isolt griffin
Beneath the influence of slightly differing circumstances, Isolt would have admittedly thrown some effort behind the notion of simply declining the young woman's offer to remain within her home. It was an abjectly odious tug-of-war that so oft tore away at the fragile fabric of a mind left wanting in the aftermath of death; she thirsted for companionship similar to that which she had lost, yearned for a comraderie she was bereft in this life by dying. And yet, as always seemed the case, Isolt flinched away as if struck with the smallest advance of another person, she turned from them and the fallacy of their kindheartednes in a show of shameful social petulance for the fear of trust was far too monolithic a hurdle to be overcome. Surely Damon had traversed so very many of the crimson-haired girl's boundaries, surely it was he who was the proverbial glimmer within the darkness urging that she not abandon the hope that she might know trust in the manner and measure that she once had done. It was a debt she would forever owe him as long as the fates might see fit to allow her dominion over this earthly carapace, and yet still the harsh nagging of some other loneliness would not relent. Isolt quested for the nostalgic calm that only a female counterpart could have offered; and though Raven and even Nadya at times proffered a glimpse of what she had forfeited so unwillingly, it was just that... but a glimpse, a salacious tease, passing and unrefined. When it all had been said and done, they two Weres were parts in a greater something of which Isolt could have never been a part, their differences too pronounced... too inconvenient for either to risk pursuing resolution.

So great was this tragedy of circumstance that Isolt battles valiantly against the hope that crackles innocently within her even as she descends unto the couch beside this intriguing young sorceress. She would only come to know disappointment from this as in most things. She could only fall from this perilously temporary high.

The smallest twitching of a single perfectly-manicured brow denotes some knowledgable correlation between this young woman and Davante; however, for whatever reason, Isolt merely allows this new epiphany to plummet to the wayside. The youthful vampire knows all too well that mention of her affiliations, no matter how tremulous, with Davante would only lead down a slippery slope unto curiosities not easily indulged. To her merit, however, the pretty young witch progresses onto far more acceptable conversation. A hearty chuckle rumbles within Isolt's stilled chest, the timely shaking of her head sending a cascade of auburn curls swinging as so many gossamer pendulums. "If you want to hear savage you should listen in on me and my family speaking Irish. We seriously sound like a bunch of drunken garden gnomes. It's actually quite hilarious," she narrates, the beaming simper that accents her features fading somewhat to meld into an expression far more sedate. The syllables that follow are equally so, nearly whispered in comparison to the ones that had come before. "I had always dreamed of going to Africa. There are a lot of clinics there in desperate need of help, and the scenery always looked so... majestic."