"...'nd 'at be such a pity for you to be taken' love. We alls knows ya did't do it," the well oiled baritone of the heavy-set man was running in full swing now. He stood barely six feet tall with his greasy hair parted on one side of his head and swept far over to the other.

He was walking and carrying on with a cloaked figure, though her identity was clear enough from the crimson sash at her waist and the flash of steel on each hip as the wind rustled her gray woolen cover.

The whiskey-stained voice of the Scathachian rang true through the chilled night air, conservative puffs of smoke rising from within the hood. "I thank you for your vote of confidence in me, Jonah. I wouldn't have thou—"

"An' you knows me an' the boys were talkin' bout breakin' you outta there," he interrupted the Judge as they continued to walk. "I mean, who's been better at makin' sure all these supplies an' whatnot make it to where they supposed ta be? You and them Sisters of yours...makin' the docks safe for business, ya know?"

Under a gas lamp, the lips beneath the cowl smiled. Her husky voice started again, "Jonah, you just make sure that all that cargo makes its way to the correct owners this time, all right?" She stopped and turned to the man, whose cheeks could be seen blushing beneath the pale light.

"Right, right, right....o' course, Isuelt, o' course. Uh...it was just a misunderstandin' of the boys' thas all, you know?"

A slow nod from the Scathachian, though her lips were sill gently curved in a smile, "Of course it was, Jonah. Now, I'll have to be on my way, you promise to behave until I look in on you again, yes?"

"O' course!" his nod was as eager to please as his words. Another nod and something like an awkward bow later, he turned and left her alone under the lamp light.

The Scathachian watched him go for moment, a light chuckle and shake of her head could have been witnessed by the eagle-eyed. The night wind picked up once more and breathed just past the Judge, setting her winter garment to shift. As she turned to continue her patrol, her twin blades caught the majestic glimmer of the gas lamp, sending a blinding metaphor to all who would wait for her to pass before they began their nighttime dealings once more. Isuelt hoped, as she had so many nights, that the glare off her steel would be enough for would-be criminals to rethink their actions.

He kept a distant vigil on the figure as it made its way of the winding streets of the West End. It gave no indication to knowing he was there, but that did not mean Ewan was going to give the opportunity for that to change.

An alley cat had other plans, skittering across the darkness of a narrow alley that joined two streets and clanging an empty crate from its precarious place on top of others. Ewan dropped low into a crouch as the figure turned with blades drawn. There was not a sound but he watched the figure draw nearer. One hand moved back to the sword sheathed and concealed beneath the cloak. So slow and smooth the motion when he touched the cool leather wrapping of the hilt, curling fingers firmly about it.

The attack was sudden and swift, Ewan rolled to his side avoiding the slash aimed at his face. The dive also kept him from drawing his blade as quickly as he wanted, but his hand did not move from the hilt allowing its removal as he returned to his feet. He blocked the next blow and did not follow through. "What's your business?"

A mocking repeat of the question, the voice somewhere between husky female and light male, was all he received for an answer followed by further intent to end his life. A dance of the blade continued for awhile longer, but this was no common thief or unskilled street dweller. The strikes were precise, not foolhardy, and Ewan was pressed to keep his response to blocks and not turn to the offense. He had only the movement of shadow to direct him as the alleyway did not lend itself to much light. He could not tell if the person was male or female, but darker of hair was certain; tall, perhaps lean, though the flow of cloth around the body in motion disguised certainty.

The dance would not last forever, and patience, something Ewan had little of in most cases except fighting, wore out for his opponent. The dagger was thrown with lethal accuracy and followed by a handful of mucky dirty and only Ewan's quick response to block with his blade changed the outcome. The dirt momentarily blurred his vision, but it was enough time for the person to risk flight from the confrontation. Ewan chased to the entrance of the alleyway, but not beyond. He had to withdraw back into the alley to resheath the sword. Cautious steps turned northward, the Master of Arms went to wash his face, find a few hours of sleep in the pre-dawn, and to stitch up the gash to his shoulder where the dagger had made its glancing blow.

If such nights continued, his employers, all three of them, might find themselves with a dead man on their hands.

