculiar and welcome burst of warmth tracing the path of his touch as his calloused hand curls gently about her own. And, she discovers in some quiet mental epiphany... she does not withdraw from him. She does not withdraw because she simply does not feel the necessity of it. Isolt simply curls her own slender digits around his own, placing trust in the hands of another individual apart from Damon for the first time in recent memory. Only time would reveal if she had chosen poorly.

They arrive before the gaping maw of the vessel's entrance far too quickly for Isolt's liking, the undeniable tendrils of anxiety coiling eerily about her innards as she pondered, with some merit, whether or not curiosity had, this time, succeeded in having the best of her. It was no kept secret that vampires were, perhaps, detested by their supernatural counterparts with just as much vicious gusto as were the Dark Hunters. To them she was hardly the complex entity that was Isolt... she was, instead, something far more rudimentary, something far easier to despise: a soul-less pair of walking fangs. A cocky blood-sucking savage. It is a sentiment reflected flawlessly and without shame in the probing eyes of the ship's guard as he allows the full heft of his repulsive sneer to fall upon her. Her welcome, it would seem, had been rescinded before even it had been offered. Her body's innate chemical response is nearly immediate, a skill practiced with fervent determination even within the bowels of Syn during her captivity. The musk of death that was her shroud dissipates, evaporating as if it had never been.

And so does a portion of her worry dissolve as she is lead beyond the threshold that would serve to separate her from the object of what was surely a dutifully intense curiosity. The grip of her fingers upon his tightens somewhat with the awe that washes over her body in a titillating and rippling chill to electrify every nerve ending. Isolt's eyes peruse every corner, every hard and metallic line, her ears attentive to every quaking roar, every raucous chorus of cheers from the nearby crowd. The soft blue of her eyes peel away from the magnanimous scene unfolding before her to meet his own, a simper that can reflect nothing but the purest and most innocently appreciative awe offered to him. "It's amazing," she condones, hardly hesitating in allowing the weight of her gaze to fall to the orderly chaos that swims about her once more.

The youthful vampire is pulled from her contemplations with the none-too-subtle exertion of his strength upon her slender frame, her body brought closer in proximity to his own with just this simple action. The gentle pressure of his hand at her hip elicits a marginally protective response, the slender hand not already occupied with his rising to rest softly against his forearm. She does not move to flee his touch, nor does she seek to constrict his movements as she merely... holds him, steadying herself against the solidity of his frame. It is a peculiar thing indeed, far removed from the generous physical distance she had always maintained from this particular individual. And yet it feels acceptable, right somehow, to allow his advances. She peers at him through a veil of perfectly curled lashes, a pregnant snippet of silence accented only by his request and the dull roar of the crowd swirling around them. So mesmerized is the young woman by the prospect of dancing, a lifelong love of hers, and the soothing warmth of his touch that a coy smile plays its notes upon her plush lips. "Gladly," she whispers, her hand moving to his shoulder as her frame draws nearer to his, content in this moment to allow him to lead.