The back of her head met with the cold concrete wall of the holding cell with a soft thunk. Isuelt sighed heavily and lifted her dark gaze to stare up at the ceiling. Not that she could clearly make out anything but the shadowed outline of the roof over her head. She had been trying, nonetheless, to trace the corners of her cell all day. There was not much more for her to do. She was allowed no visitors, and the constable had not yet been in to speak with her. The only other voices she had heard were the quiet and brief conversations of the guards outside as they changed their shifts.
The cold breeze played havoc with her skin once more; the dank surroundings and her inactivity were starting to take a toll on the Scathachian?s body temperature. A shiver rang through her bones, though part of Isuelt almost refused to give in to it. She fought against the shake of her body longing for heat; just another action she viewed as weakness?particularly now.
Isuelt?s dark and twisted twin rose up once more and plagued her with visions of years past. Her own worst enemy, the enemy within, had been attacking without so much as a parry from the weary warrior. How ironic, she thought, All those years I killed without a truly just cause? All those lives I took in exchange for money? And it is now that I find myself in a cell, for deaths that I did not bring about. Isuelt brought her knees to her chest, for she was sitting on the stone floor covered only with a modest amount of sullied straw. She drew herself into a ball, her sculpted arms encircling her legs, her forehead resting on her knees.
The silence would have been serene, but for the screaming in her head.
The demon was rearing its head yet again. The demon that had planted indestructible seeds of self-doubt in her youth. The demon that had skid along her skin with the tip of every blade. The demon that laughed through her tears. The demon that now looked through her anguish with eyes as black as night to see the Scathachian locked away for the very act she fought against.
Irony always held the higher hand, even if you thought you had an ace up your sleeve.
The cold breeze played havoc with her skin once more; the dank surroundings and her inactivity were starting to take a toll on the Scathachian?s body temperature. A shiver rang through her bones, though part of Isuelt almost refused to give in to it. She fought against the shake of her body longing for heat; just another action she viewed as weakness?particularly now.
Isuelt?s dark and twisted twin rose up once more and plagued her with visions of years past. Her own worst enemy, the enemy within, had been attacking without so much as a parry from the weary warrior. How ironic, she thought, All those years I killed without a truly just cause? All those lives I took in exchange for money? And it is now that I find myself in a cell, for deaths that I did not bring about. Isuelt brought her knees to her chest, for she was sitting on the stone floor covered only with a modest amount of sullied straw. She drew herself into a ball, her sculpted arms encircling her legs, her forehead resting on her knees.
The silence would have been serene, but for the screaming in her head.
The demon was rearing its head yet again. The demon that had planted indestructible seeds of self-doubt in her youth. The demon that had skid along her skin with the tip of every blade. The demon that laughed through her tears. The demon that now looked through her anguish with eyes as black as night to see the Scathachian locked away for the very act she fought against.
Irony always held the higher hand, even if you thought you had an ace up your sleeve.