Another night along the roads of RhyDin town proper kept Ewan in his concealed cowl and clothes of mottled blacks and dark browns to shadows. He had already disposed of another vagrant stealing from graves to supply unknowing merchants items at a reduced cost. Now he was on vigil for the one who stalked the Scathachian.

The West End had a particularly well trod feel to it, as if watchers now watched each other and stalked the eaves and burrows in all the streets and alleyways. Even the rooftops grew aware of the dealings below, and Ewan was assured that even if he were not there to catch or detain the culprit should it strike upon the residents of the West End, there were others who were. He was a stop gap, the outside measure unaccounted for, and he particularly favored the concept.

He drew away from that area of the city and followed a less traveled path he had found upon his fortunate sky high view from earlier that night. The narrow cut street clung to the moisture of the air, slicking its cobblestones and limning each line that light flitted over from closed shutters. A cat trailed behind him with raised hopes for sympathy, and while Ewan had some, he also had shut it away. Eventually the cat gave up and sought solace elsewhere when Ewan came into the neighborhood of the Red Dragon Inn. A less likely place a more likely target, thus went the old philosophies of his art. It had also, so far, been untouched with the dark hand pushing at the Sisterhood. He hoped it would remain so. His reputation for being often at the inn was good enough cover as any for his frequency to travel these streets, but he was keeping watch, seeing to the purpose with which he was charged, and seeking ever the safety of those of his circle; that ever widening circle.

He paused in the concealing embrace of two buildings built smashingly against each other, their corners not perfectly meeting and providing an unexpected hidden recess. The buildings across the way were not unfamiliar, and he waited to memorize the sounds; their rhythms and pitches of change with wind and rain, passersby and empty corridors. The barrister's current residence was, so far, meeting its well established pattern, but there was more beyond that he would wait for, and he did.

Snow was a burden against his intentions falling upon head and shoulders and lining his form in highlight. Awareness given to the uncooperative weather divided his attention even further, and he was wearying. His measures and means could not be undertaken underground, so Ewan faced the long night with winter's pleasure taunting his secrecy.

A contrary thought was that those who had no great purpose to be out certainly were not testing the weather's kindness. From time to time, as he made his way from cut corner to shallow doorstep, Ewan would draw his blades from their sheathes to keep assured of their being free for use. A stuck blade was a fool's error and disrespectful of chilling tricks. Gloved hands flexed and stretched as he leaned and twisted his way around barriers to keep his muscles warm. A hesitation of heartbeats along his route as he wove through the darkness and its icy spies.

The snowy night danced its moonlit lacings upon the breeze through its ruling hours. Streets concealed their uneven hazards in the blanket and pillowings of snow. Shoeprints carried on before him. Meandering paw prints of varying size and species stitched their patterns upon the quilting of white. Wandering within his purpose, Ewan made his way south through the West End. The hostel a closer place to rest as the grey shadow of sun's expectation pushed at the horizon. Another night incomplete to information, but complete to intent tucked into his memory. A bed was not far from him to cast dreams in his mind and paint a picture of answers and questions.

The perfectly sharpened Scathachian blade was pointed trunk-ward at Ewan; though it was really roughly more of an experienced guess, as the light in the narrow causeway was little less than helpful.

Isuelt's breath was coming at a rapid rate, betrayed by the puffs of steam that were billowing like smoke signals from her mouth beneath the cowl. Her exhilarated heart rate was trying to keep up with her mind; she wondered if this person was at all responsible (whether remotely or directly) for the animosity coming down on the Scathachians set up here in Rhydin. Though, she remembered him from the Inn, and thought nothing malevolent about the man.

Her dark eyes were concentrating on the daggers in his hands, the meager light just glistening enough off of the blades to be a warning. Isuelt did not take a step further, instead, her hoarse voice became her messenger over action. "Who are you?" her breathing was beginning to regulate at a slower pace. "You the one that's been following me" Huh?" She had made the most insignificant of surges forward; the Judge was hoping that intimidation would usher an answer forth, just as it most often did in the past.

Yet, something told her that this time wasn't quite like all the others. Isuelt had the distinct feeling that she was barking up the wrong tree.

