isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

Damn it.

The quiet curse hisses from her lips, slender fingers hooked in a white-knuckled grip into the denim loops of the blue jeans she wears. She knows better than to employ the full breadth of the strength that immortality has gifted her for such a seemingly benign task as this... though the notion proves ever more tantilizing with each failed attempt to bring button and loop together. Come on, she urges, chancing one last try before the query of her lover resonates up the winding grandeur of the front staircase and into the bedroom that she shares with him. "Coming!" Isolt swivels, rummaging haphazardly through the drawers of her vanity before extracting the item she seeks with an admittedly inflated and pathetic gasp of triumph given the simplicity of the situation.

Moments later does the redheaded damsel emerge into the sitting area within which her husband-to-be paces in a manner that readily betrays the trepidation that he must surely be experiencing. The unruly state of his hair, normally styled with such pride, seeks only to affirm the suspicions of his fiance as she glides to him, helpless against the smile that blossoms upon her lips as she returns his kiss in kind. Was it even possible that she was capable of loving this man with greater fervor than she did now? Doubtful.

"Yes," she offers before her eyes and hands fall to the clasp of her jeans, delicate fingers curling to lift her blouse so that he may see the source of her chagrin and, subsequently, the delay. "But I think I'm going to finally have to invest in a few pairs of maternity jeans... these won't close anymore." At this she offers an irked flick to the hair tie that she has employed to fasten the garment as best she was able against the delicate swell of her stomach, the look of defeat that she offers her lover far more comical than perhaps it should have been. "I really like these jeans...," she trails off as she meanders towards the door to step out into the chilled winter evening.

It is strange to consider that, not terribly long before this, Isolt had lain in the leather embrace of this seat in a state far removed from the fruitful, glowing miasma she existed in now. In truth, the redheaded woman expended a great deal of effort to the repression of those memories, finding such willful denial to be the only marginally successful means of coping available to her at present. Seeking to further remove herself from the persistent and nagging recollections of the time before, the young woman turns to her lover with a wistful and easy simper. "The doctor we're seeing today is a friend, we did our residencies at the same hospital. She's a... a witch, more specifically her coven's midwife and healer. I'm telling you now so that you're not surprised when we get there so... be nice, please." She knows the depth of his ire for the witches and warlocks of Sacrosanct following the "incident" with the New Eden, knows that he does not trust freely, regardless of her assurances and yet she tries nonetheless.

They arrive timely, Isolt having absolute faith that Damon would hardly let them mar this joyous occasion with their tardiness, despite his future wife's wardrobe malfunction. "Dr. Griffin, what a surprise! I didn't think you were working tonight..." the scrub-clad nurse at the desk cooes as the pair enters the largely-deserted maternity ward waiting room. "I'm not, I'm here to see Dr. Sawyer, could you tell her that I'm here? Thank you, Dolores." She offers a kindly grin towards the elderly nurse before deciding on a small leather sofa situated against one wall of the waiting room. Slender, delicate fingers seek those of her fiance as Isolt surveys the only other individuals in the room, a notably youthful woman and the toddler that squirms about within her grasp in order to see better the new arrivals. The girl, no older than two, eyes Damon through a pair of astonishing green eyes, giggling merrily as she extends a tender, chubby little hand to wave at him from afar.