isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

A broad and doting smile pulls its creases into the delicate pallor of her features with Harley's appearance at the threshold, her retort a welcome consequence of Isolt's own attempt at playful humor. It had always been this way, the pair's tit-for-tat conversational tennis matches having always been a facet of their relationship completely unique unto themselves. "Alas," Isolt issues with a nod, "he has yet to answer any of my messages. The Keith is far too great for little ol' me!"

A hearty chuckle issues into the otherwise vacant hallway as Isolt is snatched into the warm expanse of Harley's apartment which, admittedly, looked as though a fearsome cataclysm had cast itself about with markedly little regard. "We can, just not in the usual way," she responds almost offhandedly, though the redheaded woman dares not elaborate upon the subject lest it sow even the slightest modicum of unease into the resolve of her companion. Vampires and their... feeding habits had proven catastrophic to Harley since the untimely demise of her parents in her youth, and the subject remained an objectionable and tender point of discussion.

"Uh uh, no," she quips sharply, raising an admonishing finger to wag towards her dearest companion as the dark-haired woman's eyes roved over the impressive swell of Isolt's belly. "Don't look at me like that, don't even think that we're cancelling this trip because I'm pregnant. I still have a little over a month before she's due and I need this. I need to be carefree one last time before my life is consumed by the reality that I am someone's mother... which I still find mildy horrifying, if I'm honest." Isolt's tone is not unkind, in truth it never could have been when addressing her oldest friend, though her insistence reflects perfectly that objection would be quite unwise and utterly pointless. And so the vampire queen is thankful when her companion proceeds to the far more playful subject of their impending adventure, a perfectly-manicured brow pitching skyward with the ominous mention of a "mysterious bag of tricks". Given everything that Isolt knew of her violet-eyed companion and all that they had experienced together, the contents of said bag could literally have been just about anything.

The mention of Isolt and Damon's honeymoon, however, coaxes a tight and mischievous simper to pluck at the brims of her cherry lips. "Oh yes, there was plenty of that on our trip. And don't worry, I'll give you all the juicy details when we're on the road. My husband is an absolute god." The simper wilts though, shrinking as a handful of ash and dying upon the pouty cushions of her lips as Isolt catches the barest glimpse of wretched exhaustion within the eyes of her companion as she turns away. An exhaustion that still pressed its weight unto Isolt's shoulders despite the distance that she had driven between herself and her Maker. Risque's influence was boundless, an oppressive infection who's venom poisoned the resolves of even the most resolute of her victims. Isolt had come to the decision long ago that the most effective avenue to revolt against this malignancy was to experience all of the happiness that life held in its open and gracious hand despite the omnipresent threat of retaliation on the part of the wretched feline queen. Perhaps one day Harley would come upon this epiphany as well and find herself bolstered by its axiomatic truth. Until that day, however, Isolt would fortify her companion to the best of her not-unimpressive abilities... they had always done this for one another, each woman a pillar of stability and comfort in her own right.

"Absolutely," she affirms, housting one of Harley's bags as well as her own out into the building's dimmed and dusty corridor. A soft chuckle echoes down the length of the hall as the young women traipse the relatively short distance to Harley's waiting automobile. "I can't really blame him though, would you trust us with that car?" The pair make short work of packing the vehicle's trunk nearly to the brim with their accoutrement before slipping into the padded bucket seats. "What's with all the x's," Isolt quiries as she unfolds the map that, through a thousand separate caresses, had softened greatly about the edges, "are we going on a road trip or are we hunting for buried treasure?"