isolt griffin
Shameful was the modesty she felt, too vigorous was it for her to even meet his gaze for a time. Instead, the rounded tip of a slender digit perused the sleek rim of the glass at her front, a anticipatory action begged for by a mind consumed with consideration, with doubt and with fear. So crushing, so abhorrent the silence that the notion of simply retreating back into the would-be sanctuary of her quarters occurred to the neophyte vampire with a resounding and flagrant urgency, nearly prodding her to action before his compliment whispered across the table to her desperately waiting ears. A compliment that finally draws her eyes to lift to him, a look of innocent and unadulterated surprise pulling her brow into tight furrows. Given a different inflection, one far less gentle, far less sincere than the one he had chosen to utilize, Isolt might have presumed that his appreciation for her homely physical attributes was a traditional and expected consequence of his ever-deepening venture into drunkenness.

The tender delicacy of her features falls, however, as he looks away as if in physical pain from having to bear the sight of her. That look causes her stomach to roil, shame once again settling into her brain for the knowledge that she is, at least in part, to blame for a portion of his inner turmoil. For a moment, the notion to protest his compliment flickers within her mind, for she was naught if not positively homely and un-extraordinary. "Thank you," she whispers instead, "you're quite handsome yourself." Her voice echoes naught but the utmost in sincerity, for it is true no matter how she might have wished it false. He was classically handsome, and surely he had been informed thusly on many occasions before this. However, the words that rumble from betwixt his lips in the following moments seek to snuff the small flame of hope that had flickered there only moments ago. It was, whether he intended it so or not, a reminder of what she was. For a small moment, she might have fooled her tired mind into believing that she was human again, just as he was.

But it could not, and would never, be so.

Isolt hesitates for a lingering moment, her mouth forming momentarily around syllables that never come to be, stymied by the fibrous knot that has clenched and coiled into her throat. A hard swallow is all she might muster for a time, before her voice comes as a strangled whisper. "I know that... now." A small fallacy, for in truth Isolt had suspected at least some modicum of repentance from him for quite some time now. Not in the forest upon the occasion of her awakening, for then she had been too blinded by confusion, fear, and sorrow to see the mourning in his eyes when he had looked to her... when he had reached for her. And certainly not on the few occasions they had come across one another during their shared captivity within the confines of Risque's ghastly palace. No, the first time the young woman had recognized pain and penitence in the eyes of the man who had aided in her murder had been the night he had heralded their escape. That was when she had seen it, and the realization had humbled her.

"That's not your fault," she whispered, more conviction, more strength coming to her words for it was the very first time she had spoken such a sentiment aloud. "But really, what would have been enough? After spending even what little time I did in Risque's presence, I knew that I was going to die either way. I was destined to die from the moment I saw you... from the moment you saw me. Nothing either of us could have done would have stopped her, you know that." Isolt falls into silence then, her eyes lingering upon the broken man before her. Perhaps, in some obscure fashion, these two broken people might together find some way to heal.