isolt griffin
She should have been back by now.

She should have been back at Raven's townhome tucking herself into the cozy little windowless room that the curly-haired woman had been so generous as to offer to her. She should have found herself only too eager to meander back to perhaps the only safe haven there was to be had in this horrifying new world within which she existed. But it would seem that this night, this morning rather, nothing was as it should have been. Isolt lingered in the park far beyond the point when she would have traditionally begun traipsing back to the foreign neighborhood that had become something only just akin to an actual home, her haste wholly dictated by tales of what became of vampires who lingered too long and too boldly in the light of day. But today even the woeful echoes of these horrors do not see the newly-made vampire fleeing to her would-be sanctuary; instead she meanders on through the dimly lit solitude of the park, the navy fabric of her dress swishing appreciatively around her slender figure, the jeweled and dainty straps of a pair of sandals hanging precariously from one curled finger. Isolt had discovered that the cool caress of each supple blade as it gave beneath her feet was an oddly comforting thing, and so she often found herself abandoning foot ware in favor of nature's whispering kisses.

Far from quaking in fear of what would surely become of her should she brave the coming dawn, Isolt found herself pondering the true measure of the consequences should she choose to do so. How bad could it really be to linger for a few moments longer than she should have? How much pain would she forfeit, how much agony would she ask herself to endure for even the briefest glimpse of the morning sun's soft glow? What would she have given to feel the sun kiss its warmth upon the apples of her cheeks, upon the bare flesh of her pale shoulders? It is a morbid pondering, perhaps, that had stemmed from the most innocent hope, for as the companion to these tales of incineration had also come fables of vampires with the ability to walk unharmed into the hottest daytime sun. So very few and far apart were the things that inspired some modicum of hope within the demure young woman that this small ray did she readily seize upon. It might have been something akin to a young girl's fantasy and yet Isolt needed to cling to hope that Risque's blood had heralded something apart from fangs and fear.

She spies the movement, the fluttering, in her peripheral vision, a mane of copper curls swaying easily as she shifts her head. A wholesome and innocent simper tugs at the brims of her ruby lips as the oceanic and glistening depths of her eyes seem to caress the gossamer wings of the butterfly resting so peacefully against the supple folds of her dress. Carefully and gently Isolt moves to sweep a dainty finger beneath the far more fragile appendages of the insect, the butterfly itself seeming to take to this impromptu perch quite nicely. But no longer has she a moment to further appreciate the ornate beauty of each fluttering wing before something far larger effectively captures her attention... a young man crouching low into the soft earthen carpet not too far off, his eyes focused rather intently in the direction of the statuesque redhead. A fangless smile that is wholly demure hints at her lips as she regards him, her words a gentle lilting song when they finally come. "Hi there. Are you looking for something?"