isolt griffin
Far from reality is the assumption that Isolt might possess the wherewithal and momentary inflection of courage to attempt any further resistance to his attempts to detain her. The choices upon this proverbial table are few, each as dissatisfying as the one that had come before and yet truly to linger within this confined space in the company of a man she had only seen on two occasions was quickly proving itself the most viable option. A notion that did little to quail the stirrings of anxiety deep within the stillness of her innards; how was she to place her safety in the hands of this man who had carved out his life's niche as the purveyor of things that would do naught but harm her?

An apology curls upon her tongue, the syllables tickling at her lips before they catch at the fibrous knot clenching in her throat as she swallows them. The wretched thorns of his mounting displeasure, a seedling though it is, mutes whatever admittedly useless words she might have sacrificed to the thickly lain tension between them. Instead the redheaded night-walker crosses finely-muscled arms over her slender frame, a nervous gesture that supersedes the flighty manner in which her eyes once again peruse the now-bolted entry. Isolt does not, despite her earlier request, move to tail the shop's keeper into the waiting mouth of darkness beyond the weathered slab of the counter. Such an action seems a foolish avenue to venture down given the circumstances, and she would have no sooner followed the devil into hell. Instead, she merely offers him an acquiescing nod, her back pressing uncomfortably into the shelf behind her with the somewhat subconscious effort to be furthest from him and whatever thing he believes she might seek with even the minutest level of desire.

Blue eyes caress the supple fabric of the pouch as it is deposited as some heinous peace offering betwixt them, the impatience imparted upon her in no small measure by the hard lines of his expression a troubling thing. With measured step the youthful vampire draws nigh to the counter and the enigma swathed in blue velvet, only to be met with the searing stench of silver as it curls as acid against every gland. Was it a farce? Some ruse concocted of a devilishly clever mind so that he might, still, impart upon her the evidence of his disdain for her race? And yet however young and naïve Isolt certainly was, she had long ago been introduced to the maladies of silver at the hands of her maker... the substance having proven a favorite device of subversion and agony the elder vampire had quite frequently chosen to use against her ill-begotten progeny. And so that this warlock should choose to employ a known weakness of the species as an obstacle against a quickly-blossoming curiosity of Isolt's seemed a cruel trick.

One she would not indulge. He would not see her wounded by his hand.

And yet just then, just as the spark of deviance skitters across her gaze do the ghastly silver ribbons unfurl to liberate whatever lay beyond them, the mystique of it accented by the words of their wielder. "I don't have a reputation," she states, willing the terseness from her syllables as her brow crinkles with confusion. It was a statement the substance of which was rooted in the fondest of hopes that, truly, the crimson-haired girl had heretofore succeeded in eluding the radars of those around her. She did not yearn for the salacious and fickle glory of infamy as so many around Sacrosanct seemed to do, she did not lust for the adoration of the masses nor did she live for the bitterness of their fear or the scorching burn of their hatred. She wished only to exist within the shadows until such a moment as fate sought to lead her permanently from this half-life... when she might return to her brother and the light promised by the true afterlife.

"Prepared for what," she implores, her shoulders hitching with a shrug, gossamer curls swaying as pendulums with the shaking of her head. "I'm not trying to do anything, I'm not trying to make anyone angry or... scared or... whatever. I just-," her words filter into silence, chased with naught more than an exasperated sigh. It is then that the glassy pools of her eyes alight upon the dagger as it glides effortlessly from its velveteen sheath. It is, she admits inwardly, far more beautiful than any of the items cluttering the walls and counters of the shop's square-footage. Far too beautiful to be sullied by the caress of her hand, though the invitation was remarkably and unmistakably insistent. "It's gorgeous." The compliment falls from her cherried lips unbidden, though the inquiry it heralds is delivered with far more intent. "You made this for me?"