isolt griffin
It was only here, in this purgatory-like limbo within which she waited, that Isolt allowed herself to feel the anticipatory elation that burbled beneath the collected surface of her composure like a brook threatening to overtake its shores. It was only now that she would be able to rejoice, even privately, for the opportunity with which she had been presented... no matter how circumspect her companion had been in its offering. Davante would not, and surely could not feel the same about the journey that lay ahead, for he had seen and lived the writhing, raw, and hideous truth of what lay beneath Isolt's philanthropic daydream. He had seen, felt, tasted, and bled the agony of a past the young auburn-haired girl could only yearn to understand and yet never could the spindly fingers of her brilliant mind fathom what had transpired in his youth. She was, she knew, perhaps just a band-aid to a weeping bullet wound for all the aide she could render here. And yet, in display of the true vigor of the profession to which she had committed herself... she would try. She would be a guiding hand in this deepest dark. She would heal, help, as many as she possibly could.

It is with this thought set firmly in mind as well as a temperance out of solidarity for her companion's ailing memories that Isolt quietly meets Davante at the door, nodding her acquiescence. In a conscious effort to eradicate the giddiness that would surely show in her step, Isolt makes quick work of depositing the two duffels she bears into the trunk of the warlock's car before easing herself into the leather cradle of the passanger seat. A lighthearted glance cuts to him at his verbal jab, a grin tugging coyly at the brims of her cherried lips. "That I do, so you had better hope I don't get thirsty on the flight," she quips, a somewhat meager and uncharacteristically sardonic attempt to ease some measure of the tension that has settled over him as a great and crushing heft. For the greater portion of their journey to the airport, Isolt falls into an almost trance-like quietude, taking mental stock of the various accoutrement she has collected for this mission and attempting to questionable avail to anticipate what she might be faced with, her delicate hands wrung anxiously within her lap.

Their arrival upon the concrete ribbon of the airport's walkway sees the young woman nearly bounding towards the yawning maw of the automatic doors, glancing back to her compatriot in a flourish of copper curls. As they draw nigh to the security checkpoint; however, she slows, leaning in to whisper at Davante's ear. "Is that him?" Her inquiry is hushed and yet nonetheless pointed, attuned to the details of his answer whether it be spoken or otherwise before nearing a somewhat older, cruel-faced gentleman set aside the swirling conveyor belt of the metal detector. A kindly smile that is, no tremendous surprise, not returned pulls at her delicate features as Isolt deposits her baggage into the waiting mouth of the machine. A moment transpires in which the horrifically-lined face of the customs agent fixes upon the screen, his eyes cutting harshly to Isolt. "Are you authorized to-," he spits, quickly taking stock of the medical license she cooly presents him with. "He's with me," she coos, motioning effortlessly to Davante, "and I'm afraid we're a bit short on time... if you don't mind." She is the archetype of composed professionalism as he scans her meticulously with the shrewd bulbs of his eyes. "Fine. Move along, Doctor. You too," he snarls begrudingly towards her companion.

A matter of nervous glances does Isolt cast towards the floor-to-ceiling plates of glass that line the airport terminal, the promise of a quickly-approaching dawn hastening her steps towards the gate and the sanctuary awaiting her upon the aircraft. There were, much to her surprise, accommodations to be made for those less inclined to linger in the sunlight. And thusly are they ushered to a private compartment at the plane's rear, a soft and soothing light bathing the space in recompense for the lack of windows. "You don't have to sit back here with me if you don't want to," she lilts softly as she turns to Davante, "I wouldn't blame you for wanting to enjoy the sun on your face."