The night's patrol had been a brutal one.

Not because of the amount of action, criminals or the like. It was simply because of the weather. While Isuelt DeRomiano enjoyed her time out of doors, and even boasted weathering the elements in the time she spent with her husband's caravan, the RhyDin winters were never kind. Even to the most seasoned of hearty travelers.

Contrary to the pace of several nights ago, this night's patrol was skulking by painfully slow. But what was even more painful was the weather. A harsh wind was beginning to pick up, fooling the body into believing that the temperature was dipping even further. And while her bruised ribs had healed up nicely by now, the stitches in the Scathachian's thigh always seemed to begin throbbing at the most inopportune time. Isuelt had been dealing with a slight limp for the better part of half an hour, the shrill bite to the air not allowing her muscle any ease. However, luckily for her, she was entering Erin and Lydia's area of the West End. Isuelt quickly recalled that Erin had left an open invitation to the Scathachians if ever they needed assistance...or coffee.

It took the Judge only an instant to make her decision, and she was moving ahead toward the front door to the Isis Manor. A warm place to tend to her stitches, a hot cup of coffee and a friendly face or two. It was just what she needed.

"Yeah, you could say that," a quirky smile skipped across her lips as she made her way to the porch steps. Erin's appearance came into view as Isuelt lifted her boots and began the ascent. It was more than notable that Erin had been out of sorts, off, skewed and generally out of it lately. It would perhaps seem that Isuelt might get the occasion to question her on it, or at least listen to any clues that the petite Brit might drop.

"Got any space in your sitting room for my grumpy ass and a cup of something hot?" a wink as the Scathachian stood on the porch. The wind started to pick up once again and as it tugged at Isuelt's gray woolen cloak, her gloved hands balanced themselves habitually on the hilts of the blades at each hip.

Sebastian was sleeping...

Isuelt remembered the last time she had seen him. She had broken his hand within her own, smashed the slender bones, then watched as he had turned from excruciating pain to healing. There was something to be said for these new abilities, but perhaps that would be a second-cup topic.

"Coffee would be great," the Scathachian offered. She followed Erin into the cozy warmth of Isis Manor, and while the floral overkill was enough to make the hardened Judge balk, she welcomed the homey atmosphere as if it were a treasure.

Her dark eyes studied Erin's gait and posture. It was evident to the observant Isuelt that Erin was just a bit...off. She had either not been sleeping, or had simply not been taking care of herself. That much was obvious. "Erin...listen, if this is a bad time..." She halted her statement, not knowing exactly how to continue. Instead, she continued with Erin's question. "It's...uh...cold," a flash of that grin, "Cold and quiet."

Reaching out, she took the coffee. Black. Perfect. Erin read Isuelt like a book. Then settling down into the easy chair, she had to halt her actions as she began to put her feet on the coffee table before she even realized it. This well-appointed drawing room wasn't quite the kick-around furniture of the Inn.

"Helping you? How so, Erin?" the Scathachian took a grateful sip of the hot drink. She knew that she would have to check on her stitches sooner or later; she decided on later...after the coffee and company had warmed her sufficiently.

"Food?" it was as if someone had dangled gold in front of her. Scathachians were always known for that ravenous appetite of theirs. A grin slowly reclined against her lips, "Well, far be it from me to turn down an offer like that from you, cher."

The questions about Sebastian would be upcoming.

Isuelt leaned forward the take some of the cheese and bread, then she slowly allowed herself to settle back against the chair. Her stitches would have to wait. And the chocolate? That would wait, too. She figured that a few bites of that close to sunrise would hit the spot.

Dark brows arched as Erin joked about what went on in Isis Manor, the quirk of a grin warmed the Scathachian's features. "I'd say 'Do tell...' but something tells me that even my ears would burn at some of the wild tales," she volleyed.

Then, there it was...

Erin has admitted to not sleeping, it was something that was more than obvious to Isuelt's keen gaze. She figured she would tread gently. "Not sleeping, cher? Why ever not? Your home is beautiful enough, your Sister is healthy and happy, and Sebastian adores you."

She paused and leaned forward only slightly, under the guise of reaching for her coffee, though she was reading Erin's expression for any fluctuations.

Erin was getting worn down. It seemed like most of this city felt that way at one time or another, and this was Erin's time in the muck.

