The running commentary that plays for our benefit next found the tall Scathachian in her chamber at the Sanctuary. She had been awake for the better part of an hour, yet had decided against actually getting out of bed.

She knew the sun had risen, the light streaming from behind her curtains told her that. She had been in a funk for a few weeks now and wasn't able to pinpoint why. The mini-crisis with the Nightblade Guild had passed without really so much as a whimper; truth be told, she was disappointed about that. She had craved a good old-fashioned blood letting, and she thought that the dealings with Pidane and his guild would have provided her with an outlet.

Her days were quiet lately, and though she would have ordinarily welcomed the rest and relaxation, presently it left her with more time to dwell on why she wasn't resting or relaxing.

Isuelt sat up in bed, letting the ivory cotton sheets fall from her shoulders and chest to gather in her lap. The sheen off her sun-kissed skin hid in the darkened room, unable to achieve its full color while the curtains remained drawn. The pensive expression on her facial features was a match for the thoughts running through her mind. Pushing back the sheets, she slid from her bed and crossed the small room to the heavy cedar wardrobe. She unhinged the bottom drawer and began rummaging.

Soon enough, she pulled a box from the back of the drawer and began to fiddle with the lock at its front. No key, just a combination of movements. The lock had always fascinated her and was a gift from her husband; though she was pretty sure he had won it off some fortune teller in a particularly nasty game of poker.

With a near-silent click, the lock opened and revealed the contents of Isuelt's treasure chest. Various mementos from the Island, her marriage and her life in Metro City. The poor lighting of her chamber was no match for the light that exuded from her features as she lovingly picked through some of the contents. She paused as she came to one item in particular: a leather bracer that was far too big even for her developed wrist.

She held onto the well-worn black leather piece for some time, her fingers stroking over one of the buckles, before a knock at the door and a "Hey, Illea....lunch!" ran her off Memory Lane.

Lying on her bed, her long bare legs jutting up the wall and crossed at the ankles, Isuelt was staring at the shadows as they flicked across her ceiling.

Recently and with increasing frequency, she was having trouble settling her mind for sleep. Her schedule of nights patrolling the WestEnd and her subsequent drinking had left little time for the gypsy to properly unwind.

Just two days previously did she nearly fall asleep in the tub. The stress level at hand and the superficial sense of serenity needed to keep others stress-free was nearing a fever pitch, and a crash was going to be inevitable.

Isuelt closed her eyes and listened to the grateful noises of the Sanctuary. The rat-ta-tap-tap tap-ta-ta-tap of Trixie's drumsticks were discernable just above the faint zing-zing of steel against steel from the training room down the hall. A few more moments produced a hurried set of feet padding down the corridor.

When Isuelt had fist come to the city of RhyDin, she was alone. Then, slowly, it had begun. First Trixie and Jenai had joined her; and now, she had a small Temple of Sisters surrounding her. The closeness that they shared was a blessing, especially to a loner like Isuelt. She would always long for the cozy hearth and home that had been taken from her; though she knew that to lust after it would only succeed in driving it further away.

A deep breath was held as long as it could be before a frustrated sigh wrangled it loose. She was nearly sick of her thoughts turning in this direction.

Scorp.

Damn fool had let her leave. He could have said something. Right?

Scorp.

Besides, she'd bet a million gold that he was bouncing some buxom blonde off his mattress right now.

Scorp.

They were a mixture for trouble...since the day they had met. But the fun that accompanied the trouble, well that was the spark that both of them fed off of.

Yeah...fun laced with trouble.
Always delicious.
Never lasts.

So...a new gift for the Scathachians.

A horse-drawn carriage, with no horse except the one in the driver's seat, the driver's head in its mouth. "Fear Scathach" written boldly on the side...

The leather hair strap Isuelt was chewing on was getting weaker by the second; her jaw, however was only building on its strength. The Scathachian was in one of the receiving rooms, laying on the floor with her legs up and atop the cushions of the couch before the fireplace. Her dark eyes were staring at the ceiling and she was replaying a scene from several nights ago.

The patrons in the Inn were jostling her nerves, asking what she and her Sisters were truly doing to catch this person...this WestEnd murderer. They hadn't caught anyone, not even for questioning. The murders hadn't stopped, nor had the taunting. It would seem, as the patrons were so inclined to point out, that nothing was being done at all.

She'd lost her composure...lost her cool.

Well, why in the hell were they tossing her own failures in her face? Especially Tasslehofl, whom she'd considered a friend. He baited her outside where he continued his pride poking. Until...until...she hauled off and hit him. Twice.

