isolt griffin
Never would she have told tales of her own quests for nourishment, the crimson-haired girl remaining quite private about a great many subjects... the details of where and from whom she fed a heavily-guarded secret. Isolt rebelled quite vigorously against the clandestine hands that tugged upon the threads of vampiric instinct that had woven themselves, whether she wished it or not, about her entire being and as such held a great aversion to the discussion of such whims. But here, with Damon, cradled in the arms of this beautifully sinful toxin, did she allow herself to recognize the bloodlust, the hunger, that were the ever-present companions of her race. Only here did she allow herself to enjoy this parasitic yearning, her slender fingers tightening fractionally against the heavily muscled trunk of Chaz's forearm even as she recognizes the growing sluggishness of his pulse.

It is to his esteemed merit that Damon pulls away, for it is questionable whether the younger vampire would have possessed the wherewithal to have committed to the action without such tempered guidance. She withdraws then, the rosy tip of her tongue trailing leisurely across the pillow of her top lip with the timely retreat of her fangs. There is naught but silence from her as Damon doles out instruction to their would-be prey for the eve, only her reaction to his last words encouraging any sign that she had heard him at all. The etherreal azure of her eyes sparkles from beyond beautifully curled lashes and smoky cosmetics, a single expertly-manicured brow quirking just slightly at those three innocently and salaciously miniscule words. The darkness inherent in his tone, in the way in which he gazes upon her, and the touch of his fingers send the auburn-haired woman into an internal and blessedly shrouded tailspin. Her body seems to constrict in a most titillating manner, electricity tickling through her still veins and tightening her in unspeakable places, a peculiar and would-be perturbing development were it not for her current state of advanced inebriation. And so she reaches for his hand, solidifying an unspoken decision for their trajectory in the moment that her fingers entwine so gently with his, offering him the simplest of sentiments before leading him from the confines of the darkened alley. "It's a surprise," she coos, smiling broadly and beautifully beneath the dancing lights of the streetlamps and shop signs that they pass. Gently does she recline her head against his shoulder as they walk, relishing the soft light of this daydream, this admittedly temporary euphoria within which she has found herself wholly ensconced.

Not before too long a time has passed do they find themselves upon the stoop of Isolt's apartment building, the polarity of the grandeur of his home to the decidedly humble look of her own heralding the return of doubt even amidst this smog of intoxication. Silently does she lead him forth, pausing only long enough upon her own doorstep to retrieve the keys from within her pocket before she leads her companion into the den of what had once been her greatest happiness. Clasping his hand tighter in her own anticipation, Isolt leads him through the communal areas of the abode that had once been the pride of her and Harley, but is now but a husk, a vacant carapace of the joy that once had been, failing for the moment to explain the aroma of the Were that is now her living companion. This is not why she has brought him here.

Only does the redhead pause at the door that would lead them to their final destination, to a place into which she has invited no one else: her very last sanctuary. Slowly and purposefully does she ease the door ajar, the practiced flick of a switch inviting the soft, soothing light of a nearby floorlamp to illuminate the admittedly quite small and yet nonetheless cozy and tidy space that was her bedroom. Illuminated is the perfectly-made expanse of her violet-clad bed, the tidy desk and bookshelves that were homages to a life left sequestered in a time so far removed from the present. Illuminated her bureau and the photographs that adorned its polished surface, photographs she had failed to pilfer away as she had intended in order to purge herself of the agony of the memories they bore; and the photographs upon the wall, set next to her medical degree... all of them relics of a life cut short in its proverbial infancy. It is then that she releases her companion to move to the center of the small room, hands running nervously against the darkly-washed denim of her jeans. Gone is the glow of the faerie's blood, for now, as doubt and anticipation weave themselves once more into the softened tapestry of the fire-crowned vampire's features. It is as if she is exposing some long-shielded portion of her self in inviting him into this place that was solely her own. Trusting him with this, with her. Only after a few moments of pregnant silence does she speak, her words rising not much higher than the soft purr of a whisper. "I known it's a far cry from your gorgeous mansion but... this is my home. This is it. This is... me."