isolt griffin

Isolt knew perhaps better than any, better than even he, what reaction might have come to the proverbially beckoning finger of her nonchalant suggestion. It was a comment birthed from a mind and mouth emboldened by the piercing tendrils of the sun's golden rays, an allusion to her want for his company... as odd as it may have seemed. Their history had been no bed of roses, their interactions marred by thorns from the very beginning; thorns that had left the pair riddled with knotted scars for both of them to bear separately and together. It had been a treacherous and winding avenue to this present moment, this sharing of the olive branch betwixt them in the fondest hope that what lay ahead would not be marked by such tenebrific circumstance as before.

It was this hope, truly, that has the young woman voice that which she had henceforth kept pilfered away for her own private musings. She had found more and more that she did quite enjoy his company, few times though he saw fit to bestow it upon her, and that she lamented the long absence that had recently pressed a void between them. He was quietude in a world that so oft proved deafening, calm in the storm of the everyday, a shard of her past to remind her of what had been the worst so that she might continue to hope for the better things. For these and so many more reasons does she nod, the sparkling azure of her eyes easily tranversing the distance between them to find the emerald mystique of his. "Yes," she consents, "I think it would be nice. But only if you wanted to, of course... I mean you, Raven, and Tobias are pretty much the closest thing to family that I have anymore." A gentle simper eases its way unto her radiant features as she turns from him, set at ease by this small epiphany and gladdened to share it with him.

It is only then, in the cozy throes of her own splendid nirvana that she feels it, a peculiar tickling upon her forearm... curious at first, playful almost in its subtlety. Curious and then, all at once, searing as if she had been prod with a white-hot poker. Isolt does not recoil at the sensation, the only proof of its existance a slight crinkling to her angelic features, for she knows what this means just as she knows that she will be cast from this utopia if Tetradore should spot the growing flush upon her forearm. It could not be time yet... she needed more time, needed this euphoria to linger. And so she stealthily conceals her reddened arm within the billowing folds of her dress, shielded eyes lifted skyward to cast herself further adrift in her own whimsical wonderland.