"C'mon, c'mon...move it, move! Watch your right! Your right!" the vandal's voice gruffly barked instructions to his counterpart, it would appear that this was the leader, the visionary, the man with the bright idea to knock off Old Lady Spencer's tea shop.

A rash of robberies (blatant and in broad daylight, no less) had been sweeping the fringes of Market Row, specifically the edge of the area that butted up against the WestEnd. The criminals never really took much, but then again, a single silver was too much if it meant that someone's hard-earned money was taken from them. The robberies were so alike in methodology that it didn't take a genius to figure out that the same ingrates were responsible for each of them. String enough small robberies together, and one could take home quite a sizable kitty; with no huge amount of attention being shined over that way. Still, the Scathachians were hungry to make a dent in the city again; they were salivating for retribution, and those crime-soaked citizens were seemingly only too happy to oblige. After the meeting held at the Ravenlock Compound, the Scathachians and their allies were more eager than ever to clean up the WestEnd. Gone was the second-guessing of force (no matter how violent) when it came to putting criminals were they belonged, and eliminated were the skittish apprehensions of those who were suspected offenders. Isuelt, in particular, was ready to shed the skin she had waxed on during her short and unjust incarceration. And it was Isuelt who was watching the pair of petty thieves make a break from Old Lady Spencer's tea shop further into the WestEnd.

After the war council meeting at the Ravenlock compound, the teams had been assigned and each of those present had been given the go ahead to put the hurt on the criminals (big and small) of RhyDin. Isuelt had naturally been coupled with Scorpion as well as Delphinea, Big Reeni and Mirage. However, on this night, she broke from the group for some "fresh air." And though they were only a block to the south of her, Isuelt felt that wash of freedom and independence pour over her. It was like the old days in Metro when she was out on assignment. Perhaps that was why Scorp had argued on her side when Phin and Serena had balked at Isuelt's suggestion of going off alone. He knew how good she was, especially when she was on her own.

Perched on a rooftop overlooking the rim of property that split WestEnd from the rest of RhyDin, Isuelt smiled. These two ingrates were just what she had been waiting for; what she had been thirsting for. She could almost feel the two men gasping in her strong bare hands, feel the pulse bang out its panicked rhythm deep within their throats as the powerful Scathachian began to put the squeeze on.

"God damn, I thought that wrinkled wench was going to sh*t when she saw your f*cking bolt aimed at her turkey throat!" the first one laughed as their steps slowed.

"Yeah, the bitch would have been better off if I'd killed her and not just knocked her block off. Put her out of her f*ckin' misery, wrinkly old c*nt," the second one joshed back to his comrade as the two thieves turned into the blind alley that led behind a dingy little eatery and onward to the docks.

"Like spearing fish in a barrel," Isuelt smirked to herself. She began to descend silently as the duo paused to catch their breath, not knowing that those would be the last few breaths they'd take for a while.

With his partner slumbering in a bloody corner, Isuelt's present captive dumbly struggled against her. He couldn't understand why he was cemented to a woman who, to the best of his knowledge, was shorter than he was. Her arms had somehow entwined themselves under his arms and around to the back of his head; he was impotently pinned.

And again her mocking tone hit his ear, "I'm sick and tired of this sh*t hitting the WestEnd. You're going to be the first of my examples. This city will no longer put up with the likes of you!" A sickening crack grated on his ears as a searing pain rocked his body, the burning sensation started in the middle of his back and radiated outward until his limbs were tinkling, quivering. He dropped to the shallow, wet sludge of the narrow alleyway, his knees taking the brunt of the force. For an instant while he recovered feeling in his feet and hands, he could only hear his own ragged breathing and slow, methodical boot falls. He thought they were his until he remembered that he was nearly slumped upon the cold ground. His nose was running, he could feel the contrast of temperature on his upper lip. His gray eyes slowly lifted as his ears told him that the boot falls were rounding in front of him; he took in the figure before him, from the ground up. Black boots to the knee, leather wraps keeping them secure....thighs hugged in black leather to the waist....that dreaded crimson sash beneath the glints of polished steel....the curves of her torso encircled by a second skin of black leather....a flash of red with the cut garnet at the hollow of her throat....dark hair slithering over her shoulders....leading to a face of angled cheekbones and dark eyes. Shadowed in its expression, though it couldn't be denied, she peered at him and he had the uncanny sensation that vengeance was looking down upon him.

