isolt griffin

Something was amiss.

It was a ludicrous and presumably conspicuous notion that flickered against the taut screen of her thoughts, a silly thing in the most literal sense. In her profession, something was always amiss... something was always wrong, someone always ailing, some cataclysmic event forever lingering upon the horizon. However, the instability that lingered upon the cusp of Davante's eyes when he looked to her was a separate matter entirely, telling in no uncertain terms that something else was amiss. His eyes whispered, in their own way, of the cataclysmic event that lingered upon their horizon, its arrival as unyielding and certain as the rise of the sun on the morrow. He need not utter the words that follow, and truly they are lost near entirely to the whirring mechanism of Isolt's mind as it calculates an alternate avenue, her fire-crowned head motioning to Miss Isabeau who watches them as some mute sentry from one dust-clogged corner of the room.

The elder midwife is gloved and at Isolt's side with a swiftness that would not have been expected, but for her diligence the redhead is entirely grateful. Together do the two women go to work, performing their task in so harmonious a fashion that it might have been believed they had worked alongside one another forever. As the seconds slip through their fingers, however, so too is hope pilfered from them as sand from the topside of an hourglass. Despite the ferocity of their efforts the infant's chest remains still, Isolt herself struggling internally to grasp for stoicism when every fiber of her being screamed for panic that burbled just beneath the false placidity of the surface. Please, she begged, to whom was uncertain, her prayer merely a wish, a hope, cast into the endless abyss. The voices come to her then, the rumbling baritone of ire-stricken men permeating the self-made miasma of the young vampire's determination to vie for her attentions. She battles the pull of implication, the infant boy at her fingertips her only concern in the present moment, her desparation for his salvation a heart-wrending struggle in its own right.

And then, the soft thrum of a heartbeat flutters against the supple bulbs of her fingertips...

Followed by a tumultuous and strangled cry from the infant as Isolt swiftly and gently frees the tube from his throat. A commotion erupting from the main living area accents the joyous revelation, Isolt and Miss Isabeau exchanging knowing glances as the midwife wordlessly takes to cleaning the babe. Every bit the specter she is, Isolt glides from the back room, returning to the side of the screaming girl who calls to the nightwalker in a language she is helpless to understand. She can do naught but fix the woman a comforting gaze, motioning to the chamber from whence she had come where the soft mewling of her baby can be heard. A mewling that is lost to the ominous creak of the aged floorboards as they yield to the footfalls of heavy boots. Isolt spins only to find herself beneath the shrewd, nearly wild-eyed glare of man that is most certainly not Davante as he pauses, an unmovable presence, in the doorway. Renewed are the cries of the woman reclined behind Isolt, terror punctuating every strangled sob as the redhead moves to shield her from the veritable tower of a man. He snarls something toward her, the literal translation of his words lost entirely and yet, his meaning could not have been clearer as he motions for her retreat before lifting a scuffed rifle... its singular dark eye pointed directly at Isolt.