isolt griffin
She is bold in these moments, bolstered heartily by the faerie lifeblood that is, it would seem, the antidote to immortality's paradoxically lethal venom that would deny her the pleasure of inebriation. It is homage to this newfound and admittedly quite temporary audacity that Isolt would deny Chaz so coldly. In truth she desires his advances and his fickle companionship as much in the present as she had upon the occasion of their first meeting; however, be it the long-dormant yearnings for the man to whom she clings that have recently been stirred anew or the simplistic fact that a dance with Chaz sounded as appealing as one might expect, she rebuffs his invitation with a prickling coolness that is hardly characteristic of her usually demure nature.

And yet even still is she surprised as the man's balled first twitches in wanting of her companion's chin, clearly agitated enough by her refusal that he would deem such a foolish action worthy of his pursuit. The young woman moves then, nearly releaving herself from Damon's side if only to employ her body as a buffer to his, merely to find the advance quite... unnecessary. She is vaguely familiar with the depths of Damon's powers, having born witness to their employ on more occasions than just one, yet still it is marvelous the effortless fashion which he assumes control. Marvelous and undeniably perturbing in its implications. Thus in silence does she observe the interaction, the palest blue of her eyes daring to venture from Chaz's retreating figure as Damon calls for her attentions once more. The smooth canvas of her brow furrows somewhat with his expressed intentions, for even though the mystique of the faerie blood holds her as undeniably as a mother might coddle an infant, she bears their intended "donor" so little ill will, the evidence of which echoes in the sweet whisper that flutters betwixt them. "I don't want him to die, Damon... I don't want him to suffer, okay? Please," she pleads, lingering a moment with her hand resting delicately upon his chest before she is once more distracted by Chaz's return.

Willingly does she obey the urges of his hand at her hip, relishing in a most wanton manner the caress of his fingertips and the authority of his gestures as the trio exits the establishment only to be enveloped by the darkness of the alley that borders it. Too soon is she bereft his touch, however, lamenting the loss of a thing she had not known she needed, the purr of his words first to Chaz and then to herself a thing readily seized upon. It is doubtless, when her eyes flicker to his, that she remains subject to the enchantment of this most unique cocktail. Bashfully does a blush creep back unto the apples of her checks, teeth nibbling in anticipatory nervousness at the plush cushion of her lower lip before the words she intends finally discover the fleshy curl of her tongue. "I don't care what we do," she cooes softly, the syllables hardly rising above a whisper, "as long as I'm with you. But first, have a drink with me..." She is brazen in this, this swiftly-blossoming courage surely something bred of the blood pulsing within her as if she were somehow and impossibly alive.

Carefully does she move to Chaz, taking one muscular arm in her falsely delicate clutches before a sleek pair of fangs descend and his forearm is brought to parted lips. With a practiced gentleness does she delve her spires into the plump flesh of his arm, delighting in the near-instantaneous rush of crimson euphoria as it glides thickly over her tongue. And all the while the glistening cerulean of her eyes dare not stray from the grey pools of the man opposite her, a great many enticing mysteries suggested in the depths of both.