Isla
At this time of day Isla would normally be taking full advantage of her time off from the clinic, settled into her favourite chair with a book or lounging at the window in a pool of Torchline's glorious sunshine. Today, though, is different. Never mind the threatening rain or the skies clogged with clouds - never mind the list of menial chores she'd been intending to complete prior to any personal time either. No, today finds Isla in their ensuite bathroom, hands braced against the cool ceramic of the sink, eyes pinned to a small, innocuous rectangle; a test procured from Stormbreak, where that sort of casual magic is widely available.
Her fair hair has been left loose to cascade around her shoulders in soft waves, and in a rare drop of her Ancient glamour, the ribbon-like topaz of her horns threads through the curls as if nothing more than an accessory. It takes a few seconds after her name hits the air for Isla to realise Ever has called her, the medic blinking and abruptly straightening up, breath catching as if he's somehow snuck up on her. "...For seven?" she echoes, for no other reason than to buy herself some extra time, the spaded tip of her tail flicking rhythmically at her heels.
"Yeah, seven sounds good." Shaking her head as if to clear it, she inhales a deep, steady breath and lets it out again, before glancing once more at the test, fully expecting a confirmation that her feelings are little more than anxiety.
Instead, it's positive.
"Fuck," she blurts out before she can stop herself, loud enough for her voice to carry, and the wave of sudden nausea churning in her gut has nothing to do with what now stares her in the face from the bathroom counter.
Her fair hair has been left loose to cascade around her shoulders in soft waves, and in a rare drop of her Ancient glamour, the ribbon-like topaz of her horns threads through the curls as if nothing more than an accessory. It takes a few seconds after her name hits the air for Isla to realise Ever has called her, the medic blinking and abruptly straightening up, breath catching as if he's somehow snuck up on her. "...For seven?" she echoes, for no other reason than to buy herself some extra time, the spaded tip of her tail flicking rhythmically at her heels.
"Yeah, seven sounds good." Shaking her head as if to clear it, she inhales a deep, steady breath and lets it out again, before glancing once more at the test, fully expecting a confirmation that her feelings are little more than anxiety.
Instead, it's positive.
"Fuck," she blurts out before she can stop herself, loud enough for her voice to carry, and the wave of sudden nausea churning in her gut has nothing to do with what now stares her in the face from the bathroom counter.
sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything
and try forgetting everything
