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The Wandering Warrior

 
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Issy
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PostPosted: Sun Apr 02, 2017 3:38 pm    Post subject: The Wandering Warrior Reply with quote

There was no reason to believe that just because she’d been keeping to herself as of late that the leader of the Scathachian warriors in Rhydin had been derelict in her duties. If anything, she had been more of a helmer than usual, directing her fellow Sisters in arms to take up slightly longer patrols in the Old Temple and West End districts. While they seemed to have gained the upper-hand (temporarily or not) over the anti-magic user surge headed by the Temple of the Divine Mother, there was something that Isuelt couldn’t put her finger on. Something that made her feel quite uneasy. Something that seemed to dance just beyond her peripheral vision.

While they say the horizon is always far enough away to make a man feel that anything is possible, it was also true that when trouble loomed…its first appearance is on that fabled horizon. And what bothered Isuelt the most, was that she could feel a portend of chaos and not actually see any evidence of it around her. She would sit on rooftops in the late evenings and ponder what it was that made her feel so restless, so distracted. Isuelt thought of Jewell, of Cullen, of Batten. All of these issues came with their own set of complications, but the consternation she was feeling seemed to be a summation of these concerns. It occurred to the Scathachian that she had not been away from Rhydin in some time. Janie always went back to her homeland every year, even Sheryl went on a voyage last year. The idea of a “vacation” was a foreign one to Isuelt. She had always felt happier when she was nose-down in the middle of a battle or a crisis. But, when there wasn’t currently a decided whetstone on which to sharpen her blades, the drudgery of mundane worriment worked to dull her mind.

“Maybe some time away would do me good…” Isuelt whispered to herself up on the roof of the Dragon’s Gate Fire Station. She could hear Athena’s smug chuckle in the back of her mind as she admitted the words, it’s what her once-roommate had been saying for nearly a year. She had been watching the comings and goings of the Red Orc Brewery since before sundown and she felt that it was time to honor the hard work that went on over there with a trip to the Inn. Perhaps then, properly watered, she would have a longer conversation with herself about a possible vacation.
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Isuelt De Romiano

"Priestess before warrior, humility before honor, others before the self."
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Issy
Tough As Nails
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PostPosted: Thu Apr 06, 2017 2:52 pm    Post subject: The Highwayman Reply with quote

She didn't know where she was going, she didn't know when she'd be back. So how did the Scathachian know what to pack? Easy...she didn't. One thing Isuelt had grown somewhat accustomed to (whether by choice or not), was traveling with very little in tow. Her sisters would understand...at least, she hoped so.

After wrapping up her latest assignment and a quick debriefing with Watch Lieutenant Cullen, she simply took off. Isuelt rode past the Rhy Din boundaries and kept spurring on her mare. She didn't know where she was being led, but as she was fond of saying, "Knowing your destination takes all the fun out of the journey.” And besides, sometimes it was just best to take the scenic route in life and get away for a little ‘me time.’ This was a new concept for Isuelt.

As the days passed, Isuelt found her road was well past the land known as Rhydin, she was feeling the blood course through her veins as if she were a woman reborn. The Scathachian had always been a wanderer at heart, always felt leery about setting down any roots. She was so much happier when she knew she had fewer responsibilities, even though that often meant less friends. The weightlessness of freedom was worth the absence of companions, at least right now. It was simply the way she was put together, Isuelt had always been something of a recluse.

She had been traveling west for the majority of the days. Yet today as she watched the sun rise to her right, she realized her direction had shifted north. Isuelt still had no idea where she was going, but something about "north" made her smile. Somehow it was like soaring, or coming up for air. Her most pressing decisions came as where and when to stop for a meal or night’s lodging. She purposely kept to secondary routes, trying to retire in small villages or towns.

The full meal in Isuelt's belly from the previous night at a wayward inn not far off the road, allowed her to sink into a sleepy content as her body swayed in unison with the strides of her mare. It was far after midday by the time a grumbling roused her attention to the hoof beats keeping pace behind her. Turning her chin so that it paralleled her right shoulder, her dark eyes sought to seek the rider tailing her. It was then that the rider skipped to the left and began to pass her; his presence had been detected and he fought for a few moments more of ambiguity. Isuelt turned her head back to face front, she looked out of the corner of her eye and watched the rider quicken his gallop. Dressed in shades of black and gray, with only a touch of the darkest blue on his sleeves, the rider did not even give the Scathachian a second glance. He rode on ahead of her for some time, until he disappeared around the crook in the road, sheltered by a thick grouping of trees.

