isolt griffin
Awkward was, perhaps, the least of what the space between the two could have been said to be. Tremulous were the advances and long the silence as they moved about one another in a manner so perilously tense that Risque would have looked upon their polite despair with some measure of pride even now. Uncertainty was rife within the rapidly-whirling mind of the beautiful young woman as she glanced to this man she had not seen or heard from in many a month. She would only ever admit in private moments, and never aloud even then, that she thought of him with the frequency that she did; and yet, these considerations seemed only ever to be to the detriment of her fragile esteem... for surely his marked absence had told that his thoughts had not wandered the same avenue has hers. He had forgotten, either intentionally or otherwise, about the crimson-haired vampire with whom he shared such a sordid past. Hers were but the musings of a silly young woman clinging to a night that, she was quite certain, had been washed from his own consciousness by the unforgiving and rather astute hand of inebriation.

It is for these reasons, all of them, that surprise sweeps its evidence across the pallor of her facade with the paradoxically resounding quiet of his proclamation. The plush cushions of her lips curl into the silent "oh" that begs to be uttered and yet it is stayed upon the curve of her tongue before a delicate and doting simper lifts the apples of her cheeks. "Oh, that's very nice of you but I-," she begins, the syllables pilfered from her lips as the dark velvet melts as butter into the vessel of her palm. The fabric billows between her slender fingers, a bewildered look traveling towards the piercing emerald eyes of her counterpart before his explanation bolsters her against whatever confusion, whatever hesitation, she had born against this uncharacteristic act of charity. Methodically do her fingers work at the pouch's opening, columns of soft light permeating into the dimly-lit expanse of the foyer and sparkling against a pair of probing azure eyes. All at once does a strangled chortle weasel its way from within her, a single hand raking through perfect auburn curls as realization and, respectively, elation fill every portion of her. "You didn't..." she utters in little more than a breathless whisper, those two words seemingly all she can manage given the impossibility with which she is faced. She would have asked after the logistics, the mechanics, of what he had assured her that he had accomplished. She would have asked him how had she the words to commit to such a notion.

In truth, in these weighty moments Isolt is capable of little more than staring into the subtle fingers of the vial's radiance as they dance delightfully over her features. It had been her hope both in the moment that she had asked it of him and in this, the bearing of the proverbial fruit, that this, one of her greatest desires, might actually somehow be a possibility. And yet... this hope had withered, decayed as all things eventually do with the drawing on of an immortal life. Just as she had forfeited herself to the notion of darkness now and forevermore did the promise of light, however brief, rest so innocently within her hand. Gently does she shake her head at the uncertainty inherent in his words. "Tetradore... I haven't seen the sun in over a year. And now, knowing I can, I don't want to wait. And I want you to come with me... if you want to," she lilts in her gentle song, blue eyes meeting green through the would-be rays of the sun.