isolt griffin
Had Isolt ever been informed that there existed the possibility that she may, one day, find herself nestled and swaying within the arms of the emerald-eyed man whose charismatic brooding had lured her to death's serrated edge... she would have balked at the atrocity of the notion. Too irreparably telling was the wretched oil of Risque's transgressions against the buttery silk of their tremulous relationship. Too great was the redhead's certainty that he must also feel an aversion to her presence and the involuntary consanguinity she possessed with his tormentor; and it was for this reason, amongst a scattering of others, that she had dared not approach him at the masquerade. For even though they were, both of them, shielded against reality by paper masks and sequins, Isolt could not dispel the notion that he had born her presence for as long as he was able and willing to do so. It is only in the moment that his grip tightens upon her and their bodies sway to a silent beat that Isolt considers the possibly fallacy of her assumption.

The stifling frost of anxiety, of self-doubt at being a stranger in this place she hardly belongs, seems to melt from her as the young vampire accepts the guidance of his own form with wholehearted ease and practiced grace. And, for perhaps the first time in a life spent toiling for evidence of the opinions of others, Isolt cares naught for the questioning and judgmental glances of the crowd that mulls about the pair, nor does she grapple emotionally over what a precarious ledge it is she currently balances upon. There is nothing beyond him and her, two individuals navigating the rubble of a tumult that they were, both of them, helpless to defy. Isolt's eyes fall to a momentary close as he spins her round, a toothy grin accenting her features as she returns willingly to the firm coil of his grasp. Only do the fleshy veils of her lids pull back once more as his movements dissolve and still. A frown draws heavily at the edges of her ruby lips as Isolt contemplates his half-question, uncertainty pulling a curtain of subtle darkness over her otherwise vibrant gaze before the supple tips of a few fingers reach up to gently trace his jaw line and effectively ensuring that she has captured his attention. "Because I don't want to be anywhere else," she returns in the softest whisper, seemingly capable of offering him only this.

Her hand retreats then, the fingers themselves given the somewhat tedious and fidgeting employ of fastening a few wayward crimson strands behind her ear in some attempt to quell the shyness that wells up as a sickening tide within her. It is, she would later believe, a mercy that he chooses this moment in which to whisk her away under the outlandish idea of bestowing upon her a gift. The youthful redhead follows easily enough, her delicate and dainty hand remaining clasped within his and still she does not rebel against this contact, against this gentle binding by another. The corridor through which they transcend, though piquing her interests as every detail of the Ark had succeeded in doing thus far, palls in comparison to the quarters into which he ushers her. So undeniable is her awe that Isolt does not move to follow her emerald-eyed host as he ventures forth into his domain, the oceanic blue of her eyes caressing every last plank, glistening with the evidence of every brushing of gold as an awestruck smile takes hold of her charming features once again. "No wonder you didn't want to stay with Nadya in my tiny place," she muses, predominantly to herself.

All considerations of his lavish abode are forfeited, though, lost in favor of the shell that rests with such understated innocence within the calloused and fleshy cradle of his palm. The sand dollar, given so innocently to her weeks ago, had served as a proverbial white flag of sorts in the moment that it had changed hands... and, perhaps, it did still. Only in this instance Isolt found herself far more apt to receive it and the implications of its re-gifting, slender fingers retrieving the brittle artifact carefully from her host's hand. "Thank you," Isolt offers, lingering a few moments in silence as her fingers travel with loving care over every groove of the frail offering. Her features seem to turn then, the shell within her grasp eliciting a slew of rapid and doubtlessly heavy considerations from their fitful display on the beach. The newly-made vampire draws her eyes to his, genuine repentance echoing beautifully from every part of her façade. "I'm sorry I yelled at you that night. I didn't mean to downplay what... she put you through, and I really wasn't trying to belittle it. I just... wanted to help you move past it and I'm really... really sorry."