The Inn had been quiet, relatively speaking, most of the evening. The casual comings and goings of lovers and friends, the pompous bloating of chests as enemies tried to outdo each other with words, all were standard in the Red Dragon. And through it all sat a sour Scathachian, whiskey bottle being worked, as she scrutinized the benign theatrics of her favorite haunt. Though she had met with acquaintances, she had watched them go; she now remained at an empty table with her dearest friend: her drink.

Though the hour was not as late as it felt, a glance to the window foretold that she would be on her way soon. There was much work to be done. At the Sanctuary, Jenai was seeing to the Temple, but she deserved some help. And aiding Trixie in tailing Brian's Mithra was proving to be tricky and tiring business. This drew her thoughts to her weapons, if she were to consider herself truly prepared, they would have to be sharpened.

And then, as if on cue, Jodiah Ayreg began his descent on the stairs. Isuelt drew a slow, deep breath. She couldn't say she enjoyed the man's company, for that was hardly the case. She couldn't say she loathed him, she didn't know him that well yet. In fact, there were really only a few things she did know about him: his name and his profession.

Isuelt's dark eyes followed the death knight to his usual table where he took up his pipe and commenced contributing to the already smokey atmosphere of the common room. She considered her options, and decided on her course of action.

After she had finished the contents of her glass, she rose and made her way to the dim corner Jodiah was so fond of. Her steps were slow, deliberate and measured; she might have had an agenda.

Through the gray haze, he viewed the black-clad Scathachian approaching the table, and Jodiah simply nodded at her arrival.

"You work with weapons, do you not?" came the even tone of the Judge.

"I do," a proscribed nod from Ayreg.

"Sharpening?" though she already knew the answer.

Another nod. Jodiah was not one of those fools who cluttered a conversation with banal speech.

Drawing one of the blades at her hips, she laid it gently upon the table. "Then I would request your services, please."

Jodiah's eyes dropped from the woman to the weapon set before him. He could not help but appreciate the uncomplicated design and effortless grace of the blade. And as he plucked it from the wooden surface, his hands witnessed the expertly balanced pull of the Scathachian heirloom. A finger lightly ran down the length of the blade, though not foolish enough to sever his own digit, he tested the present edge of her weapon. Its touch produced only a thin slice, superficial at best.

"Both of them," Isuelt was no champion of small-talk either, it would seem.

Lifting his gaze to meet hers, her nodded. "Yes, I could have these restored to the perfection they deserve."

"How soon would they be ready?"

"Tomorrow if you needed them, I would think."

She nodded, "And the price?"

There could have been a hint of a smile on his lips, but through the haze, it was difficult to tell. Jodiah studied the woman at his table for a moment before he continued. "For most who would ask, I would charge several silvers, perhaps even more." He waited for her to nod in acknowledgement of price before he pressed onward, "But for you, Isuelt, the price will be different."

Two sentiments welled within the Scathachian: uncertainty and pride, and odd coupling for all but this woman. She arched a brow, "Oh?"

"For you, my payment will be the pleasure of spar...with you."

It was now Isuelt's turn to study this death knight, this cantankerous man who haunted the Inn. After sorting her thoughts on the matter, she conceded. "Agreed. When?"

"Well, you wished for your blades to be ready tomorrow, and they will be."

"Tomorrow morning, then," she unsheathed her second blade and placed it on the table along side its mate, where Jodiah had left it.

"Yes, tomorrow morning," the unwavering glare of his eyes was almost more than she could bear...almost.

With a slow nod, the Scathachian left her signature weapons behind and departed the Red Dragon for the Sanctuary. Tomorrow morning would most likely come early, indeed.

Isuelt had risen early and dressed fairly quickly, she had mounted her mare and was past the gates of the Sanctuary before the others awoke, let alone question her. She rode down the incline and into the West End and on to the Dragon's Breath Forge. As she dismounted, the jar from her boots slamming onto the ground was just what she needed to finish the job of rousing her wits and body. She saw a modest smoke rising from the forge, but then caught sight of a separate trail of gray.

The tall Scathachian turned to her left and made her way as she honed in on a familiar veil of acrid smoke. She felt herself wake and slide into a rhythm, the rhythm she ached for. Her blood began to pulse in a sheerly different manner than when she was riding. Her limbs tingled in anticipation of use, and her mind sharpened itself to a razor's edge. She loved pushing to the edge of the cliff...it was where she felt most comfortable, most at home. The lip of battle was where she longed to be, and Jodiah would afford her this luxurious wish.

