isolt griffin
Obtrusively baffling is the stoic nonchalance with which her exclamation is met, the young woman befuddled by the lack of care he places within the notion that he owns something so beautiful, something so priceless as this. Her wonderment is not bred of anything as superficial as a name, despite what might have been believed of her by the emerald-eyed gentleman at her back. No, the awe that has ensnared her so entirely is purely for the unapologetic challenge inherent in this particular artist's pieces; they were and they were not solely one thing, cohesion and disarray all in the same moment. They were defiance against the perception of what should have been, an insistently prodding digit aimed at the brain of the viewer. It was these things she admired so in the work of the artist whose masterpiece lay before her, not purely that it rested upon the fickle pedestal of notoriety that a simple moniker proffered. Yet as she moves to inquire as to what other masterful work might have caused him to display so little awe in favor of the one before them, the syllables forming at her plump ruby lips dissolve into the realm of what is to be left unuttered. The warmth of his hand as it curls with such gentle authority about her own draws a paradoxically chilled finger down the curved length of her spinal column, robbing her temporarily of the will for movement before Isolt finally shifts to timidly return the gesture in kind.

The notion of noncompliance does not for even a passing second cast its murky shadow unto the stage of her thoughts, for though she would not have dared speak it aloud, the fire-crowned vampire finds a comforting sort of pleasure in the temperature of his flesh... soothing not only for its homage to the life she herself had once laid claim to, but also for the undeniable stirring of something else within the farthest depths of her conflicted mind. Something that, should she crumble in the face of the urge to indulge it, might once again have the rosebuds of an emotively tempestuous blush blooming wantonly upon the pleasantly-rounded pallor of her cheeks. And so she is lead, the trajectory of her cerulean gaze straying helplessly so that she might stave the hunger with which her eyes devour every last morsel presented before her in this secret captain's hideaway. Yet though a great many marvelous things do her eyes peruse, a vast majority of them wither to no more than ash within her mind at the splendor of piece to which he has lead her. As breaktaking as the Dali this piece surely presents itself to be, though for its artful realism does it lure her forth as a moth to the tantalizingly dancing flame.

At his words does she turn to him, the simpliest and most beautiful smile forming upon the crimson pillows of her lips. "Aivazovsky painted many beautiful, calm seascapes. Perhaps we shall find you one of those... to bring you good luck when the waters are rough," she whispers, squeezing his hand only slightly though it is doubtful if Isolt realizes that she does so before her attentions are all but completely captured by the pristinely-kept automobile that is the focal point of this visual repast. One of the exceptionally few things Isolt had inherited from her father was a love and appreciation for automotive design, a pleasure that had been fostered within the hearts and minds of her and her brother until his untimely death... and yet still the evidence of it glistens in every braided helix of her eyes. Ivory teeth rake in anticipatory excitement as Isolt nods vigorously in answer to his question, gliding easily towards the passenger side of the car and sliding in with little effort at all. This grin of elation melts from her features, however, as the redhead recalls the inebriation of her driver as he, too, slides into place. "Umm... are you sure you're okay to drive? I mean, I'm not being presumptuous or anything but maybe you should at least... buckle your seat belt?"