isolt griffin
"In that case, I'd rather just live up here... so that I wouldn't ever have to see it for what it really is," she whispers into the night's chilling zephyr. It is an unapologetically raw statement, a testament which speaks to the young woman's true feelings for this city that had been her home for quite some number of years. It had been serene once, it had been a utopia within which she would have been happy to reside for the future to come... a bright future that had once included Harley, her family. And then came her untimely and wholly unexpected descent into the darkness of Sacro, the glossy veneer with which she had been fooled peeled away only to reveal the macabre underbelly. An underbelly that's darkness was so pronounced that, though she would dare not speak it aloud even to Damon, Isolt had entered into quite serious contemplations of departing from this place. Of simply vanishing into the night in search of some other city, some other corner of the world, that might hold for her far less agony than did the metropolis of Sacrosanct.

It is a sobering thought, hopeful if only for the promise that perhaps out beyond the scope of what she was capable of seeing there was a brighter future. And yet it is a thought that meets its death at the hands of her childish antics. Antics employed mostly to chase these contemplations from her thoughts, if only for the time that she lingers in Damon's presence. His reaction to which is decidedly unexpected, the speed with which he slices through the distance that separates them is a startling and mesmerizing thing. This coupled with the sensation of his arms coiling about her, her entire lithe frame lifted from the stone upon which she perches coaxing a breathless gasp from her lips. Instinctively Isolt's slender fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt, grappling for purchase, for any semblance of stability or support. She has known a fear of heights, however subtle they might outwardly appear, ever since she had been a child, and so being lifted even so slightly is a deeply fearful thing for the young vampire.

Whatever protest she might have offered withers to ash upon her tongue with the sensation of falling, blue eyes widening in surprise and, perhaps, mild and diluted terror before the pair plunges into the still relatively shallow depths of the creek. It is no lengthy expanse of time before she finds herself astride him, Damon himself all but pinned beneath her slender frame upon the smooth stones of the creek's bottom. However, despite the intimate nature of her posture, no thoughts of modesty or demure doubt sully the threads of her current thoughts. The absence of a requirement for breath owe her a quite remarkable freedom, crystalline eyes peering about at this proverbial new world before sliding to her companion once more... her frame finally ascending from him and once more breaking the glassy surface of the creek.

Slender digits move to tame in whatever way they might be able the sodden curtain of auburn hair before Damon is to break the surface. Trepidation carves itself into the finer details of her face and with a single graceful move she approaches him, the smooth flow of water billowing about her chest. "Are you alright," she asks softly, fingers deftly and gently moving aside the hair that clings to his brow. Slowly Isolt draws her hand away, and had it been within the realm of possibility she might have blushed for the boldness of the gesture. Instead she offers him a shy simper, hands moving to swipe at the delicate flesh below her eyes before fixing him with a faux-admonishing glare. "Now look what you've done. My make-up is going to smear and I'll look like death before long," she purrs, chuckling softly.