isolt griffin

"Is this too much skin? Because I feel like it's too much skin," she inquired for what could quite possibly have been the twentieth time, though the evening itself was ever so young. Chizue's hushed affirmations and gentle encouragement resulted only in the pallor of a single, delicate hand lifting to rub at Isolt's uncharacterically-furrowed brow, the slouching of her shoulders denoting the breathless sigh that had been plugging the gaping maw of the internal chasm which promptly swells to overcome her. "Chizue," she whispers, though should the truth be duly confessed the dulcet murmur echoed more for herself than for her companion, "I don't know if I can do this." Only this and no more, no explanation scuttles in the wake of this proclamation for Isolt doubted entirely that such was required betwixt the two vampiric women. Chizue, after all, had been made fully aware of Damon's sudden and (she feared) permanent departure and the proverbial debris that had been the result of his presumed abandonment. Debris that, to the merit of both women, they had methodically begun to collect and sculpt into something that might have once passed for adequate. At least outwardly, because it could not be rightly and truthfully said that Isolt was not still adrift in the cataclysmic ruin of memory that her lover had built with an artisan's knowing prowess and then destroyed in that singular moment of his departure and every moment thereafter.

This dilemma had surely succeeded in putting Isolt through her metaphorical paces: ascending to and finding footing in her role as reigning Supreme of the Elysium coven, taking sole ownership of Red on the Water, and rising to her feet once more to discover what place, if any, she might fill in this afterlife. This life after Harley, after Damon. Tonight, however, she sought to eradicate thoughts of her lover and lost friend; Isolt must embody all of these things this night. She must be Elysium's Supreme, she must be Red on the Water's owner, and... perhaps that which she had come to dread the most, hostess.

"Come down if you want to, okay?" Isolt postulates in an offhanded manner if the tone with which she addresses Chizue reeks of the desparation she battles so forthrightly to surpress. There is no place for that anymore, especially not tonight in the presence of potential connections, potential allies. Hands to shake and links to forge. Baring this and so many other considerations in mind does the red-haired damsel descend the winding staircase into the excitedly bustling pub-turned-political gala below. Her garb is a simple yet nonetheless elegant black dress, ashimmer with onyx stones and accented with a dramatically low and sloping back, the latter of which had sparked the anxieties of earlier. The fire that crowns her head does not cascade down her back in a waterfall of soft curls as is Isolt's general custom, rather it is done up to fall at the nape of her neck in a soft, artfully loose bun. She is stunning, dazzling in her simplistic elegance though she would never know it... she would never choose to see it.

Azure eyes flicker about the room for the barest moment before meeting those of an individual once so very familiar. It had been some time since she had arrived home to find that Nadya and her brood had gone, the sting of it lingering still. If only the Were woman had explained, even so few details, the pair might have been spared the rift that existed between them now. A rift dug solely by the shovels of misunderstanding crafted by their shared silence. Perhaps, if either had extended the olive branch, there would have been more than one explanation to be had. Isolt would not have gone on believing that Nadya had simply left out of boredom or some newfound bitterness for the redheaded vampire. And Nadya, likewise, would have known that, despite the feelings that simmered as infant flames among the tinder, Isolt had not left her brother and neither had he left her. They had come so very close on many occasions to voicing aloud what is was suspected that both felt and yet... the words had never tumbled from quivering lips. One of a hoard of regrets that plagues the young vampire, it would seem.

The most beautiful, guarded simper from across a crowded room is all that Isolt seems capable of proffering up for her dark-haired companion tonight before she turns to once more be on her way. The "man of the hour" is quite easy to find, the youthful young woman approaching with surprising confidence... all that she might be able to muster given the current situation, extending her hand to the politician along with a dazzling smile. "Dareios, I'm Isolt Griffin. I don't think we've ever been properly introduced." Somewhere in the ghastly vacuum of her thoughts she finds herself hoping, praying that he at least remembers her face from the party all those months ago or that he had some passing inkling of who she was. Otherwise, well... this evening was going to be far more torturously embarrassing than she had initially believed.