isolt griffin

The astonishment that weaves its way unto the canvas of his somber features, flashing in the emerald helix of his eyes, is of little concern to the blue-eyed nightwalker. Hardly does it perturb her and little does she do to acknowledge, verbally other otherwise, that his reaction has been noted, for to her it is not any puzzling question why she wishes to partake in this experience with him. The slender vial that casts its radiance unto the faces of the gathered pair represents a great many things, not least amongst them the toil, the persistant will of the man who lingers before her. There is not even the slightest doubt to slither about within her mind that would lead Isolt to believe he had come across this particular item with any level of ease, for surely had the task proven elementary there would have been tell of vampire's meandering about in the light of day. And so, why should he not bear witness to the fruits of his own labors... why should he not see, truly, what happiness his money had purchased?

A smile, beautifully resplendent even in the near-absolute shadow of the silent flat, spreads unabated against the pallor of Isolt's features with his acquiescence. She nods, the movement itself innocently giddy, before she whispers into the half-dark. "To the roof," she concurs, turning upon delicate feet to traipse excitedly towards the sanctuary of her quarters. The slightest pause does the crimson-haired woman take upon the threshold of her chambers, persistent habitual solitude having dictated this place as one she so oft entered alone out of some subconscious need to exercise control over this singular facet of the world within which she now existed. It was a naive, silly notion, perhaps, and yet it is one that nearly has her hesitate before she breaches her own border in a gracefully swift movement. Quick work is made of unlatching the thick blinds that, until now, had served as Isolt's protection from the sun's paradoxically damning rays during the confinement of the long daytime hours.

Through the maelstrom of her excitment must Isolt remind herself that he follows, his mortal body hardly capable of the velocity with which she wishes to scale the fire escape that eventually leads them both unto the towering, empty scape of the building's roof. Temperance and patience are virtues for which she reaches with some effort, good-natured though her excitement undoubtedly is. Purposefully does she look back to her companion, that same broad simper a fixture upon her facade, as radiant as the sun she seeks so willfully, her body only coming to a halt at the very most eastern edge of the building.

The glistening flask rolls ever so gently betwixt her fidgeting hands as Isolt succombs to a moment of pregnant quietude, comforted immensely by the known presence of the emerald-eyed man beside her. She had dreamt of the sunrise more times than she could have beared to tabulate, mourned its departure from her life... from the eternity that lingered as some desolate road stretched out in the darkness that lay ahead. She had dared to wish for this moment only in her most secret heart, the singular proclamation of the thing itself only uttered in the presence of the Were king at her side... and now, now it was hers to realize. Hers to have if only for a moment. This moment. Only with this realization do the stitches of uncertainty etch themselves into the fabric of her facade as she looks to the man who had gifted her this moment she yearned for so desperately, looking to him for what exactly she cannot fathom. Affirmation, perhaps... or guidance, strength to seize what hovers just in front of her. Strength that, in some measure, Isolt cleans from him, for then does she lift the opened vial to her lips to take the potion therein in one smooth, fluid movement.

All at once does the undead fabric of her physical being succomb to the chill that richochets from the tips of her toes up the length of her spine and down the path of each extremity. It is a sensational homage to the phantom suppleness of inebriation, and yet the young woman seems somehow more aware of her surroundings. "Whoa," she whispers in a supposedly subconscious manner, azure eyes trained steadfast and ready towards the ever-lightening horizon. The wait that follows, albeit truly brief, seems a small eternity in the mind of the flame-crowned girl who has waited in earnest for this moment and the ones to are to come after.

And then... a glowing thread of light stretches its spindly fingers above the boundary of the horizon, the progression slow as if even the sun itself would seek to taunt her. Isolt dares not move in the seconds, the minutes, to follow as the sun finally and gloriously peeks from beyond its cradle, casting the most remarkable radiance unto the heavens and the faces of the mismatched duo. Had she breath it surely would have caught in her chest at the feel of the sun's tender warmth kissing the apples of her upturned cheeks. It awakens every last part of her, licking tongues of flame into the auburn curtain of her curls and bringing to life the dazzling clarity of her deptheless blue eyes. Seemingly of its own accord, a single hand rises to the empty expanse above them, delicate fingers shifting in an innocent dance against the golden rays, the sensation present even in the very tips of Isolt's fingers as she moves them. Disbelief lingers in her heart, in her eyes, as she turns them upon the man at her side. This man for whom she has no words. This man who had taken everything, who had helped to cast her into the eternal darkness of this afterlife... this man who, in an act of beautiful recompense, had given her the sun.