When it came time for Isuelt to take that crook, she was really only mildly surprised to see the rider, reins in hand, standing in the middle of the road. "Please....help me," he urged. Isuelt, vacant of jubilant amounts of blind mercy, even on the best of days, pulled up on her reins and stopped her horse. Not necessarily to help, but to regard.

"Please," the rider continued. "I am hungry...anything, please."

"I have no food," saying nothing of any currency.

"I...I will pay you for food, my lady, please. I...I have carvings that I do," as he reached for the pack on his horse, Isuelt knew she should have charged at him and rode out of there. There was a tugging at the nape of her neck, that sent a small tingling down her back.

So once more, the Scathachian was left with little shock when she found a sturdy crossbow leveled at her heart.

She let out an audible sigh. Such a shame, she thought, it had been a nice day up until this point.

"Get off your nag, bitch," the rider's pitiful tone had drastically changed.

Without word, the Scathachian slowly swung her leg behind the saddle and slid down, landing with both boots on the dirt road.

"Step away from the horse...this way...slowly," the man had done an excellent job of keeping a clean shot at her chest. So, Isuelt figured she should play along for a while longer. She kept her dark eyes trained on the man's face, searching for any inkling of a weakness or kink in his performance.

He laughed like gravel falling over a tin roof. "You're a tall one, missy." Isuelt kept quiet, kept her eyes on him. She could feel his gaze raking over her body, another pinched sigh from the Scathachian.

The rider began to slowly approach her. He stopped short then, halfway closing the distance between them. He turned the crossbow on Isuelt's mare and let fire a bolt, straight into the neck of the animal. The horse reared and threw its head back in agony, then bucked a few times and staggered off the road and into the underbrush. Isuelt's wide eyes narrowed almost immediately as she looked back to the rider, nostrils flared; her mind was already trying to shift gears onto plan B, while contemplating the fate of her horse.

As if the rider was given an extra boost of confidence from his act, he pushed further towards her, "Take off your sword belt."

Isuelt didn't move, but stayed her icy gaze on him. In her mind, the man had just dropped the gauntlet.

"Now!" he had already reloaded the crossbow and leveled it once more at her chest.

Inhaling smoothly, she dropped her fingers to her sash and belt and unfastened her weapons.

"Drop them over there," he pointed to a spot far to Isuelt's left. She did as he instructed, though her jaw flinched and indicated that she was boiling beneath the surface. "That's much better. Now we can get to know each other a bit more.”

Moving closer still, seemingly gathering courage with each step, the rider grinned at her. Isuelt could see the gaps in his grin, as clearly as she could smell his rancid breath. Again, his eyes were taking in her form, lingering on a few places too long for even the most brazen woman to find appealing. The rider licked his lips, letting his thick tongue linger on his bottom lip as his brows rose, "Much more, I think.”

Lifting her chin, the Scathachian defiantly watched the rider approach her. His eyes betrayed any hope of secrecy he might employ; it was very clear what he wanted from this lone female traveler. Defiance had always been a specialty of Isuelt, and as she stood still, waiting, she lured him into her web. Crossing her arms over her chest, she inhaled smoothly, her eyes narrowing further.

“Ah ah ah…” Apparently, the highway man wanted none of that. “Put your arms down, and your hands were I can see them, missy!” Isuelt waited until she heard a creak of the crossbow before she obeyed.

She sized him up, he was only a few inches taller than her. He finally closed the gap between them, keeping the crossbow as the third party in his sick coupling. "We'll get to know each other much better, indeed," he echoed himself as he reached out a hand to stroke Isuelt's shoulder. Still, the spider didn't move. His calloused, grubby fingers slowly trickled down her collarbone. Still, the spider didn't move. A gritty chuckle escaped his lips as he cheered on his fingers; they moved over the slope of her breast and swept down to push up against the Scathachian. Finally, only then did the spider move.

The slight yawn of her leather bodice was the first sound to tinge the air. The second was a sharp crack as Isuelt's fist flew with piercing precision at the rider's nose. Her other hand swung up to grip the rider's wrist and force the fired bolt to go astray, embedding itself into a tree. The man's cry was soon silenced as the Scathachian clutched his throat in her strong hand. She saw his fist readying to fly at her, and she kicked out at his knee. Isuelt stepped back and watched as the man folded onto the ground, blood spraying from his nose as he gasped for air. His pantings only rented the air for a moment before they were silenced, a heavy boot was stamped on the rider's throat.

