isolt griffin

The sheer intensity of the manner in which Tobias seems to mull over the idea of the fabled Santa Claus, mentally chewing upon the notion of such an individual, is a peculiarly innocent thing. So long had it been since Isolt had known of someone to discuss the long-adored Mr. Claus, herself and Aaron having long ago transpired beyond the age that such fantasies were deemed appropriate, that the genuine curiosity expressed in the young man's knitted brow was an offhandedly pleasing development. "I don't know," she offers with a soft shrugging of her falsely delicate frame at his inquiry. "That's really for Santa Claus to decide." That, it would appear, was but all she had to offer him by way of explanation, Isolt quickly passing the rhetorical reins to Nadya in acknowledgement of the axiomatic truth that the brunette might have some grander insight on painting this particular mental picture for the young vagabond.

Unbeknownst to the crimson-locked woman she then transcends into what is, sadly, a notably treacherous conversational mine-field; unaware entirely of what foul manner of diabolically black cloud had formed over this tightly knit familial unit by merit of the new life she inquires after. It is only with the heralding of a newfound tension into the room, not the least of which can be heard in the hastening of blood within the veins of two of the table's occupants, and the threads of unease that lace themselves into Nadya's syllables that Isolt realizes the measure of her folly. She had only desired conversation so that she might go some way in assauging the ubiquitously nagging reality that she was as yet an outsider in what had once been her home; she had only wished to share in the joyous wellspring that she was certain would come with the arrival of Nadya's babes. And yet it would appear as though all she had succeeded in doing was merely cracking the lid upon Pandora's Box for all of the good it had brought to her guests. In an attempt at distraction, crystalline eyes glance apologetically in the direction of her female counterpart, a shrug crumpling her lithe frame at the woman's comment. "I don't know about that. My brother and I weren't twins and my parents still had to deal with quite a bit of mischief," she responds, a dazzlingly nostalgic simper pulling at the cushions of her lips. Nostalgia that hemorrhages from the otherwise kindly expression with the admittedly innocent and well-meaning question she is countered with.

Tales of the life that had been were as of yet still very much a subject met with tremulously demure caution, a tender place upon a heart still left ailing by the reaper that had come calling far too soon. Some deeply protective portion of the redhead rebelled against the draw to proffer up an answer even to this simplest of questions, afraid perhaps to expose even a shred of something as intimate as details of her past life. Details of the person she once had been. However, the far more dominant and kindly Isolt eclipsed this proclivity to maintain the enigma... at least for the moment at hand. "Well, um," she begins, delicate fingers wrung within her lap until the knuckles shone with death's bloodless pallor. A moment passes before Isolt fixes her counterpart with a soft and level glance. "I was a doctor before I was turned. Well, I mean... I had just graduated medical school and was about to begin my residency," she concludes, a somewhat wavering grin perched upon her lips. It was a strange thing to speak aloud, Isolt having never lived long enough to bask in the thrill of someone calling her doctor, the only individuals having done so were Harley and her parents as they were offering their congratulatory cheers. It had been a helplessly proud moment, and yet now even this momentous accomplishment seemed nullified by what she had become. "So anyway, if you need help with anything at all... just let me know, okay?"

It is the only sentiment she is given to offer before Tobias' near-screech sees the fledgling vampire's attentions turn completely to the young man and his... shenanigans. The suppleness of her brow scrunches with the frown that the display elicits, an eerie relative to Damon's power that still managed to coax from her a glacial unease. "Tobias," she attempts softly, her syllables not unkind, "if you eat all of his turkey you won't be able to have some of the cake I made for dessert..."