The evening was late, nearly morning in fact. The Inn that Isuelt frequented was nearly abandoned; most had gone home either to their loved ones or with a new-found loved one. There was one patron passed out at a corner table and the tender slowly fingering the coins in the till as he counted. And still, the Scathachian sat. It was not that she was unloved; she had actually made a healthy dose of friends in this city, and there was Isaac, who she knew would do anything for her. It was not that she could not have gone home with someone if she chose to, she knew on some level, that she could be with almost anyone she chose. That was the way it had always been, Isuelt had never wanted for suitors (even if she had asked for them). It wasn?t that she couldn?t see herself enjoying the company of someone else, it was that she couldn?t even stand the company of herself. Ever since she could remember, Isuelt never really liked the person she was. Even with all of the changes that her life had brought to her, she could never really quite grasp the concept of loving one?s self. More often than not, she found herself in the company of people she despised for one reason or another, simply because those people made her feel better about herself...or at least that?s what she told herself. But eventually, someone would rub her the wrong way, or she would rub someone else the wrong way, and she would be off. Isuelt never was one for staying in one place too long.

She sighed as she looked at the empty glass and nearly empty bottle of whiskey that were her closest companions that evening. Another trait about herself that disgusted her. Her drinking was always the running joke at the Inn; how much she could ingest, who she could drink under the table, and who would keel over first. The Scathachian could definitely hold her alcohol, she had won more than a few bets to prove that point. Isuelt wondered briefly why she had such an affinity to the drink that scathed her throat and had such a hold on her purse strings. What had whiskey ever done for her? Besides simmering her down at one time or another, and donating to her that signature husky voice, she didn?t see why she thought she needed it so badly. Scoffing at herself, she relaxed her arm as it rested on the table. ?No sense in getting tense all over again, little girl,? she smirked to herself and leaned back into her chair, the creak of the wood sounding downright eerie in the nearly empty Inn. She knew she needed to pull herself out of her slump, she knew where it would lead, she knew where it always led. The last thing she needed was a new scar to add to her collection. This brooding Scathachian had lost count of the nights she had counted her self-inflicted wounds and scars. Some were made in an ernest attempt to end her own life, others were meant to lessen the pain she felt she brought upon herself and into the world. Isuelt had always been hard on herself, harder than she had to be. She felt like she was spinning in circles, wondering why she never actually got any where.

She had felt this gnawing at her gut since that night back in Union City. More than once, her mind replayed the scene she saw in the alley, and she pondered why this feeling of envy had invaded her. She was retired, wasn?t she? At least that?s what she liked to tell people. She wanted to leave behind her sordid occupation and her dark past, didn?t she? At least that?s what she liked to tell herself. A lingering glance down at her hands revealed them gloveless and laying restlessly on the tabletop. Isuelt?s dark gaze brushed over the tattoo on her right hand, the blue ink faded slightly with age and sun. Still she saw the sharpened Blades of Scathach crossed there. Then, looking to her left hand, she could feel her eyes stinging. The back of her left hand had been burned, the scarce remnants of the tattoo hopelessly buried under scar tissue. An old friend of hers, a Pack member, had burned off the tattoo in a fight, as they were jostling for position. She had been hired to kill him, and she, in her drunken stupor, had accepted. The Scales of Justice tattoo, burned off by a friend...how fitting.