A spurt of blood ejected desperately from his nose and mouth, the last of his air, as Isuelt's heel ground itself against his gullet. The slick, snapping sounds were strangely like music to her ears. Before he was aware of what had happened, before he was able to wrestle with her leg, Isuelt had procured the dagger from her the back of her waist, beneath her bodice and nipped it to life. The blade sliced easily through his tunic at the elbow, puncturing the skin as well, and held his arm in place. A gurgle was all the wail that the boot on his throat would allow him.

The rider's eyes, now wild with panic looked to the tall Scathachian standing above him, balanced on his throat. Isuelt's expression of total malice unwaveringly met his pleading eyes. "You picked the wrong girl, little worm," her whiskey-stained voice whispered forth.

The man's free hand reached up to grip her calf, his nails impotently scraping at the leather of her boots. The lack of oxygen now ringed his eyes with a bluish hue, and veins on his temples bulged. Isuelt figured that he had suffered enough, plus, she was growing bored of his incessant gurgling and the sight of the red teardrops falling from his mouth. Her lips curled and she leaned forward on her boot, utterly crushing the man's windpipe.

She watched him as his eyes rolled back into his head, and stayed there. When she knew that his foul life was spent, she took her boot from his throat and kicked his body off the side of the road and into the thick underbrush. Drawing a cleansing breath, the Scathachian retrieved both her blade after wiping it on the man’s cloak and her swords from the road and took hold of the rider's horse. It was now time to go searching for her mare, to see if the animal had survived her fate better than this highwayman.


(Gleefully resurrected from the Catacombs and edited.)
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Isuelt De Romiano

"Priestess before warrior, humility before honor, others before the self."
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Issy
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PostPosted: Fri Apr 14, 2017 1:54 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

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.

What was more, she pondered the very real possibility of an arc in her temper. There were several incidents as of late that were weighing heavily on her mind. After Renna’s little experiment with the Rage Virus, Isuelt had had moments when her abilities outweighed her conscience. Most recently, the Name Keeper of the Temple of the Divine Mother when Jewell was at stake. She had beheaded and eviscerated him, with orders to have his body left outside the city and unburied. Most recently, three nights ago, she had murdered a highwayman after he had killed her mare and would have done a number of things to Isuelt, had she let him. Both men had it coming, as she would have said if she had been brought before a tribunal or the like. But there was no one who would bring her to justice for these killings, was there? With the highwayman, there were no witnesses, and with the Name Keeper…well, there were just the Knights of St. Aldwin, Lirssa, Rand and the young witch, Mallory. And all of them were witness to the entire event. Not one of them would dare have turned her in after what they saw that night; after Kal seemingly killed Jewell. Though Lieutenant Cullen had caught wind of something that had happened that night at the Sanctuary nightclub, he had been wise enough to leave it alone and stop pursuing Isuelt as a suspect in the headless body case. At least, for now.

Her brain hurt. She couldn’t bear to keep thinking about these events anymore today. She noticed a town on the horizon and hurried her pace. Something about being around a lot of people might help to keep her mind off of things, at lest for a little while. When she arrived at the town, the first place she looked for was a tavern, preferably with an inn attached where she could partake in a meal and get some rest. It wasn’t too difficult to find, The Devil’s Flask Inn was right in the middle of town. As Isuelt tethered the highwayman’s horse, which she had taken since she had to burry her own mare, she shook her head at the name of the inn. “Nothing says good omens like drinking with the devil…” She sighed and looked the establishment over as she headed through the front door.

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. She made her way toward a smaller table set up near the wall close to what appeared to be a few dart boards. After making eye contact with the curvy barmaid, the pretty little blonde headed over. “Get ya something hot? Or do ya need coolin’ off, lass?”

Isuelt lifted her chin to the waitress, “Uh…just some bread and whatever is warm in the kettle. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, miss.” There was a swish of the barmaid’s skirts.

“Oh,” Isuelt called out to her, “And a whisky. Neat.”

The buxom blonde smiled and nodded once to the Scathachian before she disappeared through what Isuelt assumed was this town’s crowd of regulars. However, shortly before her food arrived, a friendly game of darts started up between a few of the room’s more masculine patrons. Only, instead of darts, this lot were yucking it up with daggers. No wonder the target boards looked so devastated. Isuelt could only shake her head at the luck she was having on this so-called vacation; and how, with the mix of alcohol, testosterone and weapons, her table choice had gone from placid to perilous.