Only later did she realize what he was trying to do. He was trying to help her blow of steam, trying to help her vent. Only, he really didn't succeed in doing much more than pressing her own shortcomings into her face as sure had he'd pressed a half-grapefruit there. Bitter was the taste of defeat...it always had been Illea's fiercest enemy.

She sat up suddenly and walked to her chamber, there was no other Sister at the Sanctuary, except for Rae, who was sleeping and Eddie who was tending the Temple with Jenai. It was quiet...just the way she liked it. After locking the door, she went straight for the wardrobe against the wall and knelt before it. A pause was issued, but only for a moment. She tugged at the bottom drawer and pushed aside the few articles of clothing that took up the front portion of the drawer. Reaching back, Isuelt felt for the box that she knew to be there and pulled it out. Like a treasure chest, she cradled it and brought it to her bed where she set it before her like a beloved child.

She opened it and spent only a moment or two going through the items she found: her first Priestess cloth, her husband's waist sash from the Zomorago caravan, a piece of wood from his fiddle, Scorp's leather bracer. This time she wouldn't stop at this item. She dug deeper, until she found what she was looking for. Wrapped in a crimson veil, she unwound a small brass dagger with a steel blade. This item was one of the dearest treasures in the chest, but for reasons one might not imagine. Isuelt held it in her hands and shut her eyes, she remained that way until she felt the cold of the metal melt away and warm to the touch of her palms.

Isuelt had a secret. Only few knew of it, four Priestesses back on the Island and Scorpion Wraitharan.

She pulled gently on the copper sheath until the sharpened blade of the dagger was revealed. Her dark eyes focused upon the edge of the weapon, almost as if she were further sharpening it with her cold gaze. Slowly then, her motions like a choreographed ballet, she rolled back the sleeve of her left arm to reveal no fewer than eleven scars all in a cross-hatched fashion on her forearm, close to her elbow. She lifted the dagger's blade to her tanned skin, laying almost perpendicular to a lone scar. And without hesitation, with only the smallest wince, Isuelt dragged the steel along her warm flesh until the pressure released a new gash.

She let the blood flow onto the crimson veil.

She let the blood flow as she thought of every way she was letting down her Sisters.

She let the blood flow as she felt everything she was doing wrong for this city.

She let the blood flow as she prayed for forgiveness from Scathach for failing in her duties to protect the Scathachian Nation.

Illea bled. Isuelt bled.

When the blood began to clot on its own, she wrapped her arm in the veil and laid down on her bed. She shut her eyes and let the salt tears and the bitter bile at the back of her throat usher her into a nightmare.

The fissures widened.

Goddess Forsaken

She had stayed in her chambers far past dawn, she had missed morning devotions, she had even missed breakfast. Isuelt was not ill, save for the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach at all of the unrest that had fallen on her shoulders lately. Isuelt was not tired; in fact, she had been up most of the night and still harbored no yearning to sleep. Isuelt was instead deeply hidden in that darkly familiar place to only her; the pit from which she always had difficultly crawling.

Despair, depression, destruction.

Raven's betrayal, Jenai's defection, Renna's victory, the death of a Scathachian Sister, the absence of Scorpion Wraitharan, and the return of Temple Bhaal.

All rungs in the ladder that led down into the chasm of melancholia and self-loathing. Normally, her shell was strong and opaque; the face she showed to the world was resolute and without care. But the deep fissures beneath the surface were hidden so that no one knew they were there. Make that very few people knew they were there. Lenai, the Island of Shadow's High Priestess, had watched Isuelt's self-hatred deteriorate and decay the young warrior's prowess. Lenai had witnessed Isuelt's soul atrophy until there was nothing left but a once-proud warrior in a pool of her own blood, drawn from her own hand. Scorpion Wraitharan, whom Isuelt deemed "her rock," knew too of her dangerous deluge. He had watched the Scathachian come to violent terms with herself after working as his top assassin for a number of years. Fearing that she was beyond the grace of her Goddess, Isuelt had devoted herself to taking her own life and it was only Scorpion's chance entrance that found her in a tub thick with the priestess's claret.

But Mother Lenai was not here. Nor was the Don Mega of Metro, Scorpion. Isuelt felt more abandoned and alone than ever, despite having her Sisters around her. But when it came down to her clouded cadence, she never bothered acknowledging those around her. It was an intimate act, which she alone would consummate.

But now was not the time.

Not yet.

