Five trembling fingers clutched and curled against the cool, grimy metal of the park bench armrest, forgoing disgust at the sensation in favor of the stability that the fixture offered. The jest and poorly-timed pun that the canine offers seem to fall, at least for a time, upon deafened ears. As far as Isolt was concerned, their present reality was far from the proper time to be dispensing such frivolous wares. She lowers herself with the utmost care unto the decrepit park bench, not so much to appease the behest of the creature but more so to disguise the fact that her body seems to tremble so readily. Delicate fingers reach up in a somewhat futile attempt to tame a wisp of fiery auburn hair that had escaped her ponytail in the commotion of her run, her chest still heaving somewhat from the excursion of both physical exercise and the situation that she now finds herself in.

Isolt had been privy to tales of the supernatural... tales of creatures who were so whimsical that they seemed to dance wantonly across the line of what was truly plausible. Yes indeed, she had heard their stories, had been told their tales ever since she was a young girl; her elder brother had spent more than a few late evenings feverishly regaling his sister with ridiculous tales of crone-like witches and creatures that slithered free of their human skins under cover of the deepest, darkest hours. Isolt had, up until the later years of her adolescence, seen them as solely that... tales to be told to young children for the purposes of playful fright and macabre wonder. That was... until that fateful night in which Harley's parents had known their deaths at the hands of what could only have been vampires. The young redhead had believed then, had finally come to terms, to some semblance of understanding, with the stories she had been force-fed as a child. Her brother, whether it had been his intent or not, had spoken at least some modicum of truth about what lay beyond her perceived and comfortably narrow reality; he had known, perhaps without truly knowing, what really lingered out there. And if vampires could truly exist in this age so bereft of the greater mysteries, then who was she to presume that werewolves were beyond the scope of nature's design?

The crystal tinkling of a voice broke the fragile spell of her reverie, Isolt's clear blue eyes rising to meet those of the canine once more. Her questions? A breathless chortle whispered into the space between the two, augmenting the silence that would have otherwise prevailed. The questions that zipped and whistled about within her brain were plentiful and they were none... a flustering paradox of plentiful emptiness, each one a handful of sand that seemed to slip readily through her desperately cupped fingers. "So it's all true then," she whispers, nearly so quiet as to be a personal aside, the young woman nibbling furtively at the plush cushion of her lower lip before continuing. "Werewolves do exist." It is more a statement to quall the proverbial storm of her thoughts as they careen rapidly out of any conceivable control rather than an inquiry placed to the werewolf in question. It is no long period of time, however, before curiosity extends its wanton fingers to her quite intuitive brain, tickling the surface... begging for relief that would only come from a release of some measure of her internalized, nosiness. "Were you... born this way?" The inquiry is a soft one, the auburn-haired woman attempting to maintain the politeness that has always remained a dictate of her persona. But the proverbial flood gates, it would appear, had already been flung ajar. "Does it hurt when you change? Or do you prefer being a wolf? Is your entire family werewolves? Is it hereditary?"

For dearest Isolt, it would seem, the luscious beckoning finger of curiosity was far too titillating to ignore...