She watched the phantom smile stretch his lips, she regarded his face then, lined as it was. Her mind was of two schools on Jodiah Aryeg. He was not quite two decades her senior, and he looked it. Still, the Scathachian's gift of observation did not fail her. She could read experience etched into every line about his eyes and mouth, he would prove to be a challenge by each right of the word.

Her boots stilled as she neared him, her dark eyes finding her weapons. The sight of them, restored to perfection, was enough to make her jaded heart flutter. Isuelt leveled her gaze back to the man responsible. "Good morning, Jodiah," it rolled off her tongue as easily as if she had met him in a corner bakery. The tall woman let a smile of her own curl her lips.

"Good morning, Isuelt." He eyed her momentarily before rising. Pipe was set aside to smolder, and her weapons were taken up. He tucked one beneath his arm, and held the other in his hands. A few steps made forward toward her, and he was presenting the first to her, hands extended out, but the hand holding the hand guard was considerably more forward than the one delicate perched beneath the business-end. "For your inspection and approval. I pride myself on a job well done, Isuelt, and I think you will not be disappointed."

"I'm sure I will not be disappointed," as her eyes followed not so much the man as the weapons. Reaching out, she took one blade first and stepped back. She lofted the point skyward, hilt close to her heart, then turned to her side and held the blade outward. The edge was superior, indeed, intensified to a razor's envy. She gripped the hilt tightly, letting the feel of it reacquaint with her gloved hand. A few strong thrusts and rounded arcs proved that he had taken a great measure of pride in his work. Looking to Jodiah, he then offered the second blade. She drilled it through the same short ritual-like inspection. Isuelt was satisfied, and as if heeding her sentiment, the sun broke momentarily free from the cloud that imprisoned it. "Thank you, your work is second to none," she now shifted her attention to the man before her.

He bowed his head quickly. It was a passing thing; a ritual to be observed, and the one doing it had a desire for other activities. He leaned up, again, nodding grimly. "It pleases me that you are satisfied, as a craftsman is always pleased when his work is appreciated." His shoulders shifted a bit, stretching his neck out then. "I can also tell you are... readied. You move with grace, Isuelt -- it is a grace that another who dances can recognize." Somehow, she got the feeling he wasn't talking about ballroom dancing. "It is good you have come ready. But not here. Rhy'Din City is not so far gone as to allow open bloodshed on the streets, just yet."

The alleys, perhaps, yes. But not the streets.

It was as if the smile that enlived her expression was bound to her first genuine emotion of the day. She knew exactly what his reference was, and appreciated it; the way one would appreciate pairing with a partner of equal talent. The auburn-haired woman conceded a nod, a move elsewhere would be more conducive. Her pulse now raced with anticipation, she did not look upon a match with Jodiah Ayreg as a sentence, but as an opportunity. Her hands on both blades, she glanced down to them. Her lips moved in near silence as she regarded them; a Scathachian's ritual blessing was bestowed over her weapons. Scathach, herself, had wielded double blades such as these...or so the legend went. And before any weapon was used in her name, be it for spar or for skirmish, they must be offered up for the goddess's blessing. She completed her words, they were so familiar to her, and Isuelt glanced to Jodiah once more. "The nearest alley, it is."

"No alley for us, Isuelt. I would not think of meeting you in blood sport over filthy cobbles and slimy bags of trash. Come." He turned and moved away. Her weapons had been on his right from the barrel he sat him. On his left was his own weapon, simple and not very inspiring save only the skull-etched pommel and the strange glyphs and icons carved into the blade. His own sword was lifted and slid down into a loop made into his belt. With a glance behind him, over his shoulder, to her... he walked across the street toward what looked to be a small warehouse. He pulled open the large sliding door with a horrible grinding noise, and light flickered inside over a dirt floor. "Belongs to the Dragon's Breath," he explained as she followed, "but it's never in use, so I took it for myself. Maybe it'll burn me, eventually, but this is far better than, say, an alleyway."

Her boot-falls turned lame on the soft ground before the warehouse. Normally, she would have offered a snide remark about chivalry, but she was in no mood for pub-like banter. She could nearly feel the blades heating her sides as they swayed against her. She stepped into the empty "arena" before them and turned, looking about. He was right, it was far better than an alleyway. Secretly she wondered what other blood shedding events had occurred here. It seemed perfect for ....trying out any manner of weapons. Isuelt pulled herself to her full height as a reachless stretch loosened her muscles. Drawing a breath, she exhaled and finished her rotation to look up on the face of her partner for the time being. "The luxury you offer me is taken gratefully," she looked him over and perhaps even smiled.

