isolt griffin
Whatever enigma he might have proclaimed of her, whatever grand and momentous illusion he might have professed that she posed to him with her demure nature and guarded heart was but the farthest and most desperate cry into the void of all that he, himself, represented. He was a paradox of confidence and vulnerability, he was light and he was darkness, ego and the barest modicum of shame contained within this single, immortal husk. He was wisened beyond the beliefs of many, she presumed, for she could see the evidence of it flickering unabashedly whenever it was that he gazed into her eyes; he had assimilated the role of mentor that traditionally should have been Risque's, a role that had not been abandoned for the elder vampire had been repulsed by the mere notion of fulfilling it. Damon alone had extended a hand to a frightened redheaded vampire in this, the proverbial dawn of her afterlife; he alone had saved her, pilfered her from the ruin of a transformation that would only ever be tragic. And though so very many shards of her still lay shrouded and buried beneath the rubble, Isolt had finally begun to clasp at something of which she had naught before Damon had taken her beneath his wing. Hope. Hope that, perhaps, this life after death might hold some promise, some grander purpose than to merely whiddle away at the eternity that loomed afore her in as daunting a manner as it ever had.

All of these thoughts revived with the simplest caress of his hand and a few gently whispered words. However, in this moment, a peripheral portion of this magnificent enigma is illuminated, for she does know full well how very much she means to him. Because, though she has not the words to truly show him, Damon means every bit to her what she means to him. And so she lingers a moment in the illusion of farcical warmth that is his touch before the soft cerulean pools of her eyes flicker to meet the tumultuous storm of his. "Yes, Damon, I do," she whispers in a gentle coo.

Desperate is the silent lament as he pulls away with the return of their waiter... and the arrival of what is surely one of the most spectacularly fragrant libations she has ever been privvy to accept. The hesitation that stifles her as it always seems to do in situations such as this is marked by its brevity, eradicated by the promise in the eyes of her companion and the unseen aroma that curls about, teasing at her olfactory. Yet not even this could have prepared her for what would come of partaking in the drink before her. It was perfectly sinful in the manner in which it pleased her, soothing in the warmth that had her, for the briefest moment, believing that her heart might yet beat within the quiet asylum of her chest. Greater still was the sensation that came with the steady decrease in the level of her glass, something unforgettably familiar from the life that had been lived before... intoxication. Of the many losses that Isolt mourned in this afterlife, the chemical freedom that was kith and kin to intoxication was surely one. The crimson-locked girl yearned so absolutely for freedom, for reprieve from the depression of this constant darkness that intoxication was a mercy she lamented for its impossibility in her current immortal form.

Until now, it would seem.

A soft and feminine giggle escapes from her lips unbidden at the realization of the true gift that Damon has given her this time, the young woman leaning in to whisper conspiratorially (and perhaps an octave too loudly) towards her companion. "I feel like... I want to do, just... everything, Damon. Especially dancing, I really want to dance. And have more of this... can we have more?"