isolt griffin

It is an unassailable clemency of the moment which swathes her that Isolt's mind does not traverse the tenebrific avenue that would lead her to thoughts of her Maker. Risque herself had long ago become a wretched blemish, a knotted rope of scar upon her memories, a reminder of what had been and only the most limited explanation for Isolt as she was now. The young vampire thought of her sire often, thus seemed the curse of a mind left idle and wondering. But such incidences seemed only ever to prove themselves untoward; to force her backwards upon the trail of emotional evolution she had laborously trudged in the aftermath of her own death. At some point, however, the sub-conscious decision had been made to deny Risque access to this... a moment and a gift greater than any Isolt could have expected or hoped for. The malevolent wench could serve no purpose here, she possessed no place amidst these two individuals she had damaged with such ruthless fervor. It was this relief perhaps, this small and momentary reprieve, that chiseled the finest simper into her features that could not, here and now, be deminished.

Isolt finds her head shaking in time with that of her counterpart, his modesty, his deflection of her sincerest gratitude an almost amusingly exasperating thing. If there existed any individual truly capable of understanding the magnitude of the fulfillment of this one wish... it had to be him. He, too, had had a great many things stolen, far more than she herself, and for him to put forth the tremendous effort required to cater to a wish of hers was momentous. It was beautiful. Before she can rightly and consciously prohibit herself from doing so, Isolt moves to embrace him, her chin resting lightly upon his shoulder as she squeezes him gently, the woman herself admittedly untroubled should he choose to leave the gesture unrequited. "Thank you for wanting to," she whispers softly at his ear before withdrawing, a featherlight kiss whispered against his cheek as she departs. It is the truest gratitude that she has to offer him, no further words or gestures capable of expressing the sensation of thankfulness for this man and his gift. She would make it up to him in time, when the true indentity of his wants was unearthed from amidst the enigmatic ether of his persona.

Hurled from her own latent considerations is the young damsel as she straightens, blue eyes alit with inspiration and a manner of excitment not oft seen from her beneath the shade of eternal darkness' veil. "The beach," she proclaims, somewhat for the benefit of her own ears before she turns once more to the man at her side, a wide and beaming simper pulled across her pillowly lips. "Tet... the sunny beach! I haven't seen that in forever. Do you think we could go? There's time, right? Just for a few minutes... I just want to see it." The sincerity of her elation is magnanimous, elegant and juvenile all in the same moment as she furrows her brows at him.