isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

She is frozen. Adhered to the smooth cobblestone that lies beneath the rubber soles of her shoes by the oppressive and mounting heft of dread that presses itself unto her shoulders. She knows what she should do, what she must do, but even the voice of reason that recites the medical protocol from the not-too-distant recesses of her subconscious is drowned out, silenced entirely by the pervading internal cacophony of crackling static that serves to erase all else save. It is to Jason's merit that sets about the task of fetching her husband, for who might have guessed how long it would have been had she been left to do the errand herself.

Damon appears before her, Isolt hardly registering the curse that passes from his lips as she slowly rests her hands within his, the telltale impressions of her fingerprints left within the wood of the pillar at her side. A breathless gasp, of pain or of surprise cannot be rightly discerned, escapes the vampire queen as she is hoisted into her husband's arms only to be carried with quite impressive haste to the Mustang parked just outside the pub as if laying in wait for the execution of this precise scenario. Thankful is she for Damon's presence of mind as he dials Renee to relay their imminent arrival, for Isolt's own mind exists only as a miasma of nameless, formless chaos summoned forth by the agony of contractions that seem to be coming more frequently as the minutes slip past and a tangible panic for what surely lies ahead. It is a thick mental befuddlement that recedes (only a modicum, mind) as a realization dawns upon the redheaded woman with stunning lucidity. "HARLEY, I've got to call Harley... where's my phone?" Fingers trembling, Isolt runs her hands over the dampened denim of her jeans, probing each pocket in turn for the elusive device. "Shit, I think I left it at the office," she exclaims before nearly diving for Damon's cell, hardly bothering to request permission in her haste to alert her dearest companion.

Isolt squirms about within the leather embrace of the Mustang's seat in what was presumably an ill-fated attempt to ease the piercing pain of a particularly brutal contraction that coiled about her abdomen as some vile, predatory serpent. "Harley, it's me... thundercats are go!," she blurts into the receiver, feeling not even a trace of the awkwardness or embarrassment that would surely have otherwise accompanied the admittedly odd choice of phrase that she and Harley had decided upon months ago. "YES, I'M SERIOUS," she issues in a tone that, while not unkind, would surely convey without fault the validity and seriousness of the situation. A moment of silence passes over the auburn-haired woman within which she grapples for as much composure as she might be fated to regain. "We're headed to Northeast Medical... yes, that one... okay, bye."

It is a blessedly short venture that brings the pair to the sliding doors of the hospital, though by the time of their arrival Isolt could not have cared less how she was lead into the brightly-lit building, the young woman hardly registering the offered wheelchair or her husband's adamant refusal as he cradled her within his arms. Both relief and terror mingle within her as Isolt is finally lowered unto the thin white sheet of the hospital bed, Dr. Renee Sawyer waiting dutifully at her bedside. "Well, first things first," she answers calmly, looking from Damon to Isolt in turn, "we have to do a bit of a wardrobe change." As if on cue Isolt is approached by a youthful nurse toting the traditional paper-thin, lavender-colored hospital appropraited solely for mothers-to-be. Isolt makes short work of removing her garments (with some assistance from those present), newly uncaring of her almost complete nudity in the presence of a handful of relative strangers as a trio of nurses gathers to ready themselves behind Renee.

Placing her heels into the cool plastic stirrups, Isolt reclines her head, azure eyes fixing upon the dotted ceiling overhead before traveling to those of her husband, her fingers coiling readily about the hand he offers. "Oh, looks like you folks made it here just in time... you're crowning, Isolt. Are you ready to push?" Renee's words, her query, seem to take a moment too long to reach Isolt's ears, the vampire monarch simply staring into the eyes of her husband, brows pinched in a near-painful fashion. Finally, and in an octave not much higher than a whisper, does she respond. "Yes."