Still, she thanked the waitress for her meal and drink and tried her best not to seem too unnerved. Isuelt had not yet gotten through half of the stale bread and lukewarm broth, when she was approached once more by the 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 with a few daggers in it. Or perhaps it was the man's size that created the optical illusion. He and his mates had been some of the men tossing knives at the poor targets. Though Caleb was no longer participating, it seemed he was looking for a new sport.

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…"

As if on cue, Isuelt pushed the cold remnants of her meal from her, and good old Caleb made his move. The tall man stood near the table, as if awaiting her to acknowledge his presence. So, of course, Isuelt inhaled a slow and patient breath while taking in the intimate wood grain pattern of the table. She figured he wouldn't go away so easily, and he obliged her with an answer to her unvoiced hypothesis.

"Good eve, my lady," throwing in a bow, no less.

The Scathachian's eyes swept up toward the man, her face was the very portrait of annoyance. "I'm not your lady, I don't want the drink, and I'm not interested in screwing you." Clearly she was tired; tired of the scenario, or tired of traveling. It was probably both.

Straightening, Caleb looked down on the auburn-haired woman. If it was at all possible for a man of his stature to look emotionally wounded, he did.

"Look," the tiniest pinprick of guilt seeped into Isuelt's conscience, "I'm just a traveler, passing through.” After a pause, she added, “And I’m married.” Lie or not, usually that did the trick.

"Then I shall trouble you no further," and a hasty retreat was in order for poor old Caleb. Isuelt sighed and decided that it was indeed time to call it a night. Once the barmaid came back to the table, Isuelt paid for her dinner and procured a room, then gratefully made the trek up the stairs. All she wanted was a quiet night to herself, but Isuelt rarely got what she truly wanted.

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 the world tilted 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 in a forward slash, 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. 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 her dagger, she twistingly 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, and twisted the weapon once again. 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.

Isuelt's breath now came in ragged gasps, as she tried to distance herself from the pain in her shoulder. She rolled over on her side, her body wallowing in the blood-slickened bed sheets. She knew the man beside her was still alive, she could hear him breathing and trying to move. However, he was having a much rougher time of it than she was.

She made a decision then to leave. She didn't need the proprietor of the Inn, nor the town's lawman coming down on her and adding to the suspicions that Lieutenant Cullen back in Rhydin already had about her. Slowly, she dragged herself from the bed and moved to the washbasin. She quickly cleaned and wrapped her shoulder as best she could in the dim room. Gingerly then, she got dressed and strapped on her boots first, weapons second. Isuelt's pulse was still raging as she finished preparing; she glanced at the hulking man on the bed. He was still producing shallow gurgling sounds, he wasn't dead yet.

“Stupid son of a bitch…” came forth the whiskey-stained voice. Isuelt pressed her lips together and slipped out of the room, locking it behind her. She stooped cautiously and slid the key under the door. Gripping the threshold with one gloved hand, she eased herself up and stared at the door for a moment longer than she probably should have. Isuelt lost herself in thought until a creak from the bed on the other side of the door shook her from her pensive stint. She sighed deeply and turned to quickly and silently move down the hallway, over the steps and out the door. She knew how to be nearly undetectable when she had to be…years of practice, you know.

Isuelt knew that, in thanks to Renna, her body would heal on its own and with relatively little complication. She pressed on, eager to see what the next stop of her “vacation” would bring her. She silently chuckled to herself as she mounted her horse and urged her out of town.

“Some vacation…” she murmured to herself amid the galloping strides of her mare. “And people wonder why I don’t take them…”





Again, mercifully resurrected from the Catacombs and edited.
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Isuelt De Romiano

"Priestess before warrior, humility before honor, others before the self."
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Issy
Tough As Nails
Great Wyrm
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Joined: 31 May 2005
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Can Be Found: The Scathachian Sanctuary.
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PostPosted: Fri May 05, 2017 2:52 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Vacations were sometime overrated. At least, that was the current opinion of this particular Scathachian. The longer she was gone, the longer she spent getting to sleep at night as her brain tumbled over all that could be going wrong back in Rhydin without her. What had befallen the city? How many murders, thefts or other crimes had been committed? Was there some new maniac running around creating hell? Or worse...an old maniac.

