isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

A farcically exasperated simper creases Isolt's features, eyes sent rolling at the crassness of her counterpart, though both gestures echo the fondness that she had always felt for the spirited brunette and her uncanny ability to weave an innuendo. Harley, ever the lady. "I'm fairly sure that old men stick to their little blue pills for that sort of thing," she quips playfully, offering only a chortle at the mention of a 'virgin blood margarita'. Given all that vampires had done and, tragically, continued to do to her dear Harley throughout the woman's life it would have been decidedly ill-advised to make even casual mention of the fact that blood margaritas (and a veritable smorgasbord of other concoctions) actually were offered at several establishments about Sacrosanct which sought to cater to a more... specific pool of clientele. Though the telltale pangs of hunger had indeed begun to twist at her innards there would be no blood-anythings for Isolt this night if only in a meager attempt to appease the precarious acceptance that Harley surely harbored for her companion's sort.

Cerulean eyes roam over the caramel-skinned bouncer's muscular frame, though married and expecting Isolt was still very much taken by the allure of the finely built gentleman. She nibbles coyly at the plush cushion of her bottom lip as he eyes Harley's identification with a barely permissible sideways glance that could have only been described as obligatory. However, as he turns to Isolt his expression seems to harden into something closely related to a grimace of sorts, his alluring chocolate eyes flicking from her own eyes to the unmistakable swell of her belly and back again. He is warlock for certain, the metallic tinge of the silver married to the blood in his veins is without debate, and he has recognized her for what she is as surely as she has succeeded in categorizing him. Whatever thoughts he mulls over do not traverse the short distance to his lips, instead does he nod his head curtly towards the redheaded woman in an unmistakable (if not obviously disdainful) cue for her to proceed. She does so as swiftly as her advanced pregnancy and unorthodox attire allows, attempting with mild success to match Harley's paces through the narrow hallway and to the polished slab of the bar top.

At Harley's unspoken insistence Isolt places herself betwixt her precious friend and the gentleman with the otherworldly red skin, the unnerving heft of his yellow gaze having fallen in a most inexplicably ravenous manner upon the brunette at her side. It was not lust, but hunger. Even pregnant (and dressed like a fool) Isolt was still vampire, her strength still vastly paramount as to outmatch his... whatever he was. A cool sideways glance is but all she offers to him before turning towards her counterpart, the heavily-smudged menu sprawled out before them. "That's probably the point," she muses over Harley's shoulder. "You don't come to New Orleans to have the same old thing that you could have back home." She lifts her arm suddenly, succeeding quite nicely in capturing the attention of the barkeep who had, truly, already been eyeing the duo of women upon their arrival at his bar. "A Resurrection, please... for her, not me," she assures as the man's eyes inadvertently land on the all-too-telling swell of her belly. "And a... milkshake, for me," her eyes flick sidelong towards her companion. "Chocolate, please." The tips of fangs pucker into his bottom lips as a he smirks at the pair. They are impressively manufactured prosthetics. Harley's libation arrives first, an unearthly blue brew encapsulated in a glowing mug molded into a skull with a singular slice of jalapeno floating so innocently atop the collection of ice cubes. Turning towards her counterpart, Isolt's plump lips spread into a mischievous, toothy grin. "Bottoms up." Let the games begin.