isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

If the coy tingling of the clandestine supernatural miasma existed as a spark in the daytime, then under cover of night it was pure and all-consuming fire. The ethereal heat of a it chased a spine-rattling chill from Isolt's painted toes all the way to the crimson follicles upon her head, so much akin to slipping into the warm embrace of a freshly-drawn bath. It was the return of all of the sensations that had forever been stolen from her by the spindly fingers of death... it was drunkeness, it was the warmth inherent in the mortal coil. It was something she had been without for many years now and had, until this night, feared was something that would evade her for whatever sprawling eternity lay ahead.

But not in this city, here it lay within her hands as easily and as naturally as she might have held a drink, there to draw from whenever she might entertain the whim to do so. Even the ridiculousness of her garment (if it could even be referred to as such) did not serve to pilfer away any of the potency of New Orleans' omnipotent wares. Though she would hardly allow her companion the satisfaction that would surely come should she admit such a heinous thing aloud. "A cow and a dinosaur walk into a cemetery ... sounds like the beginning of a cheesy joke," she giggles, finding amusement in even the conjured mental image of the two of them flouncing about in a place as somber as one of New Orleans' many cemeteries. The simper fades somewhat upon her lips, though, with the mention of Harley being "long gone"... an axiomatic truth, but one that Isolt had long ago sanctioned to the far-off abyss of the unthinkable. "We can both tell her because you're not going anywhere anytime soon. And I'm down as long as we can go to Marie Laveau's tombstone. We will have to be sneaky, but I want to make a wish... for the baby." The redheaded woman seems almost sheepish in her statement, apprehensive perhaps that this desire might coax some measure of ridicule, however minute, from her companion. However, it was a desire that had lingered on the periphery of her consciousness ever since they had decided to venture to New Orleans. The pregnancy itself was an unthinkable miracle, and she would have offered anything to have the good fortune continue.

"I don't know that any city is ready for all that," she retorts, somehow succeeding in offering the statement past the veritable gales of laughter that threatened deep within her swollen belly. "Are you kidding, I look absolutely re-DICK-ulous!" It was then that the laughter finally overtook her, the movement causing the gaudy plastic protrusions to shake in a manner that was both disturbing and, of course, deeply hilarious.

Unbeknownst to the youthful vampire, the true hilarity would come as they waltzed down Bourbon Street in their garb, attracting the curiosity of a number of bystanders and fellow tourists, several of whom requested photographs with the pair. A request that Harley seemed all too willing to entertain, Isolt instead ensuring that the "hood" of her outfit was pulled down to conceal her face as much as was possible. Her very deepest fear was the notion that photographic evidence of this fashion folly was now in existence. "My god, I wish I was capable of getting drunk," she whispered covertly, perhaps to herself. The azure of her eyes traversed a line from Harley's extended hand towards a notably otherworldly bar front: Spirits on Bourbon. "Ooh yes, you have to have a Resurrection for me. I hear they are absolute bliss! Maybe I'll get a contact buzz," she quips jovially. "Lead the way!"