It had taken a few days, but she finally arrived at the agricultural farm of Perceval Tucker. Isuelt had inquired with four separate patrons at the Red Dragon, as well as two employees of the forge in the Marketplace, and had subsequently achieved the location of the retired warrior's land outside of the city among the Southern Provinces. Perceval's lands were impressive: the soil was lush and dark, birthing a surprising abundance of crops, even at this late state of the year. There was a gentle fragrance in the cool air that reminded Isuelt of her village; it was sweet with the green life of freshly cut hay and the blossoming winter fruit. The Scathachian paused and surveyed the property. It was finely maintained as far as the eye could see; as well as a well-built structure in the near distance, with smoke was rising from the chimney.

For a moment, Isuelt was sorry she had come.

This place was so serene, so quietly fulfilling, that she hated having to ask Perceval what she had aimed to ask him. Why would he want to leave this" Why would he want to be thrown once more into the bloody ring of war" Her crimson clad shoulders slumped slightly, the muscled frame of the Judge was still visible beneath the drape of her cloak. Feeling like a cruel wind out to shake the last clinging bud from the resolute branch determined to hang on to it, Isuelt sighed and started down the dirt and gravel road toward the house.

It was difficult to mistake Perceval, at 6'8" he was a broad-shouldered beacon. He was not in the house, as Isuelt had expected him to be, but just outside of it. While she couldn't exactly tell what he was doing, she suspected it was a chore of some sort, judging from the pristine manner of the lands. Her husky voice seemed to rent the placid air, "Mister Tucker?" The sound of her voice in this tranquil locale even startled her a bit, her tone quieted to balance on the breeze, "Perceval" It's Isuelt." Though her long legs could have crossed the distance between them, she lingered where she was. Half expecting and half wanting him to turn around and tell her to get off of his land, she imagined how she was going to solicit her summons. Her long espresso locks brushed over her shoulders as a hawkish breeze took hold of them. The Scathachian warrior stood her ground quietly, like a sentinel, and waited for his response.

She didn't want to start with an honest answer to that question. She wanted to say We missed your company or I have come for a friendly visit. The last thing she wanted to do was to pluck him away from the peace and quiet that every warrior deserves, what she herself longed for. And perhaps that was the reason for her marked pause: she was jealous. Isuelt was not a fool, she knew that a quiet existence of hearth and home was not for her.

Although, here it was. Perceval had achieved it.

Perhaps there was hope for her, after all. That is, if she lived through this latest incursion. And that was, truly, why she was here. In her fellowship with Perceval Tucker, she had found a kindred spirit not only in their line of work, but in their way of looking at it. Warfare was a means to an end. Following orders was simply part of the job. Thinking became an enemy; it was easier to do one's job if it wasn't pondered too long.

Truth be told, she admired Perceval. He had served his time, done his duty, and still had the skill and fortune to get past it. He had found that little plot of peace that she so desired. Isuelt prayed that one day, she would have the luxury of worrying about the spring floods or a hole in a thatched roof or tending to a pot of stew over the hearth.

And now, she had come to pry Perceval away from this. She was ashamed.

Her lips parted for a brief moment before the clamped shut over her tongue. A lick of her lips and she endeavored once more, "Perceval..." Her throat had gone dry. "You have outdone yourself here." The Scathachian was stalling. "Something to be proud of, I'm sure," her deep chocolate eyes glossed over the lands that surrounded the two of them. She knew that Perceval wouldn't go in for the sort of time wasting she was doing. The waves of deep brown hair collected past her shoulders as the breeze calmed, she turned back to him and closed the distance. The warriors stood facing each other, Isuelt raised her chin. Perceval was like her, she knew that. He appreciated the direct approach.

"I need your help." An exhale flooded past her tongue, and it was only just then that she realized how she had been practically holding her breath. Her lips curled in disgust at the words, but still they needed to be said. He could accept, he could decline, he could tell her to go hell. But whatever followed, she at least had been honest. "I need your expertise, your mind for military tactics," Isuelt's voice stilled. As she began again, she offered, in no uncertain terms, the complete reason for her arrival, "Perceval, I need you. Please."

His words scathed her skin like pin pricks. He was right, after all. Perhaps that is what pierced her thickened hide so efficiently: what Perceval was saying resonated with Isuelt's deepest fears and expert self-deprecation. But she wasn't yet ready to give up or give in. On Perceval, on the city, on herself.