"Please...," he was gasping and out of breath, though the pain from her knee in his back had subsided. "Please...I...I am sorry," his hand lifted in defense before him as he stammered, "Please...don't kill me."

"Kill you?" she smirked. This was a woman who enjoyed her work thoroughly, "Killing you is the furthest thing from my mind. I have other things in store for you, little man. I have far worse things in store for you."

The screach of duct tape being yanked off of its roll and ripped asunder made its debut, Isuelt made short work of taping the man's wrists together behind his back. She knew that eventually the authorities would be forced to pull off the silvery binds, most probably taking hair. The thought made her smile, such was the sadistic mood she was in today. Rounding back in front of him, she lifted a boot and more pushed than kicked against his chest, sending him backwards akwardly as he tried to compensate for his lack of balance. A muddy boot print proudly displayed itself front and center on his chest. "Now, let's talk about your crime," the Scathachian leaned down and retrieved the sack of money near the still passed out partner. Jingling the back, she tested its weight, "A bit of a sum you two ended up with here. So, let's see...maybe a punch for each silver" A lashing for each five? No, wait. I've a better idea."

The Scathachian grinned upon seeing his reaction, and quickly wiggled her long toes." Only a little taste, for now. More would be coming later. Isuelt removed her foot (or her toes, more exactly. Fitting her entire bare foot within the man's mouth would be a near impossibility) from his lips, which couldn't help but pucker from the residual taste. She knew it was a knee-jerk reaction from the briny sweat, but still she laughed as it looked as if his lips pursed to kiss the filthy toes of the Scathachian.

Placed in a positive mood now, she planted the ball of her muscular foot over his mouth, letting her dexterous toes gently dangle over his nose." Letting in air, of course, but no air that would be pleasantly favored. Isuelt shifted her weight on top of him, letting her other foot drag along the alley's floor." It would be put into action soon enough. Her "big gun", as Scorp always called it, spread apart from her second toe." She effectively trapped the thief's nose between her big toe and its neighbor, before snapping shut.? It was a time-honored Scathachian tradition: asphyxiation by feet.

He would be gagging and gasping for air in no time. That was when the Judge would continue to the next step. But until then, she had a bit of conversation to pick up on. "Law number two: Thou shall respect their elders. I heard you and your buddy talking about how this money came from Old Lady Spencer. Shame on you for taking advantage of a poor old woman." And just as the hue of his skin was shifting from pink to red to purple around his bulging eyes, Isuelt let up her foot, giving him the brief freedom to breathe.

Isuelt's dark eyes were locked on him, narrowed and all business. The simple art of breathing was again about to be compromised. One holy gasp was all he was allowed before her foot again clamped down on his lips. This time not to suck on but to shut off; his nose now was the only means of airway. Pity that airway was about to be polluted by the unwashed pungent digits and what lay in between them.

She spread wide her tanned toes and aired them out before the handsome, sandy-haired criminal. The astringent scent scraped along his nostrils; he had no choice. His body bucked like a wild bull, he longed to escape. He was more sorry now for his petty crime than he would have ever imagined. Isuelt's face and her voice were swimming in his head, along with her two 'laws' and the acid scent burning at the back of his eyes. He saw her image blurred by tears, her smile quiver as his watery eyes betrayed his suffering.

He could barely hear her whiskey-stained voice as it hummed once more in the secluded alley, "Law number three: thou shall not boast. Bragging about conquests and crimes will always, always catch the attention of a Scathachian. Never forget that." Never forget that' He was barely sure his mind would even marginally recover from the sensory overload that was hitting him now. One thing was for certain, however, as the heady aroma of her feet toyed with his mind he felt himself falling listlessly in space. He had the sensation of being lulled to sleep by a mother's loving arms; the overpowering white-hot perfume of the gypsy's feet were claiming another victim.

As he tumbled toward unconsciousness, he could hear her far-away voice crooning on, "You've been a very bad boy, I hope you've learned your lesson." And almost in spite of himself, before he slipped away into deep sleep, his tongue batted out against the dirty sole of her bare foot. It was his only attempt at an answer, his last bit of strength put forward to proclaim, "I give up."