isolt griffin
The supple bulbs of a few deathly-chilled digits peruse the rippled edge of the frame, worn by a thousand such caresses over a span of many, many years. The caresses themselves had transformed, however, where once they had been proud, affectionate, and kindred they were now mournful, pitying, and forlorn. Less affected was the photograph tucked away securely beneath the thin shield of glass that was its protection; it was, in truth, as much the embodiment of perfection, of happiness, as the day upon which it had been taken. A single moment forever frozen within the sprawling spectrum that was time. Frozen, forever, just as she herself was now eternally doomed to be.

And in that moment, the caresses grow tighter.

Isolt can feel the glass and its wooden holdings begin to buckle beneath even this modicum of force contained within her immortal fingers as she clasps it in such sorrowful desperation that she fears she may linger like this for the remainder of her nights. This photograph of her parents is but only one in a series of photographs that decorate the walls of her bedroom, her sanctuary turned shrine to a life that had slipped from her fingers as silkily as if she had never truly held it at all. As if it had never been lived, but was instead the most fanatical pipe dream. Photographs of her grandparents, of Harley, and of Aaron, set alongside the doctoral degree that had once instilled within her such pride, such hope, but now only served as a reminder. They, all of them, were but phantom whispers, homage to the tapestry of a life unwoven so that it was but mere tatters. Rags from something once so very, very rich.

An open box sits beside her, a gaping maw awaiting the consumption of everything that was and ever had been precious to her. And yet, though Isolt knew she must, she could not compel herself to sweep these photographs away once and for all. She knows full well that there may be no progression with these emotional tethers coiled about every ailing piece of her... and yet she cannot bear the notion of severing them. For the only thing worse than remembering this past was forgetting it. Forgetting them.

A knocking at the door to her apartment pulls the crumpled vampire from her thoughts, if only just, to peer towards her own sealed bedroom door. It was, most likely, a companion of Nadya's come calling as was so oft the case, the auburn-haired girl herself hardly warranting company. And yet in the seconds that follow there are no footfalls, no shuffles to denote that her impromptu roommate lingers within those four walls... only the knocking upon the door that grows ever more insistent as the seconds trickle on. Batting the threads of crimson that marked her face away as best she was able Isolt rises, making relatively short work of the distance separating her domicile from whomever lingers beyond the barrier of her front door. Affixing a kind, though admittedly weary, simper upon her face Isolt throws the locks, prepared to greet this impromptu guest.

But the smile melts from her delicate features as promptly as it had spawned as the cerulean of her eyes trace the figure that stands before her, the smooth canvas of her brow furrowing in concern. "Davante... what happened?"