isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

The redheaded vampire fixes her companion with a grin that was wholly and unapologetically impish, bleeding mischief with the fluidity of spilled ink into every line drawn against the suppleness of her cheeks. "No no... I promise you that nothing has gone downhill. It's just that maternity clothes have invaded my entire wardrobe, but my scrubs are sacred. I refuse to wear maternity scrubs. I don't need a sexy outfit to entice my husband," she offers the assurance with an exaggerated wink in the direction of the dark-haired woman and a playful shimmying of her shoulders. It was not a lie, but perhaps instead was it the greatest of understatements given that all it seemed was required of Isolt in order to seduce her husband was to do little more than saunter into whatever room he might find himself in. The batting of curled lashes, the tender pinch of her teeth against the plump, inviting cushion of her bottom lip was all it took to draw him to her. She wondered oft times if Damon even noticed what outfit clung to the pleasant slopes of her curves.

Isolt's grimace only deepens with the piquing of her companion's interest; only then does the redheaded woman come to fully realize the err of the words she had proffered up so carelessly. "Nothing," she quips desparately though she is under no false impression that the damage, such as it was, had already been done. And it had been done of her own foolish hand. "Harley, don't..." she whispers in an almost admonishing hiss as the dark-haired woman plucks the wretched bovine costume from betwixt her fingers and careens into what is no less than a mad dash for the brightly-lit halo of the cashier's desk. "Harley!" It is for naught, though, and Isolt knows this perhaps as much as her companion does, the devious minx having successfully accomplished the transaction before her heavily-pregnant friend could waddle her way to the counter. Impending motherhood had altered a vast number of things, not least of them Isolt's ability to make it anywhere quickly despite the speed that had been gifted to her by immortality.

"Even though I'm sure it would horrify anyone unlucky enough to witness it, I think I would rather streak than wear that thing. And I swear to god if you try to take a picture of me in it I'll use my pregnant vampire lady-rage to crush your phone with my bare hand," she threatens as the pair make their way to the waiting vehicle, though jest creeps unto her features in the curl of a impish grin.


"Haunted?" she queries, a perfectly-manicured brow pitching in the direction of her dearest friend. "I don't think anything could frighten me as much as that motel we stayed at yesterday. Seriously, it was like half motel, half real-life crime scene renactment." A hearty giggle worked its way from within her then as she nudged her companion playfully. "Besides, did we really visit New Orleans if we don't see a ghost or three?"

The swamp-moistened heat and the sound of spirited jazz music welcome the pair of women into the vibrant and beating heart of the French Quarter, a whole universe contained entirely in so small a portion of the city itself. Everything about it called to her, beckoned with curled finger to the etherreal spirit of her supernatural self, and coaxed to life the excessively carefree portion of her that seemed only possible whenever she found herself in Harley's presence. It was almost as if they were teenagers again, cruising about in one of their parents' "borrowed" automobiles, laughing hysterically and flinging themselves wholly and completely into the opened and welcoming arms of whatever capers lay ahead.