Her sojourn hadn't been restful, if anything it has proven to her that she actually thrived during chaos. Isuelt needed to feel needed. She was happier being useful to someone. Anyone, really. She had never really considered herself an idle person, but this experiment had proven it to her. Isuelt was most content with her nose to the proverbial grindstone, hip-deep in duty. If there was ever such a thing as job security, Isuelt had it. There would always be people in this world who were malicious in intent, depraved in behavior and maligned in actions.

Perhaps, Isuelt wondered as she dosed on the back of the mare leading her back east, all people were inherently evil and some were just more adept at hiding it, of suppressing their nature. After all, it was more difficult to find the "good" ones in the crowd. Weren't the altruistic, magnanimous ones as rare as any gem?

"Not one of us goes without guilt..." she murmured to herself. For even the "heroes" of Rhydin had their secrets, their dark shames (herself very much included). Images of Isuelt's short adventure flashed before her day-dreaming eyes: a murdered highway man, an assaulted tavern patron. It wasn't as if these two men were the humanitarian type, to be sure. "Filthy bastards..." she continued. But even they had families of some kind, didn't they? Friends who would be bereaved, angered, swearing to the sky about the mucked up, savage world they lived in. "All of us...filthy bastards. Damned to the end..." Isuelt could feel the sulk bleeding back into her system. Her greatest and most reliable quality was her self-deprecation; it never left her, it was the most faithful of all her traits.

Lapping at the pool of morose discontent was where she found herself as she cleared a vista and saw the skyline of Rydin on the horizon. Strangely, the sight garnered a sigh from the warrior as if coming home to a burning cesspool of chaos did the heart good. Isuelt had lived here almost as long as anywhere else, yet she felt real connections here that made it so much more than a dwelling place. Rhydin was one of the few places in her life that didn't feel as if it were a waiting room for the next stop, the next location. A soft smile touched her lips and she knew that she would soon be in her glory. She would soon feel needed, whether by the Watch, her Sisters or the citizens in general. Isuelt didn't know what she had been searching for on her furlough, but whatever it was, she found it just there atop the vista overlooking Rhydin.

Because after all, isn't that what we are all in search of? What we all clamor for at the end of our days? A place to belong. A place to call home.

Whatever sins she had committed on the road, or all of the roads in her life before coming to Rhydin, they were all absolved here. For better or for worse. It would probably be quite some time before the Judge went looking for another sabbatical. For now, she was home and it was the best feeling in the world.
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PostPosted: Fri May 19, 2017 2:48 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

A road like any other. One could suppose. There were many ways in and out of Rhydin. None of them normal by normal standards. Oh the roads were dirt, grass, cobblestone. There was the sea, ships in port destine for who knew where. There were other ports, that lead off in to places far beyond. There were magical portals, that lead to home worlds, hell and who knew where else. But warriors always seemed to walk the same roads.

Walking seemed the best way, it cleared the mind, and purged the soul.
Rhydin was ever the same. Even when she had been gone it remained the same. Lives lost, lives born. Fires and hell broke loose and all came to pass. yet people lived on. The city of the damned and damaged seemed to fight on like those who called it home, or those who took it up as a place to stay.
A face like a wandering gypsy wasn't hard to miss. Someone like her didn't go for long with out someone taking note. But the city hadn't burned to the ground. Yet. Hera leaned in the shadow of a tree, well hidden out of sight of any coming or going on the road. That winding road towards town.

The city was beyond, a nice view. If one looked with a squint. She could be an assassin waiting to kill a passer by. She looked like one. Dressed in black, armed, even if one couldn't see the weapons. But as she idly stood there, leaning on that tree, she flipped a dagger. Just another tool of the trade. "Have a good time?" Her voice carried, beyond the shadows in which she blended. "The city didn't burn down. As you can see. Though I could remedy that, if you like." A little ball of flame flicked to life in the shadows.


"Its always amazing what a time away can do for the mind."
She stepped out and leaned in to the light. "Hell what it can do for the mind, and spirit." She looked to the city beyond. Hera had often come back to the city. So many times so many ways. She had never left it for long. Like the wandering warrior before her, she'd been away from the city for a while. "Ever think about never coming back?" The question wasn't posed as a joke either. She herself had given it a thought.
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We soldier on
Through hell's high water
This war's a losing fight
The past is gone
The future further
Retreating out of sight
And after the fire has died
Will the light still remain in your eyes?
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