The overcast summer's day had given way to the kind of balmy and breezy evening that made citizens venture out of doors for their entertainment. Isuelt, having slept most of the day, missed the sun's brief appearance on its journey across the sky. Her sleep had mercifully been just that: sleep. No nightmares, no worry, no regret. Those would be deposited for later tonight, she mused as she walked the streets southward from Tori's Diner. The coffee was more than sufficient to rattle her bones into a semi-permanent state of perception. That, and she always had a spot for their blackberry pie. Isuelt enjoyed this type of evening. She always had. Back in the days of her hell-raising in Metro, she and Scorp would stay out all night reveling and running their ruthless Pack. But now, she appreciated these evenings for another reason: people out of doors were sets of watching eyes. The crimes committed, particularly in the West End were always lessened.

She had already checked in with Precinct Five of the Watch. Contrary to what some of Rhydin's inhabitants perceived, the Scathachians were not necessarily a vigilante group. They worked alongside the Watch, helping where they could and keeping the city as safe as possible. Her night was starting, but first, she had a promised stop to make.

Without her horse, she didn't reach the Spit and Scales Yard until well after sundown. She questioned whether or not the barrister would still even be around. She had pledged to call upon him tonight, but the Judge wondered if perhaps he would be in his townhouse by now. She had a cylindrical-shaped gift in her gloved left hand as she approached the door to the main building. A few lights were still on, it looked promising.

"Barrister Mallorek? It's me. Isuelt DeRomiano," leather-clad fingers knocked on the door before trying the knob. It was unlocked and the hickory door swung easily on its well-oiled hinges. "Hello?" Her hoarse voice rang out into the immediate foyer, the paper rustled around the gift in tow.

Lucien's deep voice paired with the movement seen from the corner of her eye snared the Scathachian's attention. A few deep brown strands of hair tumbled past her right shoulder as she turned her head to the left. An easy smile overtook her lips as her booted steps carried her toward the barrister. One dark eyebrow was arched as she took in his appearance. Now, it was certain that never had Lucien Mallorek ever come across as stuffy or overly fretful about his appearance. Nor was it that Isuelt could boast that she knew him especially well. Still, she had never seen him out of a suit or some other sort of conservative ensemble, much less doing anything that resembled manual labor.

Her voice was slowed as she delivered her greeting, with a hint of surprise in her tone, ?Barrister...Mallorek.? Long legs carried her toward him, her eyes then moving around the yard; she was impressed at the overall manifestation of the Spit and Scales. Having spent so much of her life on an island, Isuelt was no stranger to docks and shipyards. Yet this one seemed to have an overall air of efficiency and legitimacy. ?I?m truly taken aback by your venture, barrister,? she was nodding as her eyes took in all they could as she closed the distance between them. ?Very striking. And better late than never, I suppose,? she was now referring to herself as she opened her arms in pseudo pose and lightly bowed. ?Oh, and I come bearing gifts,? she relinquished the paper-wrapped cylinder in her gloved left hand. ?It?s not even close to what I owe you, but it?s a start.? She had picked up a bottle of single-malt whiskey, Retallion?s finest, the sort she used to drink back in Metro. It was more difficult to find in this area, but she had come across a small tobacco shop tucked into an alleyway in the southern portion of the West End who imported the rare bottles of her favored honeyed-poison.

Dark lashes directed her vision to where Lucien had emerged, ?I do hope I?m not interrupting you.? Isuelt knew that any venture, much less a shipyard, in this area of the city required constant attention, vigilance and dedication. Along with his legal duties, when paired with the extreme undertaking of heading up a shipyard, it seemed Lucien was a man of many talents.

An easy smile reclined against her sun-kissed features, "That sounds perfect. I'll pour." Taking his arm, she let him lead her. Her boot heels marking her steady stride as she looked around. "The West End is a bit quieter since I've been back. Thank the heavens for small favors, I guess, right? I'm glad that there are people like you, Lucien, who still persevere here and fight the so-called good fight." Another fist was made and released with her right hand, only to be repeated. Beneath the leather skin of her glove, her hand had been aching for several days, the scar felt like it was constricting, tightening all the way to her wrist.

The evening was temperate, an easy start to the night. "Visiting is good," she said lamely and paused as she looked back to the Barrister. She wanted to impart her deep gratitude for his aide when she had been imprisoned, she wanted to make him understand how much she respected his advice, his opinions. She had been thinking a lot lately about that time in her life. Especially since she had returned and found Jewell Ravenlock had passed. She had been pondering the roads she chose, and the ones she did not. And although their meeting in front of the Inn the other night had been brief, she had started the catharsis she often employed when Lucien Mallorek was with her.

Her past was coming back to haunt her. Slowly, methodically, mercilessly. She kept it quiet, like she kept most things. Emotion was weakness, sentiment was fragility. Second thoughts and daydreams were death on a battlefield. She had been trained to wean herself from the trappings of her sex. Though lately, the mental vulnerability she suffered from had a throttlehold on her like she had felt only twice before. She sensed the raging tide returning, to sweep her away.

As she reached Lucien's destination, she let out a slow exhale and sat down, rubbing her gloved hands together. Her fingertips impotently scratched the back of her right hand as she watched him. "It's Retallion?s whiskey. Used to drink nothing but that back in my days of money. I hope you like it." Deep brown eyes lifted slowly, "Lucien?" She swallowed. Her hatred of herself waxed and waned like the Mother's moon. But now she wanted his opinion, she needed a voice of reason. And Lucien was just about the most reasonable person she knew here. "What were you saying the other night about -- Choosing paths? And regretting it?"

