isolt griffin
In but a matter of moments her mind and body coalesce into a circuitry of sensorial bliss, a cornucopia of titillating sensation that far surpasses even the inebriation of her formerly-mortal self. It is as if, in this moment, every portion of her body is alive in a manner which it had never before been capable. Here, now, with Damon to guide her as he always seemed wont to do, Isolt is burdenless, she is bereft the turmoil that seems inherent in every last morsel of her afterlife. The tarpaulin of endless night is, for the present time, lifted and Isolt, herself, is light. The sun itself seemed to lend its buttery rays to the cerulean irises of the young woman's eyes. She is free by merit of little more and no less than a steaming glass of darkly-enchanting lifeblood.

And just as her body knows this foreign freedom, so too does her tongue forfeit censorship to the intoxication that slithers about within the stagnant stream of her blood, the hastened proclamation falling from her lips in much the same manner that a child might portray their excitement. Excitement that she is admittedly pleased to witness spreading infectuously unto the handsomely-chiseled features of her favored companion, a brilliantly incandescent smile beaming from her features even as his head collides with her own. She is unshaken by such small matters as this now, her falsely delicate hand sliding into his in manner that is naught else but purely eager. Isolt gives pause for a moment, eyes fluttering to their joined hands for the sensation of their flesh together is something utterly beyond what it had been in any state outside of this current inebriation. In truth she would find his touch darkly pleasing no matter the circumstances; however, the faerie blood seems to have lent some modicum of hyper-sensitivity to the supple bulbs of her fingertips.

The flame-crowned girl moves with him in a manner that is faultless, exquisite in its serenity and alluring in its ease. It appears that the duo of nightwalkers worked together in a few more ways than just one. A feminine chortle bubbles lightly from within her as Damon reclines her slender figure into a classic dip, uncaring of the curious eyes that wander over their dancing figures as other couples writhe and grind about them. Her pace slowing, Isolt folds herself into his embrace quite nicely, one hand perched at his shoulder and another lain easily against his hand, her head moving for a moment to rest against the side of his finely-carved chin. Few are the moments in death that could have ever been professed to have brought her any measure of happiness, any shred of calm. And yet here, now, in the shared embrace of her partner and the magic libation he had shown her... she was privvy to a maudlin happiness.

It is this, perhaps, which sees her move. This willingness to allow herself to be gladdened, free of the self-made bindings of modesty and demure doubt that had heretofore prohibited the young woman from perpetrating the act of any desire she had ever harbored. She moves with slow precision to frame the masculine curve of his jaw with her own small hands in what appears to be a ploy to have him meet her eyes with his own. But this is not for what she quests, not now. In an enlivened moment of confidence do her eyes slide to a close, the crimson pillows of her lips melding beautifully with Damon's own. Gentle is the kiss at first, as tentative as the one he had bestowed upon her that night on the hillside, and yet this one is not nearly as brief. She is unafraid now, unhindered by the clandestine chains that were her fear of repudiation, and she draws him deeper though she is sweetly gentle even in this. Even is there the ever-so-light caress of her teeth against the cushion of Damon's bottom lip before a voice tinged with familiarity echoes into the space of this self-made void...

"A-hem... am I interrupting something?"

It is an impish bark, grating harshly against the soothing nothingness that shatters as Isolt pulls slowly away from Damon, her eyes finally opening to linger upon his own before flicking to a pair that, albeit not equally, are still quite familiar to the redheaded damsel. Chaz. She possesses not the words to answer him, and surely now is unwilling to do so even had she the verbage. She merely smiles by way of greeting, and a shy thing it is, the telltale rosiness of a blush seeping unto the pallor of her cooled cheeks as she pleads silently for Damon's aide.