isolt griffin

Even as the syllables fall from the fleshy curl of her tongue Isolt cannot wholly accept the fact that she has actually allowed them to form. It is, of course, an acerbic truth that this one thing she has yearned for in such desperation in every moment of each long month that has comprised this life by dying. It may have seemed but a trifle, the smallest and most insignificant of things that had been forfeited to the pick-pocketing reaper; and yet, try though she undoubtedly had, Isolt seemed destined to ache for a dawn to this one harrowing and endless night. For one last opportunity to gaze upon the unique splendor of the sun as it bled its multifaceted brilliance into the retreating palette of the tenebrific eve, as if this might somehow ease the crushing heft of death's cruel burden. But as the etchings of surprise delve themselves into his undeniably attractive features, it is a silent affirmation of the impossibility of what she asks. The look burning in his emerald eyes homage to the disparaging truth that her own yearning was naught more than a farcical pipe dream that could not ever bear the luscious fruit of satisfaction. That is... until the ironclad vice of his grip coils about her wrist in a surprisingly gentle and yet nonetheless insistent embrace, closing the proximity between the two in a manner that is both distracting and, she cannot deny it, embarrassingly titillating.

Perhaps it was the time, albeit brief, that they had spent dancing so closely to one another that has Isolt subconsciously yearning for this manner of physical proximity or perchance it was the newfound light within which she had recently begun to see him that had the sparkling cerulean pools of her eyes meeting the dazzling emerald of his in an unflinching glance. The baritone growl of his voice though, the syllables that leave his lips to flutter against hers with the pleasing heat of his breath, see the fleshy curtains of her lids descend. The affirmation, the promise, he poses is remarkable, the young vampire left only to stumble about upon a mental quest as to why he would even try for such a thing. Isolt leans in to him as the warmth of his flesh brushes against the cool pallor of hers, delicate fingers reaching up to trace the rigid line of his jaw in a slow, gentle and sweeping caress. The rosy flush at the apples of her cheeks only deepens into something all the more telling with the touch of his lips, the unexpected sentiment robbing her tongue of the words that had lain there for a few impossibly long moments before they find her once more. "I wouldn't know how to thank you," she whispers finally, the truth inherent in her words echoing beauitfully and brightly within her crystalline eyes.

He takes his leave of her then and though it is at her behest, Isolt cannot help the nagging and mournful regret at the loss of this closeness she had only just begun to realize that she desired. Shaking the impish delight she had taken within his proximity away, the demure redheaded girl follows in silent obedience as the pair worked their way through the splendid maze of this fabled and enigmatic Ark. Attempts at shrouding the wonderment she feels meet failure as she traipses beyond what she presumes to be public corridors and into the far more private bowels of her companion's lair. Nothing is missed by the scrupulous glances of the fire-crowned vampire, not least the devilish smirk pulling at handsome features as he pauses aside a domineering pair of unyielding steel doors, her own helplessly shy grin echoed flimsy and wavering upon the lush pillows of her lips. It falls however, melts from her features as light pierces every darkened corner and shaded shelf, casting its brilliance against a collection of artifacts that is wholly breathtaking in its grandeur and its variety.

Ruby lips form around a wordless exclamation as Isolt ventures but a few paces into the quite literal treasure trove he has dared to share with her, blue eyes sliding towards her companion as if requesting affirmation that this is as it seems before the allure of the items about her proves far too great to neglect any longer. Dainty hands come to cover her mouth as she meanders the length of each shelf, eyes skating over dozens of gloriously ornate items of decor, sparkling jeweled baubles, mysteriously aged leather-bound books, and even a few daunting weapons baring symbols of the respective cultures from which they had been pillaged. Glorious was the sight and soundless was, his audience, as Isolt stops aside one particular work of art that she cannot help but reach out and allow the supple bulbs of her fingertips to caress the golden baroque frame. "This is a Salvador Dali original," she whispers at a register just loud enough so that he might hear her. It is a tentative statement, a precursor to the veritable tide of verbal inquiry that then falls from her lips. "Where did all of this come from? Museums would pay you so much money for some of these things. This painting alone would get you thousands of dollars... Just... how?" Isolt looks to him then, the silent man who now more than ever before presents her with the most astounding and enticing enigma. "And please tell me that you actually take that car out and drive it from time to time," she coos, a stunning smile blazing against her features as a soft and feminine chortle bubbles from within.