isolt griffin
Homage to the true measure of her immortal youth is it that the consideration of consequences from her actions does not for a moment caress her mind with its gossamer wings as Isolt rushes forth to aid the young woman before her. Little does she think of the dire retribution to be waged against her for such outright revelation of her purported species in a scenario so blatantly public. The rows of buildings bordering this avenue harbor within more than a few eagerly prying eyes and loose lips whose forte and pleasure it might have been to murmur in animated whispers of the peculiar redhead who resided but a stone's throw away. Absent are the notions of Hunters driven by the delusion of duty and bloodlust who might find the chance to peruse her abode one far too tantalizing to be left un-assuaged. Instead, the redhead is wholly and absolutely consumed by the intrinsic need to help in any way she might be capable, an intention that seems only to radiant from her in magnanimously effulgent waves.

Waves that crest and dissolve upon the shores of doubt that become far more evident in the moments following her extended offer. For a few lingering moments, suspended in reality, Isolt fears the reveal that should have occurred to her instinctually. That is, until the telling aroma of silver curls into her nostrils, rubbing abrasively against nostrils and nerve-endings alike. In truth she possesses no qualm with witches, nor could she for her persona would never permit such intellectual folly; however, the stench of silver is a matter far removed from that of her innate and practiced diplomacy. The myriad injurious effects of silver upon her undead frame had been introduced, fully and oft, to the crimson-topped woman at the unforgiving hands of her Maker. It is hardly a fragrance that she relishes, though the evidence of her distaste flickers within her crystalline eyes for but a suggestion of a moment until it, too, meets its end.

"Of course," she complies amiably, a dazzling smile accenting her acquiescence as her eyes pass over the overstuffed parcel of furniture in dutiful appreciation. "It absolutely is. I'm guessing it's from the little shop down the way? That place is quite possibly my biggest vice... It's my Pier One," she coos with a soft and girlish chuckle. Carefully she maneuvers her lithe frame towards the end of the problematic sofa, casting a preemptive and probing glance to both ends of the avenue. "Now what do you say we get it up to your apartment so you can enjoy it, hmm?"