Jodiah was correct, her body was cased in nothing more than her black leathers, devoid of any forged protection. She had always felt it would slow her down, and this morning, she had the feeling that she would need her speed as well as her stamina.

Looking at him now, her gaze poured over Jodiah's form. She more than a few hints of as yet unrevealed scars; she mused to herself that she might be bested in the game of "Warrior's Road Map." Her scars were primarily concealed for the moment. She reached to her throat and pulled at the fastening of her cloak, settling it onto the ground off to the side.

Her deltoids stretched and contracted as she drew both blades into position, an "X" before her face. Those dark eyes were trained on Jodiah, and she let her body settle. She could feel the rush in her blood, could hear the pounding in her ears, could nearly smell the ache in her limbs. God, she loved this...

Warsword lifted, prepared, and his gaze locked on the Scathachian. He loved this, as well, but he did not burn as she did. Passion gave strength, but unrestrained passion made one sloppy, and open. Not to say hers was unrestrained, of course, but he kept his own feelings under a tight grip.

He did grin, though. It came nowhere near to touching his eyes.
"Let us dance, you and I."

And with that, he launched himself forward at her with the ferocity the death knight might have been known for on the rare occasions when one did see him fight. Aggression was the way of this warrior; a mighty offensive attacker. Runeblade cut high, as if attempting to remove her skull from her shoulders in the first seconds.

The Judge's crossed blades were maneuvered immediately to a parallel standing, and the two made one stood their ground as his blow came crashing down. Her body sank back against his force as the weapons protected their mistress once more.

Steel on steel erupted with the faintest of bluish sparks. Nihilian glyphs shimmering along the length of his weapon, he pressed forward against the clutch in an attempt to push her off her balance. He was rewarded by her standing firm -- his grin slipped to a smile, and while it might have been a lesser expression, it did actually touch his eyes this time.

A booted foot planted itself behind her, to lend support for her own first movement. Sliding one blade from the defensive position, she let it lead her body. Isuelt turned only a trivial amount, yet it afforded her the freedom she needed to let an arced swing of the right blade lose. Her own passion now streamlined into the dance they had begun.

There wasn't much time before she turned and dropped her weapon low into an arcing swing. Ayreg stepped into the wide curve of her sword arm, then, risking the loss of pressure on her defensive blade to get in and make another attack.

An elbow snapped up and back, toward her too-strong jaw.

Her head snapped back, her chin jabbed by his elbow. The Scathachian turned a staggering step back into two recuperating paces. It was not enough to make her see stars, but it was definitely a jolt to her system. The leather of her corset creaked lightly as she breathed hard, her body starting to circle him. Still, she didn't get but three steps in before her expression (and her opinion of him) softened.

Those wide dark eyes which only a fraction of a moment ago had reveled in shock, now sparkled darkly with a genuine smile. There was a rush of euphoria into her visage. Jodiah hadn't spoken falsely when he said he would pull no punches. And that, to Isuelt, was like unleashing the rapture. The pause of action took only a heartbeat or two. A boot was planted as she spun tightly, her weapons reaching out to slice at his blade, to engage it and leave one side of his body open for a hit from her other sword.

Jodiah Ayreg backed away. Part of knowing the ways of combat well was not in just trying to master the forms of the blade, or to have a proper weapon and armor. It was also not just having an eye for what another is doing, able to read the opponent. Part of battle was always in the withdrawal; the disengage, the strategic retreat. He didn't spend any time on his own wound, but he also spent no time admiring her as she took the cut with hardly even a grunt. It was shallow, true -- she almost got away from it entirely, then he'd have just been up a creek without a paddle, so to speak -- but this dangerous and fully-grown woman was now moving at him with those spiraling, twisting, turning, swinging blades. Two had a distinct advantage over one, so long as the wielder of the two could handle it. Isuelt, Jodiah grinned in the thinking, could most certainly handle it.

As he backed away several more steps toward the center of the room, his foot kicked forward suddenly, sending a blast of dirt from the floor toward her.

It was an odd time to be thinking of former lovers, but Isuelt's mind (as it did on so many previous occasions) would do as it pleased. Scorpion Wraitharan was a cold and calculating "business man" who always got what he wanted, including the Scathachian wildcat. But what shocked her memory back to her estranged lover was the way he would always play dirty. When they first met, he had engaged her temper and had been flung to the ground, only to throw up a handful of dirt into her face.