Isuelt nodded, "Yeah, I do know the feeling." Though the Judge went no further than that, there was no need to revel in the hardships of the Scathachian Nation at this juncture.

"And a few things brought me here, cher. Not the least of which was cold," holding up her nearly drained mug, "Thanks again." A small, but genuine smile nestled against Isuelt's mouth as she continued, "And a bit of a personal matter. I was wondering if you had any strong thread. And a needle?"

"Thanks," leaning forward and almost instantly regretting the stretch, Isuelt slowly righted her posture and slinked back. After a clearing of her throat to mask the exhale of annoyance at feeling any pain, Isuelt settled and looked at Erin. Her dark eyes were trained on the petite woman, almost as if she were studying her. A few moments, and sips, went by before she spoke up once more.

"Erin, do you mind if I ask you something?" she set down the needle and thread, she would be sure to restitch if needed before she went out again.

A pink tongue slowly licked at her bottom lip, the Judge was choosing her words carefully.

"What is a nice girl like you doing living in a place like this?" well aware of the cliche, she played upon it. "I mean, Erin, the WestEnd is little known for its...its..." she glanced at the Laura Ashley surroundings, "Its niceties. I always plugged you for a girl who knows when, where, who and how much, you know? This neighborhood is turning ugly really quickly."

Isuelt set the coffee down and leveled her dark gaze upon the woman, "I've seen what happens to cities in times of war. And, yeah, yeah, I know there's no battlefield around here. Believe me...I've been told. But, this whole place, these streets... Just as deadly as if they were broad enough to birth cannon fire."

To the Scathachian, a Priestess who worshipped a Goddess of War, it was a legitimate question. Why embrace death into the bosom of the hearth?

"What kind of person would you be if you left? Ha...smart!" the Scathachian nearly crooned. "Erin, look, it's none of my business if you want to stay, but you've got to realize that what ever this place was like when you first moved in here means nothing." She paused and added, "Nothing stays the same forever."

Her hand went to her thigh, she knew that she had to go see to the stitches across the gash there. After all, she couldn't spend all night in a warm and cozy drawing room. "And another thing, you shouldn't be outside at all after dark. Hell, no one should around here right now. Just...just be careful, eh?"

She knew that Erin wouldn't take kindly to a lecture, and that wasn't why she had stopped by anyway. Isuelt sighed as she grabbed the lighter, needle and thread, "Mind if I use your washroom?"

"Try not to get too much flowery scented soap on yourself, though."

Isuelt's body, now making its way down the hall, shook a touch as she deeply chuckled. Then upon hearing Erin's next query, she paused and turned around to face her. The Scathachian had one hand on the doorjamb to the washroom, the other hand held her "tools."

She pondered Erin's question. Would things ever go back to normal? And what exactly was normal?

"Yeah, Erin," a gentle nod of her head, as if she were trying to convince the both of them, "Things always do seem to melt back to normal after the storm passes. Since the beginning of time." Or perhaps it is that we just adjust to the new status quo. Whatever the reason, we would see. Time marched on, that much was irrefutable; and it shows all colors with patience.

Isuelt turned and slipped into the washroom, peeled herself out of her leather pants and began to clean her wound. The knife gash was not infected, and she aimed to keep it that way. It had, however, come open as two stitches had ripped. Needle in hand, she set to resewing the injury.

Restitched, recleaned and redressed, Isuelt emerged from the quaintly appointed loo. Her black leather-clad body felt out of place in the lady-like floral-inspired home of Erinalle Dunbridge. She moved smoothly down the hallway and back into what she assumed would be entitled the drawing room, where Erin was awaiting her.

"Thanks, cher," her hands, re-gloved, found their way to her hips. The Judge was sufficiently warmed and "resealed." She knew she should retake her patrol, there was no prayer of catching wind of the WestSide Murderer while confined in the warmth and hominess of this abode. "For the coffee and the warm pitstop," she nodded, genuinely grateful for Erin's generous offer in opening her home to the Scathachians. And while she knew that Erin was most likely putting herself in harm's way by openly befriending the Daughters of Scathach. She wished that she could express her gratitude to Erin, but she knew that gushing words were not her style. In any event, Isuelt's normally pursed expression was softened by a warm smile. "Really, Erin, thank you."