isolt griffin
Guilt is a demon with razor claws shredding away at Isolt's innards as her eyes meander upon the snake writhing for want of relief from the pain wracking its body. Pain that she and she alone had inflicted, her lack of intention mattering exceptionally little in this moment as the redhead bows to the sting of her guilt and the overwhelming urge and determination that it should be rectified by her hand. She looks to Damon, her eyes echoing nothing but the plea for his help, for his guidance, yet it seems he possesses few more ideas than Isolt herself might have laid claim to. However, at the mention of healing powers the synapses in her brain fire with an concept that should have been readily apparent, though why Damon himself chose to overlook this idea (either intentionally or otherwise) was unclear. Perhaps it was not acceptable for vampires to employ their blood's healing elixir for the benefit of other creatures, though Isolt battled heavily with the idea that such a thing was something to be selfishly hoarded.

Before the demure girl might dwell upon the notion too intently, her suspicions regarding the creature's true species are confirmed as reptilian skin coalesces into the pallor of soft human flesh. The action seems only to wretch further still at the razor-wire of guilt constricting evermore around her heart. "Damon, get her one of the towels, please," she instructs, her tone kindly yet denoting that his hasty compliance was expected. It was a small gesture, meant to cover the young woman so that she might retain more of what was surely a dwindling level of dignity given her state of near-undress. Her companion's return is noted by his closeness, the towel falling lax into Isolt's grip, however, with the undiluted apprehension echoed in the Were's plea. Isolt swears that she can feel her heart as it falls, guilt once again acting as a lead weight to the tender organ.

A lingering glance is cast to Damon, the purpose of which is difficult to surmise. She does not chastise him for his sarcasm, improper as it might have been, merely she probes for a reaction of a different kind. Would he disagree with what she plans to do? He may very well, for she has no notion of his feelings towards this particular act... and yet considerations of the consequences hardly stymie the young woman from draping the towel gently to cover the majority of the Were's exposed flesh before addressing her directly. "No one's going to eat you. I.., "she pauses, uncertain of the outcome of what she plans. "I can help you. I can make it go away, okay?" Tentatively the neophyte vampire takes her own slender wrist in hand, bringing the death-bleached flesh to her lips as her pair of impressive fangs descends with a soft clicking. The bite is quick, precise, fangs disappearing even before her punctured wrist is brought away from the plush cushions of her lips.

Isolt extends her wrist to the injured woman, the alluring spiced fragrance of her own blood billowing into the air as a thin rivulet of the impossibly dark liquid skates across her skin. "You'll just need a little, but I promise it's going to help," she whispers, a soft plea cushioning every syllable. She was painfully aware of the fact that she may be refused, her offer shunned, but Isolt would not permit it to stop her from trying.