Soured by her troubles on the road as of late, the Scathachian pressed ever on, though it was with an even darker disposition than she normally sported. Isuelt was sick of being hit on, flirted with, winked at and generally being gawked over. It seemed the nastier she behaved toward her would be suitors, the more they multiplied. She hated them, she hated them all. And she hated herself for doing whatever it was that she was doing to bring this attention to herself. She was not the type who sauntered into a new place, full of giggles and lashes. She was, in fact, the antithesis of such banal behavior. Isuelt had traveled far and wide, and it amazed her that no matter where she went, those buxom maidens with their lilting laughs and fretful feminine woes were in every corner of the known world.

Three nights ago, she had stopped her travels and located a place to partake in a meal and get some rest. The place was crowded enough, which she actually liked. It meant that most people there wouldn't notice one extra person trying to eat in peace while blending into the background. Still, she had not yet gotten through half of the stale bread and lukewarm broth, when she was approached by a pretty little barmaid carrying a tankard of the house's specialty.

"I didn't order this," far be it from Isuelt to refuse a drink, but she was a stranger in a strange land.

"'Course ya didn't, honey. It's from Caleb over there," the blonde gestured vaguely to a big man sitting at an oddly looking small table. Or perhaps it was the man's size that created the optical illusion. Blowing a stray lock of hair from her face, the barmaid continued, "He's always in here, and only occasionally buys a girl a drink. You should be flattered, ya know."

Isuelt rolled her dark eyes; flattered was the last thing she was. "I don't want it," she pushed the tankard back toward the blonde. But the woman simply shrugged and walked away, leaving the tankard where it stood, on the table.

She stared at the full drink and let out a heavy sigh. She knew that whether she touched it or not, it would only be a matter of time before the hulking man wandered over here to introduce himself and his ... talents. Suddenly losing her appetite, Isuelt leaned back from the table and shook her head, muttering under her breath, "I'm getting too old for this..."

She didn't even remember getting into bed, really. The old adage of "falling asleep before your head hit the pillow" was making itself felt. Isuelt craved sleep. Not the sleep you get on an average night, but the refreshing total relaxation that comes to us only when we are very young. Isuelt was, in fact, quite far from being very young. She had recently taken to counting the gray hairs at her temples. And though they were still relatively few, there were enough of them for her to notice.

So, when the Scathachian woke with a start, she next felt the agonizing annoyance of once more being robbed of her sought-after eight hours. She was still laying still, letting her eyes become accustomed to the dark. She wasn't sure at first what had woke her, but she knew that something didn't feel right. She could almost feel someone else in the room, almost hear the breathing out of rhythm with her own. Isuelt's fingers curled around the dagger she kept under her pillow as she endeavored to still herself and listen.

It happened so quickly, it was like everything happened all at once. She distinctly heard a sharp movement only a split second before her ankle was grabbed. Isuelt felt herself yanked with an incredible strength down the length of the bed. She tried to turn her head, and in doing so, follow the movement with her entire body. All she managed to do, however, was get a glimpse of a dark figure hovering above her. Her knuckles were white in the dark as they wrapped around her dagger. Letting out a grunt as her arm heaved the blade backwards, the point of the knife sliced across skin and muscle.

She heard the muffled torment of her aggressor as his arm played foil to Isuelt's dagger. Straightaway, she turned her body to face him, aiming to get a better shot. Before she could focus on her target, a searing pain ripped through her shoulder. The Scathachian cried out, knowing the burn of a blade well. She sported her share of scars, some of them self-inflicted, and now it seemed there would be a new addition to the ranks. Isuelt gritted her teeth and continued to bore her vision through the darkness. She finally viewed the outline of the man, one arm was rising. She knew too well what was at the end of the upraised arm, she knew she might only have a moment to act. Without renewing her grip on the dagger, she lunged it forward.

Isuelt felt the softness of the abdomen give way under the blade; and when the subtle sound of a sucking of breath was heard from the man, she knew she had hit her mark. Keeping her strong hand on the blade, and bringing its mate to join it at the hilt, she forced the dagger upward until she felt the edge grate into bone. There was a rush of warmth over her body as the man began to bleed over her. Yet, he was far from spent. Another stab at her shoulder from his weapon sent a white-hot pain through her arm. Then, the weight of him collapsed on her, forcing the air from her lungs. Arching her back amid her injuries, she managed to push the big man off and to the side.

The temperate night was about to give way to another day. Isuelt hadn't gotten as far as ten miles outside the town, but the pain in her shoulder and arm was spreading into her chest and down her side. She didn't know exactly how far from Metro she was, but she knew she was a hell of a lot closer to her starting point than her destination.

A heavy sigh, which curiously accompanied her heavy heart, was expelled as she turned the horse around. She would return to Rhy Din, tend her wounds, get some rest, and set out again. Her auburn head actually nodded in agreement with herself as she decided on her new course of action.

It was then that her mind fell into its familiar tricks again. Probing her...prodding her...preying on her. Perhaps Scorp had gotten the letter, and he simply didn't care anymore. Perhaps she had run out on him one time too many. Perhaps he had a new flavor in his bed, or worse, and old one. Who would it be? Kez? Jassie? Darci? Isuelt didn't want to dwell on it. Perhaps he didn't get the letter at all, maybe Grem hadn't delivered it. Or had Grem delivered it to the wrong person. Had the letter gotten lost in handling, perhaps it had never fallen beneath Scorp's eyes?

A sigh. Her thoughts were running her ragged; and the combination of her dizzy mind and her injuries were almost too much. She would make a wide arc around the town nearest to her, no need to draw attention to the scene of her latest crime. She would then board in the next town and continue back to Rhy Din. This Scathachian needed a bit of solace in a safe place, she needed to gather her thoughts and her emotions. Flying in the wind was no place for someone without a sail.