((Thanks to Reverb))


The morning after the Scathachian Temple fire...


Silence dominates the desecrated grounds of the former Scathachian Temple. The first rays of dawn reveal an alien landscape of ash and shattered stone. Dominating its center is a crumbling statue to the goddess of war herself. Scorch marks entwine her legs like the tentacles of some dark beast trying to drag her into an unknown abyss, but her uplifted face looks out with pride and strength as though unfettered in her resolve. Slowly another figure comes to stand before the goddess with a bucket and a rag. Like a petitioner it stoops and begins to clean the ash and charring from her feet. Of all the places someone could start to clean up the broken Temple, washing the feet of a stone statue feels the most respectful to this one. Within minutes the water in the bucket is black, but Scathach's feet gleam.

Cleaning the scorched ivory took time, and in that time there was silence from within the ruined sacred space. That is, until there was a soft sound of movement in the shadows. A trickling piece of stone perhaps as it fell from its perch. Perhaps it was kicked. Still, the shadow cloaked the maker of the noise, at least for now.

The rag drops into the bucket with a heavy plunk as the figure finishes it's starting task. Moving upright, the figure, a man by its silhouette, flicks water from his hands before holding them palm out towards the ground. A gentle humming fills the air as ash and soot are kicked up and blown aside by an invisible force. Where his palms point, the dirt and rocks move as he begins to clear away the area of debris.

Only a sliver of her face is left revealed. Isuelt remains in the shadows just behind a fallen column over to the right of the altar where the man works to clean her temple and...and use that method of clearing away debris. She immediately recognizes him now. Now that there is not a Renna here nor a trio of screamingly frightened children, nor a burning building to usurp her attention. She has seen him before; a certain boyscout of a hero. What in the world is he doing here? Besides the obvious, that is. She took a single step away from the fallen marble pillar to reveal the light of her skin as she watched him in silence. Curious. Very curious.

He tilts his head to the side as if listening to something then goes back to his task, working quickly to clear away the area around the statue. Each movement appears to be his way of making it look like the goddess survived her temple's destruction. A symbol for others to find when the come back, if they come back.

The noise from his efforts waxed and waned...mostly waxed. And while she remained shrouded in the shadows, she watched. And she watched him for a long time, wondering how he could be so compelled as to help them clean up. Surely he owed them nothing, being a newcomer to town? A few moments more, but finally his efforts quieted and the Scathachian let her voice pierce through the darkness and the silence, "Who are you?"

The man doesn't appear to hear her at first as his hands move in a way that makes it look like he's having a conversation with someone else before stopping to turn and look upon the approaching woman. "No one important, Miss."

She was dressed in dark gray robes, not her leathers. Her hair was down, curling gently around her shoulders and down her back as she looked to the mysterious metal man who had helped her save those who were in the temple. Her hands were hidden within the folds of her wide sleeves. She only took a step or two more before she paused to look around and sigh. "None of us are seemingly important. At least not to the gods who do not hear our prayers."

"While I do not believe in the concept of divine bodies, it is my understanding that they are meant to be guides for how mortals should live their lives. Does your goddess live in a house of wood and stone...or inside of you?"

There was a moment's painful passing before she morosely answered him, "Neither."

"Only one person died in this fire, citizen. Consider that before questioning your beliefs too harshly." The line lenses in his face clicks and shutters in its odd way as he looks upon her. His mechanical voice while devoid of inflection some how comes across as compassionate.

"Citizen..." She nearly spat out the word. Scoffing at his words, she felt the barbs of her own shortcomings even more sharply now. "Only one person?"

"Yes. Of all who were in residence, only one deceased has been found. I cannot state if there are more until the building is cleared up." His head tilts one way and then the other. "If you are insulted by being referred to as your status within the city, I apologize. Would you prefer another moniker?"

Oh, she had so many monikers she could call herself right now. But in front of this stranger, she remained mute on the topic and simply looked down at the rubble by her sandaled feet. "I don't understand...." There was so much she was trying to understand right now. But in this instant, she would only give way to a small bit as she bit back her emotions and bit the side of her cheek to remain resolute and not break. "...why you are helping us."

"Were our roles reversed, would you not be doing the same? Ours is not to question why, but to do and die. Do it not for glory, do it not for gain. But to spare others a greater pain." He states emotionlessly before looking to the statue of Scathach as the sun fully eclipses her, rays of light reflect off the polished ivory in triumphant ways. "She is the goddess of war, you have merely lost a battle. Not your war, Miss. Lace your boots, gird your loins, and polish your weapons."

"My weapons are gone." Her voice was low and husky, the usual graveled tone of her voice just barely able to scrape past her tongue. She was so distraught in this moment, that she did not truly hear what he had said...nor how he had said it. At least, not yet. "This is a war, you are right. But my part...my part..." She couldn't finish. For a Scathachian never shows fear, never shows weakness, never shows vulnerability. And right now? She was drowning in all three.

The man actually reaches out and flicks her forehead at those statements. "Not all weapons can be broken by stones or words. You still breath, you can fight. You can rally your sisters. Wars are fought in the field, but won in the hearts and minds." For a machine this "man" is very philosophical.

Who the f*ck are you to speak to me this way? was written all over her pain-ravaged features. Still, the Scathachian kept her mouth shut as she looked him up and down. "A warrior is a warrior still, even without her weapons. This is your stance? I see." She moved a few steps to the right, not liking that a total stranger flicked her forehead. The heavy hem of her robes dragged a small film of dust as they dragged on the ground and her hands were still neatly tucked into her sleeves. She looked like a gray woolen woman, with only the head of Isuelt to denote her identity.

"It is. Are not the best warriors taught to adapt as the battle changes? Taught to never heavily rely on one strategy, but to use many?" He falls silent then and watches her.

Presently she had neither the strength of spirit, nor to energy to battle words with this man. Instead, she simply lowered herself to sit on a large portion of the rock wall that had collapsed. Wincing, she rested the gray fabric of her sleeves which housed her hands on her lap. Isuelt took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She could almost feel a vice tightening around her throat, yet she refused to yield to it and break down. Perhaps there was still a warrior kicking inside of her.

"I do not seek to add to your pain, Nails." he says. "I was once told that a warriors true strength is not measured in victories, but how they rise above defeat and overcome their enemies and themselves. I do not fully know what that means, but I imagine it is supposed to be inspirational and encourage the fighter to reach deep, into the bottom of their soul, and find all the strength they will ever need within their own core being." Seeing her fall silent, and reading part of the emotions on her face he turns to leave, loose stones crunching underfoot.

His words began to register. She blinked and lifted her chin to look at him, her dark lashes moving as if aiding her comprehension. "Wait....You know me." She paused again as her mind tried to catch up to her ears. "You really know me. Who are you?"

"You may call me, Banshee." he replies, continuing to walk away. "However, you have a goddess to Avenge." He looks at her over his shoulder before erupting into the air with a wail of sound that kicks up dust and stone. The reverberating waves carrying him away like a vengeful spirit.

She simply watched Banshee walk away and disappear. Once again she was left alone in the ruined temple to turn and stare at the defaced statue of her goddess. Although now, there were parts of her that weren't as signed as before. She knew that it would only be a matter of time before her Sisters showed up, looking for her and yelling at her to come back to bed, or to get out of the dirt. Still, she never wanted to show weakness...not even to her Sisters. Here was quite, here was solitude. Here she hung her head, espresso hair tumbling nearly into her lap as she wept. She wept for her goddess, she wept for her Sisters, she wept for Eudora. But most of all, she wept for her own shortcomings and the loss of what she felt was her only gift to bestow upon the world. Her hands.