From then on, she always knew that to beat him, was to override his individual sense of "honor." And as Isuelt closed her eyes to the stinging barrage of dirt swept up from the ground by Jodiah, she managed to draw her focus about her. Gloved fingers renewed their grip on her weapons and she stepped forward for one lunging spin before she would eventually have to back away.

Some might consider the act of using a blinding agent -- such as kicked-up dirt or thrown water -- to be a dishonorable move, but the death knight knew that those who said that were those that might never taste true battle. Weakening an opponent's weapons or armor under the cover of night might be shrewd, but it was dishonorable. Attacking one person with more than one in what is supposed to have been a duel was dishonorable. Attacking one person with more than two on an open battlefield netted no honor, in itself. Dirt, water, sand; these things were weapons every bit as much as the swords in their hands were. Isuelt's blind attack netted her only the whiff of open air as she struck forward. Things were soon to change directions, though -- literally, and figuratively -- as he came from the flank. A fist was gripped into her hair and she could feel his body moving past hers before it jerked her back. He didn't attempt to attack her, though, strangely enough -- open as she was. As she was pulled back to stumble blindly (wipe the face, open the eyes; all will be better) over the dirt floor, his booted foot rose and kicked the flat inside edge against her leathered bottom, helping her on her way.

The leather over Isuelt's knees softened the collision with the ground first, her knuckles would be second. With her dark lashes blinking furiously and beginning to make headway, she knew she was on her knees on the ground. No Scathachian High Priestess would have ever stopped the spar on the Island, so she did not expect any momentary pause in action here in this warehouse. Her ears signaled that Jodiah was close to her. "At least within kicking distance," she told herself bitterly.

He was a little close, true, as he approached her. Why give the Scathachian time to regroup, after all? Would a true foe give her such a moment of respite? Or would they simply go for the killing blow, or to make her a captive? Jodiah Ayreg believed in the altruism of realism at almost all else -- wounds can be stitched, for instance, and the dead mourned, but lessons must be taught fully and wholly and completely. To do less is an injustice.

Isuelt knew that they were even in height, she also knew that her prowess as a Scathachian warrior came not only in her mastery of weapons, but in the mastery over herself. Grapplers, they could be, when warranted; and certainly Isuelt was no stranger to using her own body as a weapon. She turned her head to the side, her tanned chin coming just even with her shoulder. His blurry silhouette was where she thought it would be, she wasted not another instant before she braced her weight on her knuckles and kicked back at him with the fury of a woman scorned.

As he stepped forward, she reared up onto her fists at last and launched her heavy booted foot at him. He spun quickly on his heel, attempting to avoid a terrible fate at the hands or, foot -- as the case may be, of the Scathachian female. A twinge of pain erupted in his hip, like a series of lightning bolts tearing his flesh to ribbons. He didn't bleed, of course, since it was only a kick, but she did manage to strike a pretty tender spot. A nerve or a pressure point or something of that nature, perhaps. Her true target was denied her, though; Ayreg did not live to be as old as he was by not being quick to defend against an attack there. He wondered, briefly, what it was about Rhy'Din women that made them want to seek out that particular place to strike. Maria has tried it twice. Even Amthyst, when they fought a friendly spar together.

Hm.

Go with what works, one might guess.

It was his turn to stumble away this time, gripping his leg and groan/hissing through a grill of clinched teeth. A series of obscenities seemed to flow, too. Good thing Isuelt was, indeed, a grown woman instead of a little girl. The Rhy'Din Justice Department might charge Ayreg with contributing to the delinquency of a minor as a result of those words.

The golden vocabulary dripping from his lips was like music to her ears. His brief retreat allowed her the time to pivot and turn to him, and though still crouched close to the ground, she felt an inch taller. Grateful for the tears that now flowed from her dark eyes (that would be a switch), her lashes labored to clear the debris from her vision. Though she was almost sure that she would not have crystal clear sight until she had washed her face.

Isuelt's breath came more rapidly now than it had at the onset of their play, and she began to feel the sharp sting at her side. Lifting herself to her full height, all the while keeping an eye on her opponent, only succeeded in seducing a few more crackles of pain from her waist. Still, when the moment came, her parted lips produced something of a grin for the death knight.

"Jodiah? You did a damned fine job with these swords. And a damned fine payment plan, too."