isolt griffin
It is a testament to the intensity of Isolt's modesty that she cannot wholly discern the change within him; she cannot truly pinpoint the nature of the leviathan prodded into stirring with the simplistic brushing of a few supple fingertips against his brow. So undeserving is she of even this modicum of deeper hunger that even if the thought had, in fact, sown the evidence of its presence into her mind she would have discarded it as illusion... the ruse of a creative mind. Alas, she is ignorant of his intentions; Damon's presumed like of her a precious and innocent thing, homage to the true depth of their blossoming friendship. Innocent in much the same way as is the amiable adoration she harbors for him. He is, after all, the last remaining individual she might actually profess to trust.

And it is this trust that sees her not withdraw from him as he approaches, an action that would have guaranteed her retreat should the individual been any other. The compliment that rolls from his tongue is, however, met with the slightest of nods and a look that hints at none other than melancholy. "Clearly you have creek water in your eyes," she laments, peering up at him from beyond curled lashes from which hang the tiniest pearls of water. Not oft in childhood or adolescence had the young auburn-haired girl been told that she was pretty, that she was beautiful, having only come to think of herself has homely, plain. And so that Damon, traditionally handsome in every way, might think her beautiful is a blasphemous thing. Nonetheless her eyes flutter a moment as if sleep threatens as his hand traces the supple slope of her jaw line, his touch seemingly the only one she is given to tolerate since death had taken her into its cool hands. Death that had been heralded all too swiftly with a touch just as gentle... a veneer flawless in its ruse.

It is with surprise that she meets his kiss, his lips finding hers in this moment of silent contemplation... and yet she does not retreat, nor does she flinch away from this caress. The tenderness of the action is surprising for Isolt had only begun to suspect that Damon might actually be capable of such gentleness. Before she can dare battle whatever doubt surely froths beneath the surface, the flame-locked girl leans into the kiss, returning the gesture with her own if only just. It is broken by her companion before Isolt might have seen fit to see the kiss ended, the young vampire's mind a veritable whirlwind of considerations, of doubt, of speculation. A single hand rises to brush against her lips as Damon draws back, his smile a seemingly infectious thing as it is reflected with the slightest suggestion of a grin upon the ruby lips of Isolt, barely visible through the fleshy cage her fingers present.

The paradox of cluttered numbness that is her current state of mind is shattered, eclipsed in its entirety by his next actions. Blue eyes widen in undiluted terror as the elder vampire begins his descent. "Don't!" The single word is all she is capable of offering before he is gone, his arrival at the cliffs bottom announced solely by the splashing he has made. Isolt makes impressively short work of the distance to the creek's sodden shore, hurriedly extracting herself from the cool depths and easing her way to the cliff's jagged edge. She gazes down at him, his handsomely smiling face and jest-filled words meeting her trepidation; a paralyzing fear for heights had always been Isolt's admitted weakness, the depths before her serving to churn her stomach even in death. A vigorous shaking of her head in declination of his offer is all she is able to provide for a long moment for her fearfully quivering lip will allow little else. "No," she says finally. "Damon, I can't." And with that, she begins her retreat from the cliff's treacherous edge.