When her Sister Lexia had been avenged and Renna destroyed, when Raven's betrayal was reversed, Jenai was back home, and the dangerous Temple Bhaal was once again quieted; when she was not needed any longer, she would reward herself with the long-awaited desire, her prime award. Isuelt's bleak moods were harkening back to her darker days, beckoning her to follow.

And she always did.

The sun was not yet up. The darkness of the Temple ruins encompassed and cloaked the destruction. It was quiet. It was nearly silent. No birds, no breeze. Not even the subtle rhythm of the surf was hanging upon the air. What some might have considered "unsettling," Isuelt found as absolute peace.

As she moved through the rubble, much of it however had been cleared away by the Scathachians and the helpful citizens who had volunteered their valuable time, her sandaled feet were the only sound within the once hallowed walls of her goddess's temple. Alone, she sat on a cement block off to the side of the main hall and looked toward the front of the chamber. Scathach's statue from the waist down was still standing, her feet now clean as well as much of the rest of the larger than life icon. But Scathach's torso and head had been removed for a deeper cleaning by some of Rhydin's stone masons who would be doing some of the repairs and rescuplting. Isuelt's dark chocolate gaze lingered on the statue's remains, an expression of quiet longing in her eyes.

"Illea?"

Isuelt's dark hair spun around her shoulders as she jerked her chin in the direction of the voice, somewhere near the rear of the temple. But she saw no one. She was on alert almost instantly and stood up, her gaze trying to pierce the darkness.

"Be at ease, my Daughter."

Isuelt's brow wrinkled and lowered at that. "Who's there?" Ever the suspicious one. Ever the naysayer. There was no answer. No reply. Just silence. The Scathachian could feel her heart pounding in her ears. Perhaps, just perhaps, she had dared to hope. After the miracle at C? Chulainn's hands, Isuelt's faith had been resurrected. Maybe ironically so, seeing as how the very definition of 'faith' is believing without proof. Still, she sighed as she continued to stare into the darkness for a moment longer before she sat back down and leaned her back against the wall.

It was just then, that a small pinprick of light shone from the side of Scathach's statue. So bright, nearly blinding, that Isuelt's eyes squinted at it. As her gaze cheated to the left and right of the light, there was nothing really there. Just the same, she knew that she wasn't alone.

"Illea, your heart is so heavy. So sad. You have forgotten your purpose here."

Isuelt swallowed, that point of light grew a bit brighter still. She just lowered her gaze instead of trying to look at it.

"Do not lose yourself. Do not lose me. You know I am not here, living in stone. I am within you, and within all of my Daughters. Living in the acts you perform, in the faces of those you protect."

Her breath stilled in her throat. Was she dreaming? She couldn't lift her eyes, she just concentrated on keeping her breathing regulated.

"You are human, my Daughter. As was I once. I understand your weaknesses, your fears. But I also recognize the beautiful resilience in you, the strength in you. My Daughters are not chosen at random, but born to this life by the way of destiny. Find comfort in that, my Illea."

In all of her life, in all of her training, never before had this sort of thing ever happened to her. Her faith was built on the sureness that somewhere in the cosmos she was following a goddess and she was doing right. But at no time had she ever had a visitation. Her goddess was not one to walk among mortals. The swelling within her chest was divine awe at being so blessed.

"C? Chulainn has made to right what should never have been made wrong. My student and my lover will watch over you and your Sisters. Carry out your work, Illea. As I shall carry out mine. I am for Bhaal, as I have ever been. He and I shall clash once more, just as you shall against his followers. This has been destined, and you have been chosen."

Isuelt's brow burned and she lifted her gaze finally to look upon the light coming from the marble statue. She would have sworn she saw a flash of crimson, a glint of steel.

"Take comfort in my blessing, and mirror on earth what I do in the heavens."

That light grew in intensity until Isuelt could no longer bear to look upon it. She clenched her lashes tight and winced as her hand came up to shield her face. There was a noise in the temple that seemed to echo until it felt as if it was vibrating from within her. A high-pitched tone that made Isuelt clap her hands to her ears. And yet, as quickly as it had begun...it was gone. So too was the light. And Isuelt sat once more alone in the temple in silence.

Looking around, her breathing rate rapidly playing itself out and her heart pounding in her chest, Isuelt's wide eyes took in her surroundings. An exhale was the sound that hit her ears like a slap in the face. It was like she had woken up from a hundred years' slumber.

Isuelt, Priestess of Scathach, had just had the weight of the world lifted off of her shoulders by a divine hand. And it felt as if she had finally surfaced.