isolt griffin
She is helpless to lessen the kiss of wonder as it sweeps across her face at his words, forgetting for the barest and most precious moment that they, their races, would forever be at odds with one another. They would, the both of them, play host to a peculiar game of cat and mouse for as long as fate would see fit to sustain the salacious guise of their immortality. To tug and tangle the strings in this presentation of marionettes; he the hunter, as he was destined to be, and she his prey... for her fangs had deemed her befitting no other title. She was but an ever-moving target meant only for the spire of his stake. Their roles, it would seem, had been established for them by hands they had been unable to influence, their cards all but played for them. Yet despite this, as a cry perhaps to the true depths of her naivety, Isolt succumbs to the wave of awe at his confession... only to immediately lament the assertion that, one day, she too would become as disillusioned with the constant reel of immortality as he had so obviously become. How, she pondered, was it possible for an individual, regardless of creed or species, to cope with such a bland existence... a life that had forfeited all of its sensorial delight to the corrosive agent of time? And, more troubling still, was such a life worthy of the emotional toil that might be required to in order to withstand living it?

Isolt is pulled, coaxed from the dark and winding avenue of her thoughts only to be deposited unto the precipice of one far darker than any considerations of her will to indulge in immortal life. The tale she proffers to him is a brief one, horrendously bereft every macabre detail of her own untimely transformation for, truly, Isolt doubts in her very core that she could have proven capable of speaking them allowed. And really, what would a Hunter have cared for the finer details of how she had been coaxed from the domain of the living into that of the undead? A shrug ripples through her slender frame, a gesture meant to betray far more nonchalance than the young vampire was actually given to feel regarding the decisions of her Maker. "Yeah, I'm sorry too," she whispers simply, meeting his gaze after she may find no diversion in the pitted brick at his side or the long and spindly cracks of the concrete at their feet. And yet, it would seem that Isolt earns her own diversion by merit of the questions that she poses, haphazard and inappropriate though they might have been.

Polite is the silence that consumes her wholly during the tale he tells, a tale bearing but a modicum more embellishment than her own had and yet it is one that enthralls her without failure and without pause. There is... something to the way he speaks of his Maker, a glimmer of something else beneath the practiced and almost-convincing veneer of agitation, of disdain, that he would otherwise have her believe. The true nature of what it might be eludes the curious redhead entirely, though she purports to recognize some offhanded fondness even in the irksome way in which he speaks of her. "I'm sorry," she offers softly, "I always thought of what it would have been like to have a Maker who actually wanted me. Who saw some sort of potential in me like yours clearly did in you. Maybe that's why she turned you? Maybe she just saw... something inside of you." It is a moment of absolute and innocently free-flowing candor that melts upon her tongue. She had oft considered what other vampires proposed to feeling for their creators, a fondness... a love and connection greater and more all-consuming than anything she had or could ever have known in her human life. A comfort in knowing that this love was reciprocated, that for whatever remained of this paradoxically finite eternity there would be a singular individual who would embrace them wholly and warmly no matter what span of time had transpired between them. This, a feeling that was but the subject of much conjecture for her, that had never been a staple of her relationship with Risque. "Did it hurt when she died? Did you feel it?" A strange inquiry, indeed, and most certainly not one with which the blonde Hunter would presumably be forthcoming, and yet it leaves her lips nonetheless.

A frown pinches the pallor of her brow as his question reaches her ears. This, too, had the crimson-haired girl afforded much consideration. She was yet a product of circumstance, an echo of the congenial and loving person she had been the entirety of her human life, and so the answer comes easily. The truth of it flickers within the oceanic depths of her eyes as they meet his and the subtle shaking of her fire-crowned head. It is a truth that cannot be denied. "No," she whispers pointedly, silence spreading between Hunter and Vampire before she sees fit, for whatever reason, to offer him some measure of explanation. "Death is... the most glorious release. It is the dissolution of every worry, every fear, that you've ever had. And what comes after is just so...beautiful. I don't think I could take that away from someone." A soft smile pulls tensely at closed lips as Isolt allows herself to fall silent, retreating but a step from the lounging Hunter. "I should go. You... just be careful, okay?"