The leather of her pants creaked lightly as she sat down upon the bench and reached for the bottle, breaking the wax seal in a quick flick of her wrist. She poured the honey-colored libation into both tin cups: a touch more than a shot for each of them. Offering up one cup to Lucien, she sniffed as he began his counsel. Her lashes lowered for only a moment, before her dark gaze followed his to look out upon the moonlit sea. For a brief instant, she longed to be home. Her only true home. Home on the Island. She watched the rippling, sparkling caps laugh at her. Tease her about being so far away from her center, her rock in any storm. There was a heavy sigh that lifted her shoulders, then let them fall.

"It's easier said than done, though..."

Just then, the evening put forth a zephyr, lifting the deep chocolate locks at both of her temples and pushing them away from her sun-kissed face. There was a serenity from the water, the dockside that had nothing to do with the hustle and bustle of the WestEnd's harbor district. It was the sound of the water holding the promise of escapism. Far off places that beckoned to her. Lucien's words echoed in her mind as she turned them over and over. He was perfectly correct. He always was. Which is why Isuelt had chosen him to chink her armor to.

"Regret is not." She repeated after him. She came to finally admit to herself why she had always run. Of course, the Scathachian knew perfectly well what pushed her away from situations where emotion was involved, she had just always chosen to oppress the truth. The reason why she ran from relationships, ran from Scorpion Wraitharan, ran from times of strife. Her running had created a series of crisscross paths in the tapestry of her life. These paths were edged by regret. Regret that she could not stay the straight and narrow, that she could not finish what needed to be done.

"I'm a coward, Lucien," her voice quivered as she offered up the proclamation. She drew in a breath, not being quite ready for the stab in her chest that was awakened by her admission. She finished her whiskey. "Not in the traditional sense of the word. I don't run from fights," her mask donned a light smirk. "I run from myself." She stated it simply, painfully. But honestly.

Her dark gaze looked at the empty tin cup in her had. She sucked in the sea air around her, and exhaled. There was that sense of catharsis she often felt in Lucien's company. She pressed onward, craving the internal cleanse that the Barrister was affording her. "I want to do right by these people here. I want to do right by Scathach. I need to do right by them. They deserve more than I can give them. They all deserve to simply live their lives without fear, without...without wondering if they will make it through the next day."

Turning her face from the view of the ocean, she looked at the ice blue eyes of the Barrister. "I want to do more for them." She also knew why. She wanted to give the people of this city, each of them, the chance her family had never been given. She wanted to, in a twisted sense, save her family by saving those she didn't even know. "My only regret is not choosing a path where I could do more."

A swallow bobbed in her throat as a self-effacing chuckle was strangled there. Her chin turned away from him. "I'm sorry. I really don't mean to unload any baggage, Lucien. I just... Well, I guess it's been weighing more heavily on me than I thought." Something akin to discomfiture appeared on her features as she watched the moonlight laugh at her from beyond the launch dock.

Those deep brown eyes glanced to her once more filled cup, she nodded her gratitude to Lucien as she sat in silence, listening to his words. The Barrister's speech resounded in her brain and echoed deeply in her psyche. Victories were victories, no matter the size, no matter the method, no matter the cost. It was what she had been taught, and Lucien validated her Scathachian lessons. Listening and accepting, however, were two separate achievements.

Isuelt's gaze rested on Lucien as he spoke, and thereafter for a moment. The Scathachian studied the face of her confidante, her friend. His kind voice, low and compassionate, ushered forth his counsel with a manner which defined his persona. Lucien was a person who would go to great lengths for a client, and even greater lengths for a friend. Isuelt parted her lips to speak, but not finding the words, her mouth closed impotently.

The moonlight highlighted the bone structure of his face, as she was sure it was doing the same to her own visage. Several muted minutes passed between the two of them before the Judge next spoke.

"The Westend does seem quieter now, even if it's not perfect," she nodded, the ends of her dark hair bouncing their agreement. "Though it sometimes seems that we are...that I am chasing my tail. Running circles around myself, never really getting ahead." She lifted her eyes to look at him once more, "But I understand what you are saying. Any headway made is something to be celebrated. And I know you're right, Lucien. 'Just think of what that place would be like if you weren't there,' is what I hear people saying."

She shrugged and lifted the cup to her lips. Though, thinking better of herself, she only emptied half of its contents into her throat. "The Watch does a better job than people realize. They should be commended for their actions and the risks they take." Her compliments toward a group of people that once imprisoned her and whom she once referred to as little more than toothless warriors, were a near revelation to the Scathachian. Her brunette brows lifted at her own surprise as the words left her lips.

She sighed and looked back to the water, once more repeating Lucien's words to her, "We each do what we can. The best we can." The call of the sea began to fall on deaf ears as a smile finally lifted her features. Her lungs took in their fill of the salted air, yet the mystique of its bitterness was powerless as it reached her blood. The Scathachian was starting to settle. Even if all of her problems and worries had not been solved, they had been lessened. When she was a child, her mother would try to coax the young Isuelt to divulge what bothered her, be it a fear, a bad dream or an apprehension. A worry shared, is a worry halved, my darling. Abigale Blywthe often quipped to her youngest child and only daughter.

"Lucien..." her gaze was trained on the sea, "you have a wonderful place here. I hope your business thrives, I hope your hobby brings you pleasure. Always know that you will have a Scathachian watching over this place, keeping it safe." She looked down to the last contents in her cup, then lifted her eyes to his, her voice dipping low into its signature whiskey-stained hoarse whisper, "Thank you. As usual, your words have a way of calming my seas." Her tanned cheeks plumped as she turned her smile to him, with a low bow of her head.