isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

She glides through the gently pulsating congregation of guests, offering genuine (albeit markedly brief) attention to those who make their approach to offer their congratulations and well wishes... and to appease the wanton curiosity that crouched within each and every one of them at the thought of her now-blatantly obvious pregnancy. Isolt was hardly the fool, she had anticipated the nagging weight of their glances and the searing warmth upon her ears as phantom evidence of the whispers upon so many gossiping tongues. To say that her pregnancy was a 'curiosity' was a gargantuan conversational misstep, naught more than a gileless shout into the gaping abyss of the actual truth. A truth bred, quite literally, of circumstances far too unbearable to stand the woeful retelling.

What Isolt had failed to anticipate, however, was the trepidation that their glances birthed within her; trepidation that had begun to sour the immensity of her jubulation at the thought of impending motherhood. Trepidation that drove ever more wanton determination into the steps she takes to traverse the ornately-adorned garden, azure eyes sparkling in the etherreal fingers of light cast by the airborne lanterns as they seek out her dark-haired friend. Before she is able to locate Harley's current hideaway, however, Isolt is met with the welcome distraction of Nadya and her children. "Thank you so much for coming," she whispers into her companion's ear as she returns her warm embrace. "That makes two of us," she offers, smiling lovingly as she slowly crouches to coil her arms gently about each of the twins in turn, kissing one and then the other on the forehead before bidding the trio farewell.

It is purely by chance that, in turning away from the retreating figures of Nadya and her brood, Isolt's eyes should land upon the figure of her dearest childhood friend. A devious smile blooms against the otherwise angelic features of the fire-crowned woman's face as she saunters towards her lurking dark-haired companion, the subtle clicking of her heels swallowed wholly by the climbing octave of the crowd that swathes them. "Harlequin Ray," she blurts suddenly, knuckles resting staunchly upon the fabric at her hips, "you are so busted." A hearty chortle betrays the brittle facade of stern reprimand that glazes her words. "Well, if it were up to my husband we wouldn't have even had a reception... or a ceremony, for that matter," she offers with a wildly-exaggerated rolling of her cerulean eyes as she plucks a few napkins from a nearby display and hands them over to her lightly-frosted friend.

The featherlight jousting ebbs, though, with Harley's whispered sentiment. A rare glimpse into the gooey core of an otherwise devoutly pessimistic individual, Isolt having always been the half of the duo prone to wearing her proverbially beating heart upon her sleeve. And, though she knows full well that she may suffer the consequences of such an action, the redheaded bride pulls her companion into a warm embrace. "I love you," she whispers gently, expecting naught in the way of response... it was not Harley's custom. As she pulls away, however, the smile upon her lips wilts slightly about the edges in a measure surely only noted by Harley herself. "I feel like everyone is looking at me... and not because this is my wedding. I'm like a circus sideshow. I mean, I might as well have had a carnival barker out front charging admission to see the 'pregnant dead girl'!" In a move that is presumably automatic Isolt glides a hand over the pronounced swell of her belly as if in an attempt to adjust the fabric so that it might conceal what lay beneath. A fool's errand, indeed.