isolt griffin
"It has nothing to do with what I am," she utters, her voice rising no higher than the whisper that somehow escapes the otherwise heavily-policed cage of her lips. "Despite what you might believe." A bold statement for a fledgling vampire faced with the only personification of death that might present itself to her in this afterlife. However, her retort was wholly and completely necessary, warranted by the assumption bleeding from every syllable that careened seemingly without care from his mouth. It was a detail of this new existence that the demure young woman still could do naught but grapple with helplessly, to battle with it as some gargantuan serpent slithering about within the bitter darkness. It would seem that beyond the veil of death she had ceased to be a who, ceased to be Isolt, and had instead shed her mortal coil only to be transformed into nothing more valuable than a wretchedly detested what. Rubricated by nothing more substantial than the acquisition of fangs and the caress of flesh chilled by the stagnation of blood.

The momentary impediment of frustration at his crass assumption dissipates somewhat with the glimpse of heightened consideration he must employ at her inquiry. Isolt's brows sew together in a tapestry of innocent confusion that is, unquestionably, laced with fine threads of curiosity that seem ever-present fixtures within the demeanor of the young woman. How long must one truly live before age becomes but a number to be offered only for the awe and amusement of the mortal masses or for a means of establishing status amongst one's peers? Would she, one day, know of this frivolous toil? Somehow, for reasons unknown and ones she would hardly care to pursue, Isolt could not solely imagine the possibility. In some ways the young crimson-haired girl was still operating under the dictates of the presumption that her life was somehow finite, somehow abbreviated. "That is a long time," she offers, her syllables politely astonished and the heavenly blue of her eyes flickering with the barest traces of wonderment even in the presence of his stony façade. "I'll bet you've seen some amazing things." It is unclear from whence the statement had risen, the candor and naivety of it nodding once more to the sparse number of years she herself had spent wondering the earth. Isolt was enamored quite frequently with those of such advanced age, her desire to pester Damon about the wonders he had laid eyes upon during his life's lengthy tenure a regular and petulantly-nagging desire.

The look of wonder fades, though, peeled viciously from her façade by the abrupt directness of his next and far more pointed quandary. The macabre tale of her Making was not one oft shared with any individual apart from those who had been there. Those who had seen. In fact, the dark fable had never before passed from Isolt's lips, even for Damon in all of their closeness; her desire to impart the story upon another individual vehemently opposed. The only person apart from her Maker was the man with the emerald eyes who had watched. He had stood by in seeming placidly that she would later come to know was a heinous farce, and he had done nothing to divert the cruel and entwined hands of death and fate as they had both clasped about her fragile neck. Hard lines push into the pale suppleness of Isolt's face, her eyes diverted from his own for a few lingering moments before a shrug rocks her lithe frame. "It was an act of fate too... I guess. The only reason I was made was to spite someone else. That was...," she falters unwillingly, plush lips forming about silent syllables before they are finally liberated from her mind and mouth, "... the entire reason I died."

Seeking distraction, perhaps, or finally bending to the influence of curiosity, Isolt allows the shadow of a simper to pass over the cushions of her lips in a moment marked by brevity. "What about you? What was your Maker like? Why did they turn you?"