isolt griffin
The frame itself was a cheap thing, something her eight-year-old self had found perched abandoned upon some thrift store shelf, appealing for its brushed silver finish that had, at the time, afforded it some manner of false allure. The metallic paint had chipped over the years, portions of it proving casualties of a thousand different caresses, and yet the precious photograph sandwiched within was no less pristine than the day it had been put there all those years ago. The supple bulb of her fingertips skated lovingly over the faces of her brother, Harley, and herself... all of them softened by the baby fat of their younger selves. The wide comical grins they shared coaxed a gentle smile to her features even now, decades later, after circumstance had placed so much distance between them and had robbed her of both of them in some fashion.

Delicately Isolt tucks the framed photograph into the accoutrement neatly folded and stowed into the cloth backpack perched upon her bed. It was the only non-necessity she would be allowing herself to bring with her on this journey, a piece of what had once been home. It had been a decision long in the making, a consideration that had on more than one occasion succeeded in robbing her of rest, of focus. However, Isolt had finally come to the conclusion that to leave would serve her, and those around her, for the best. There existed no plausible reason for her to remain within Sacrosanct, no clandestine threads that would bind her here any longer. She was, after all, merely another occupant in an apartment that was no longer home, that was no longer hers. And beyond these walls that were more a cage of brick and mortar, there was only oblivion... oblivion within which life had moved on without her. Sacrosanct was nothing Isolt recognized any longer, nothing she yearned for, nothing she loved.

The young woman's fingers halt upon the clasp of the bag, a noise from the rooms beyond her own having succeeded in distracting her from the preparations for her departure. In truth it was far passed the hour during which her impromptu roommate generally stirred about the apartment, a notion that had the fledgling vampire venturing beyond the space that was hers and into the territory she had largely forfeited to the trio of Weres. It is no significant period of time before crystalline eyes fall upon a figure that was all too familiar. Isolt hovers a moment in the darkness, stilled by consideration and doubt, for her prior interactions with this particular individual had proven nothing if not disheartening. He is troubled, this much of his vexation made obvious by the bottle of whiskey situated near the dregs of his glass. Yet though it was in her nature to soothe those who required it, her efforts to do so to the emerald eyed man had only seen her chided, victimized by the very venom she had sought to relieve.

And yet, for whatever reason, she emerges from the shadows of the corridor and into the space he shares, her bare feet padding softly against the aged hardwood. "Hi," she offers, more to announce her presence than anything aside, fully aware of the fact that he may very well desire for her only to coalesce back into the shadows. "I'm sorry to... interrupt, it's just that I normally only hear Nadya out here anymore." A wavering simper passes over her cherried lips, slender fingers wrung nervously as she waits... contemplating whether she had, once again, erred with her words.