"Isuelt."

He had spoken her name...he remembered her, recognized her. And then went on to state his innocence, while replacing his daggers, no less. The Scathachian could acknowledge a white flag when she saw it.

This dog would cease her barking at the benign tree before her.

Isuelt sheathed her blade on the right hip and took a step forward. Reaching up with a gloved hand, she pulled back her hood to enable herself to see Ewan with whatever benefit the lights could fully afford. The dark pools of her eyes took him in for a few moments as the smoke from her breath pushed itself past her teeth. Her shoulders then lifted and fell with a sigh as she conceded her mistake, though she would never utter her commitment to any error.

Instead, she would defer to a lighter tone to her whiskey-stained voice, "A shadow of the man I know, huh?" There was only a flicker of a smirk as she continued, "Seems to be a lot of that going around lately..." And while she played toward the casual side for the moment, the Judge was questioning Ewan's choice of such cryptic words.

"You know this isn't the best of neighborhoods, especially as of late. Ewan, was it?" Isuelt decided to push in her own way as to why someone would intentionally be out at this hour with the events of the last month bearing down on the nerves of the city.

There was simply no denying that his man, still cloaked in his own coveted privacy, was speaking in half answers and enigmatic overtones. Nonetheless, it was also clear that he was no threat. At least not at the present moment.

Information.

Well, isn't that what everyone wanted?

As Ewan slowly manipulated his stance for a free escape, should the moment dictate it was prudent, Isuelt pondered his wording. I suggest you look to your own shadows for the answers you seek. A few thoughts trickled through her mind at that, not the least of which was an accusation she had heard more than several times as of late. Even Jewell and Kristia had nodded toward the Scathachian's own numbers to delve more deeply into the mystery at hand. But perhaps that wasn't what Ewan was hinting at.

Her dark hair tumbled past her shoulder, her head lolling to the side as she peered to this man in the alleyway. Something else he had said was picking at her brain. A shadow now...but flesh and blood when need be. Isuelt's nerve of steel was unwavering in most any circumstance; yet the promise of the supernatural always had found a way to loosen her resolve. The hubris of superstition was the second of this Judge's downfalls (the first could be found at the bottom of a whiskey bottle).

"Well, Ewan..." Isuelt searched for words to hold up her end of the flighty conversation, "Shadow or not, it's good advice for everyone these days to watch their backs." A solemn nod was offered as she backed a step toward the better lit street corner.

She would by no means forget that she saw him here...and by no means would she stop watching out for his sillhouette. All things were taken into account by this Scathachian, so great was the need to find the way out of this nightmare.

Ewan sat hunched over the book in the shadowed recess of the RhyDin library. The library was closed at this deep hour of night, but he had made some connections with the keepers, and beyond that, found a way in through the tunnels into its catacombs of records. "History of Vigilante Groups" was not always thrilling reading, and yet it kept his interest for more than one reason. Beyond the tales of sometimes misguided heroics, he needed to find how widespread the information on the Scathachians traditions had gone. Were their secrets at all still secret, or had there been a myth here, a legend there, that gave light to the inner mysteries.

The library was a particularly advantageous place to take a night's reprieve from patrolling. Exhaustion was causing mistakes, so this night, he sought to gain information another way, in the solitude of an empty library and with the printed histories of many lands. If something on the streets outside demanded his attention, a tunneler knew where to find him. The proximity to a branch of tunnel exchanges meant he could get anywhere, relatively secretly, and with necessary haste. It was a thought to learn more of tunnels at a later time when other matters did not weight so heavily upon him.

A lone lantern he had taken from the tunnel exit corridor sat upon the table at the far end. The halo barely reached his book, but he could not afford to bring the light closer and blind him to any movements beyond the windows just a full man's height to his left. It occurred to him for the hundredth time that night that were he a marked man, he would be making a fine target for any pursuing him. A wry smile as he looked to the window, its outer protection of sharp shrubbery dressed in raiments of snow and ice. The streets beyond were empty of more than its usual shadows. There were other modes of safety in this library, made not unlike the inn itself. One only had to know its secrets.

The need to know secrets bent his head over the book once more.