The familiar call to battle, the cacophony of shouts and unbarred steel. Their was familiarity in the chaos and it felt like home to Sigur. The battlefield was the home of vagabonds, sellswords, and mercenaries alike. Something deep inside of him struggled though, the part of him that had put his life following the way of the blade behind. He knew what coming back to Bosfyrd meant though, it meant more than just paying his respects. Five years it seemed was not enough for him to distance himself from it all. His hand clenched his blade as he took a breath. Everything leading up to this point going through his head, every choice and every action. He knew what a life of violence brought, and he had a taste of what a life of peace could be like. But looking into the eyes of the nervous girl behind the bar he knew. All of this occurring in the span of seconds as he came to a decision. The Green Mountain would live once more. He drew his sword from the scabbard as he turned to face the guards.

Sigur was an impressive and fearsome sight to witness in the moment of battle. His hulking frame matched only by the sword he held in his hand. Forged in the flames of the Southern Cities, it was a fearsome sight to behold. It was to be frank, a rather large instrument of death. For most men to use it effectively they would have to hold it aloft with two hands and be resorted to using only clumsy overhand swings and sweeps that threatened to throw them off balance. Sigur was able to wield it effectively with one hand and with precise pinpoint strikes. The very sight of him usually did a number to the moral of his opponents. Their minds having no choice but to conjure up old tales of orcish berserkers ripping through entire regiments. The guards looked perplexed and took one step back unsure of what to do sword raised. Moments later a rope dart slammed into his arms and he was yanked across the floor.

[i]Lysandra[/i], he thought he had seen a flick of red hair somewhere in the back corner of the Scuffed Boots. He moved forward to meet the guard with a statuesque intensity of a seasoned warrior. He swung his blade hard putting all his force behind the swing. The guard stood little chance as the blade hit with a well precised sundering blow at a lighter connecting plate of the guard's mail. The guard's flesh beneath provided little in terms of slowing the bleed as it cleaved through muscle and sinew. Blood sputtered across Sigur's face as the blade came free through the other side. Sigur did not spare a glance backwards, he didn't need vision to tell the men was most certainty dead. Eyes glanced at the blade coated with crimson

Sigur moved forward towards the remaining two guards that Kazahk had sent to the ground. They were getting up slowly as the rest of his siblings slowly surrounded them. Sigur made mental note of the status of the other guards, they already had a few still breathing for questioning. Anymore survivors would just complicate matters. Taking the initiative he walked forward and unceremoniously buried his blade downward into the chest of one of them. During this execution of sorts his eyes met with Kazahk's and sent out a simple stern message. [i]We will talk later.[/i] As he withdrew his blade the other man scrambled backwards getting up to his feet only to end up being cornered between a wall and the half-orc. "[b]What are you all!?[/b]" the guard croaked out as Sigur approached.

[b]"The Nightwood sends its regards."[/b] Those words spoken with chilling calmness were all the guard got as his life met its end against cold steel. Sigur turned to face his siblings and a small smile appeared on his face. Looking at the tavern and the carnage that had ensued he could only laugh at the absurdity of it all. Of all of them meeting one another once again in such a situation. So that was what he did, he began to laugh, a deep and warm laugh that filled the room as he sheathed his blade.

[b]"Well, that was interesting."[/b]