isolt griffin
Despite his attempts to negate entirely the apology that falls with such practiced sincerity from her lips, the evident spark of it does not fizzle as it flickers brightly against the cool azure of her eyes. Isolt had thought about that particular eve more than once in the quiet moments that so oft punctuated days that were far more sleepless than she would have ever admitted aloud. Her words had been birthed of kindhearted intent, as they always had been, and yet the unbidden rearing of the horned head of their shared anger was a much-lamented and embarrassing thing. Even now the young woman is unsure precisely what hand had finally tipped the glass of her unease, what had summoned the bitter tide of spite to rise as vinegar upon her tongue. Had fissures finally begun to form in the otherwise impenetrable wall of her tried and tested patience? Or was it the toxin of Risque's blood lying still within her veins that had elicited this venom... if only momentarily?

Regardless of the source, his words see the tide of guilt retreat from the shores of her emotional front somewhat. She peers up at him, blue eyes finding emerald through a veil of beautifully curled lashes, an unadulterated and pristinely innocent simper sweeping against the flushed red of her lips. "I don't think it's silly at all... I think it's beautiful," she whispers, the telling crimson of a blush erupting against the pallor of her cheeks before her eyes fall once more to the shell nestled carefully within her hand. A blush that only deepens with the soft caress of his hand against hers, the warmth of his touch a deeply pleasing thing as it seems to seep into the deathly coolness of her own chilled flesh. She would forever mourn the loss of this warmth, this glow that was the perfect embodiment of life and all of its numerous blessings.

Before Isolt might provide any resistance to the gesture, her own dainty hand lifts to cover his, the blast of warmth against her brisk fingertips no less pleasing in nature this second time. "You don't have to get me anything, Tetradore," she lilts, the mischievousness of his glances causing her eyes to narrow in playful consideration as they once again meet his. The crimson-haired vampire pulls away then, retreating but a single step as her hands fall from his, hardly desiring to leech the resplendent warmth from his touch only to supplement it with the inferior glacial bite of hers. She would henceforth and forevermore not dare to allow her cold caress to sully the warmth of those not destined to linger in this suspended animation far longer than nature had intended. He deserved this wholesome and pervading warmth, and it was a cruel axiom of fate that she was the antithesis of it... a fact surely Risque would, and probably was, celebrating.

Seeking distraction from the pointed downward avenue of her considerations, Isolt fixes the alluring emerald-eyed man with her own subtle version of the diluted simper he had proffered only moments before. "Do you think you could, um...," she falters, teeth raking anxiously against the soft pillow of her bottom lip, unsure of the presumed boldness of her intended inquiry, "... show me around a little? Maybe show me what it's like to be Tetradore, King of the Ark?" Isolt's brows knit anticipatorily as she falls to quietude, attempting to questionable avail to provide him a smile that, admittedly, could be nothing apart from absolutely and splendidly demure.