isolt griffin
It is unclear why she moves to resist what she suspects will follow; in truth the copper-crowned girl is all but certain that she will be seized, subdued in the unapologetically brutal way to which Risque's minions seem so predisposed. To believe that she might have been allowed to venture out, even to scramble for whatever sustenance she might have been able to scrounge, was a fool's pipe dream. If it was Risque's decree that Isolt should be made to starve for what her matron presumed was insolence, then surely no absences during the night's darkest hours would be permitted. And yet... no calloused hands move to capture, and there burns no silver bindings against her tender flesh. There is naught but the permeating aroma of him.

Somehow, and it cannot rightly be presumed how, Isolt knows that this vampire is not of Risque's legion; his particular eau is wholly unfamiliar, his face not one she has seen from the shadows of Syn's shaded nooks. And though his movements and the alluring simper that plays coyly upon his lips hint at some as-of-yet latent ulterior motive, he lacks the aura of conniving brutality that is so characteristic of her maker's brood. With a muffled click the young woman recalls the fangs that continue to both enamor and frighten her, glistening azure eyes searching his for meaning beyond what little his words betray. Isolt's death and the ruin that is her afterlife have sown a toxic seed of doubt, of suspicion, within the garden of a mind that had once been pristine. Does he taunt her? For a smattering of moments she ponders the notion, hollow syllables coming to mind and yet before they may flutter from her lips the caress of his fingers halts them. The familiarity of this simple action, false tenderness bearing an undercurrent of deceit, sees her recoil, her back pressing flush with the bark of a nearby tree. Once before had a man doted a genteel caress upon her, and nothing good had followed thereafter.

Blue eyes flick to the lounging couple who remain so oblivious to the individuals that linger just beyond, the deep furrows in Isolt's brow eased by the romantic softness with which they regard one another. A softness that has her, quietly and to herself, considering the question his places so bluntly. In truth, had she anything to give, Isolt would have given it to have that for but a single night. It had never been a facet of her particularly demure nature to exist in isolated solitude as she did in this heinous afterlife; she had always craved closeness, thirsted for the subtle caresses and loving touch of another person. In retrospect she had taken it all for granted, leaving her with naught but this crippling thirst for what once had been...

It is a subtle thing, a shifting of primitive aromas and the heralding of a light airiness that has her slowly relaxing against the gnarled bark of the tree upon which she rests, though her mind seems agog in a paradox of her body's restfulness. No longer does she seek to draw away from him, his approach igniting some inner tinder in the most vaguely titillating manner. It is a peculiar thing, and yet not even this offhanded pleasure could have fully prepared the young vampire for the sensation of his lips pressing to her own in such an outright and lascivious manner. Surprise licks its rigidity up her spine, a small whimper of shock tumbling from her lips, however... it is there and gone in the batting of lashes over alluring blue eyes as Isolt forfeits herself to this stranger's kiss. Absurd is the idea of kissing a stranger in the darkened recesses of a dilapidated park, and yet still Isolt finds herself pushing ever so timidly against him, delicate fingers reaching up to brush against the masculine curvature of his jaw. A brief caress, halted by the return of reason, if only just, to the young woman's mind.

Isolt parts from him then, breaking the kiss that has her resting once more against the oak at her back. A moment of heady silence passes between the two vampires, the blue of her eyes shining as so many diamonds in the light of the ever-observant moon. When words find her, they come as a lilting whisper, laced with the evidence of something else. "Even if I did... what would make you think I'd want it from you?"