The swish of fabric was an indication of her movement as her cloak swept across her thighs; long legs moved the priestess's body into position back in front of Perceval. Her expression was unflinching and valiant, though her unseen spirit was beginning to crumble. Her courageous voice pushed past its usual indifferent rasp, "The world never needs heroes. The world never knows what it needs; if it did, we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place." She measured his immediate response. He seemed to be letting her say her piece. With a smooth inhale, she opted to continue, before he changed his mind and kicked her off of the property outright, "A hero is someone who gives of themselves without asking for anything in return. They put themselves out there, they sacrifice for those who have no idea. I know you are a hero, Perceval, and I know what you've done. I can imagine it, at least. And I'm guessing that it is nothing that I haven't done myself. And I understand your exile. Believe me. I know you're not proud of yourself or your past, my own self pride is non-existent. I wear my mask well, or drown it in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. But the fact is, the people of that city," her own leather encased finger pointed toward the distant peaks of Rhydin, "They need people like us, whether they know it or not. Not the sort of heroes that wear the title and little else, but the sort that do their duty and ask for no notice. It is the job that we do, that makes them completely oblivious to us. If we do our job, they have no idea what lurks for them. And it is the mark of a hero to continue, no matter what. No matter of the past, a hero always looks to the future and what black clouds lie on the horizon to be obliterated for the common good. It is a tireless job, and we know this."

The tall soldier began to turn away from the Scathachian, she needed to get through to him. Her body moved to insert itself once more into his line of sight, her strong hand grabbed at his arm to make sure she was heard. "What would you have us do' Sit by and watch the daily massacres" Would you have that on your conscience" Would you have their slain and bitching bodies on your back? I shall do it by myself if I have to, my Sisters and I. But I would prefer having you there at our side." Isuelt gave pause to measure the retired warrior's temperament. Her tone softened slightly, being carried just atop the wintery zephyr, "You are a grown man, Perceval. I cannot make you do anything. But know this: if you look beyond your land, just there," her brunette head nodded in the direction of the silhouetted Rhydinian peaks, "and see smoke rising from the city, know that I and those who stood with me are no more and the ravage that descends upon those people will be cruel and prolonged. And that you, you stayed back and did nothing to help."

Isuelt's voice quieted further, coaxing the words across her lips. She prayed that she was getting through to him as her leathered grip lightened on his arm. "It is a hero's obligation to change what they see as unfit for the world. Be it a threatening menace, or be it themselves. You have the power, Perceval, to change how you think of yourself. To believe in yourself again. To trust in yourself. You can win that back. Come with me. Please." The Scathachian finished with a whisper as she looked into the soldier's eyes.

The way he had scrutinized her when Isuelt finally finished speaking, she prayed to Scathach that he was pondering, considering her proposal. The brunette breathed easier, believing she had moved the graying soldier in front of her.

But then came his surprising response.

"Damn you, Isuelt."

When followed by his hasty retreat into the house, the priestess thought that was that. The air was crushed from her lungs as her hope was shredded. A few dark chocolate tendrils fell from her shoulder's dam and hung to sway in the breeze. Isuelt had several moments to collect her thoughts; and with that time, she fully believed that she had done her best to persuade Perceval. She could think of nothing more she had wanted to say, but still, he had denied her. That was his prerogative, after all. And how could she fault him for it' All a hardened and battered warrior dreams of in the end is peace, after all. How dare she ever hope that Perceval would throw that away with both hands for the likes of her and her pleas.

As her boots turned in the gravel, the noise was deafening to her. The priestess made ready to leave, her essay here was finished. Then the sudden noise of the door swinging open and the quick pace on the porch hooked her ear and the Scathachian turned quickly. Her dark eyes wide and her hair splayed upon the wind, Isuelt looked at Perceval as he descended the steps, in possession of a few belongings.

"I assume you have room in the Temple?" She recognized that tone, it was the unapologetic inflection of a gladiator ready for the gates to open.

Isuelt's lips turned into a soft upward arc, the lines in her face deepening. A compassionate countenance was offered to Perceval as she nodded gently. Her voice took on a gracious tone, "Of course, Mister Tucker. Of course."