isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

Her sandal-clad foot taps a lively tempo against the grungy and peeling carpet of the taxi floor, delicate fingers sanctioning the few gossamer strands of crimson silk that have escaped from the loose braid drapped over one shoulder to press them behind her ears. Her hands fall to the swollen slope of her stomach then, the supple vessels of her palms sailing easily against the fabric of the Rolling Stones t-shirt that she wears. One of Aaron's and, admittedly, one of the few such garments that could accomodate her belly in its current state.

Isolt nearly careens (albeit less than gracefully given her body's disproportionate dimensions) from the cab as it shudders to a halt in the domineering shadow thrown unto the dark ribbon of the avenue by Harley's building, yet no sooner had her hands coaxed the trunk's gaping maw ajar than the taxi's elderly prioprietor beckons in a panicked bellow in order to gain her attention. "Miss, no! Please, let me," he insists, very nearly shooing her away from the vehicle. "Alright, alright," she concedes with a raising of her hands, hardly caring to invite an encore of the incident that had taken place when the elder gentleman had arrived to collect her, the man having nearly suffered a heart attack at the sight of the heavily-pregnant redheaded woman heaving her suitcase into the trunk of his cab. Little though did he know that Isolt could have easily housted the automobile itself into the air should the desire have moved her to do so... pregnant or on.

She loiters a moment within the dusty yellow halo of the streetlamp, the night's cool zephyr toying freely with the crimson wisps that frame the soft curve of her jaw, a lighthearted simper pressing its creases into the suppleness of her face before she hobbles towards the door of her dearest companion's abode. It had been far too long a time since the pair of women had indulged themselves in the particular brand of senseless gaiety that awaited them beyond the gossamer veil of this night. It was an undeniable truth that life had taken much from the outstretched hands of both women, had pressed its burden unto their shoulders in a manner both merciless and malign. And yet, for all of its harrowing deeds, neither time nor circumstance could ever truly pilfer from the two the zest and ardor for adventure that had bolstered them even in childhood.

A few sharp raps upon the door of Harley's dwelling are answered moments later by the raven-haired woman herself. "Good evening ma'am," she issues with a flourish towards the insignia emblazoned upon her shirt and a soft bowing of her fire-crowned head, "do you have a moment to speak with me about our lord and savior Keith Richards?"