isolt griffin
The New Year, it is said, was a time for introspection, the time of year when it was both appropriate and expected for an individual to look to the past in order to plan appropriately for all that lay ahead in the coming year. A jovial time was this New Year supposed to be, the proverbial turning of a new leaf, the breathing of life into all of the stagnation of past and the awakening of the spirit in this presumed and oft-squandered second chance. Isolt, at present, was wholly consumed with the abhorrent struggle employed in order to extract her thoughts from the averse and downward avenue they had rightly taken with her own introspection. The past year, after all, had hardly been a beneficial one for the darling young redhead; it had been bountiful only in sorrow and insurmountable loss, and in lessons risen from the ashes as some horrific apocalyptic sprout.

The past year had seen her delivered into the cool hands of death and robbed of... everything.

Had she the breath to sigh she would have, had she lacked even a shred of dignity she might have slumped unto the nearest stoop and surrendered herself wholly and without hesitation to the sorrow that peeled away at every happy memory she had ever laid claim to. However, what little strength still remained within her fortified her somewhat against the honeyed whisper of the anguish that festered just beneath the surface and sizzled into her heart with its acidic poison. She would, at the very least, save the inevitable crumbling of her resolve until she was safely and securely within her quarters... locked away within the confines of the apartment she had shared with Harley. Hidden from the world by a few layers of insulation and plaster in order to forfeit herself to agony before the death-like slumber should once again take her.

A commotion pierces the agonizing smog that is her rapidly whirling thoughts, blue eyes probing swiftly for the source before landing decidedly upon a stoop a mere handful of paces ahead where a move-in seems to be taking place. A slender brunette woman struggles beneath the heft of a sofa that, even from Isolt's vantage point, is entirely too large to be moved by such a slight woman alone. The furniture, precariously balanced upon the topmost concrete step, tilts treacherously towards the young woman, threatening with every passing moment to heave its weight back unto her. The threat of harm moves Isolt to action, the speed and strength with which she conducts herself a peculiar byproduct of immortality... and a particularly advantageous one at present. The redhead's hands are upon the sofa, its descent hindered just as it had begun by merit of the strength inherent within her as she once more props it up upon the callous concrete landing. "You really shouldn't be doing this by yourself," she offers demurely, crystalline blue eyes traveling to the woman who, presumably, owns the offending chair. A shy and abjectly uncertain smile pulls softly at her lips as a shrug hunches her slender frame. "Could I give you a hand?"