[i]Blood, death, chaos.[/i] Sometimes it bothered how quickly it came to him. How easily he could rectify ending a life, no matter how horrid and disgusting that life may be. But in his own eyes he was a monster slayer, and monsters came in all shapes and sizes. At least that was what he told to allow himself to sleep at night. As his laughter faded away as his siblings got down to more serious business, he silently cleaned his blade. It was a form of meditative practice: calming the mind through battle through some sort of regimental task. Brand had taught him during his tutelage to stretch, it was something simple that he used to calm himself yet risk his baser instincts taking over and slipping into a bloodrage. As he aged stretching became cleaning his blade as it seemed to become tainted more and more. He listened as he brought the rag across the cool metal wiping away the blemishes and making it shine once more. [i]Your blade is an extension of yourself. Treat it well and it shall treat you as a king.[/i] Another quip from adoptive father, it seemed the more engrossed he got into the affairs of Bosfryd the more his ghost would never let him go. 

He listened as a plan was formed. It made sense to Sigur; Brand's old cabin was secluded and well off the beaten path, and more importantly since his death nobody was suspect ghosts of the past to haunt the wreck. He would of preferred if they had been able to capture one of Harold's officers. The information would of been more reliable and instead they would have to go by extend word and mouth. Though information could still be mined from them, patrol locations, weapon caches, and other useful kernels of information. It all depend on how hard they pushed their captives, how many lines they were willing to cross. Sigur knew he was willing to cross such lines in the name of justice, but he had his doubts with some. And if things were to transpire how he imagined they would, then that may be a problem further down the line. But he did not worry himself with such idle thoughts at the current time and place. If an issue would arise they would address it when it came.

His eyes drifted over to Kazahk in silence. The last time Sigur had seen the drow was before his kin-slaying escapades, a fact that he only learned about later in letters sent to him by Brand. Brand always felt the need to send him a letter when he knew that Sigur would be stationed in one city for awhile. To retell how his siblings were and how the Nightwood was faring. At the beginning Sigur did not reply but Brand kept on sending the messages and eventually Sigur softened and sent replies. Brand knew him better than most people alive or dead, and Brand knew how much underneath his intimidating exterior he cared for his siblings, for the people he left behind. The last reply Brand had sent said that he was taking up serious matters with William and that the kingdom would change soon enough. If only Sigur knew what he meant, if he only he could of warned him. Though in his heart he knew he could of never convinced Brand, as gentle and kind as he could be; he was a stern one when it came to his sense of justice. 

He understand why those around him distrusted Kazahk in the way they did. What they must of seen was in no way comparison of what words could describe. And he knew of the own deep cultural superstitions about the ashen colored people, he himself had experienced the so called "Drow treachery" as it were. But to taint his own brother with the image of Ysar, that was unfair to him. Judgement was to be unscrupulous, untainted by personal views. But his time traveling the world had shown him that maybe it was best to forgive while they were still alive, how many men would be alive if he allowed them mercy, how many would of done better things? And to be truthful they needed Kazahk as much as anyone else. He was an experienced fighter and could handle most situations thrown at him. Was that the pragmatic outlook yes, but in violence and retribution everyone is cutthroats at the end of the blood red line. Even though Sigur was considering giving him a chance, it did not atone for what he had done. To kill a brother in cold blood, he would either prove his worth again to the family, or he would die forever known as the kinslayer. It was choice that Sigur could help facilitate but in no way could he make the choice easy for him.

Evidently it seemed that they had come to a decision and for the first time since the combat Sigur spoke. [b][b]" Aye, so we all had off into the woods."[/b][/b] He then walked over behind the bar and leaned down and found a lose floorboard. He then pulled up a heavy stone reveling a small hiding hole known only to Old Dunstan and his closest friends. Emma would surely find it there later. Sigur slowly produced something from his coin purse. Out came shining heavy coins, the sort that most people only dreamed of witnessing in a lifetime. They were legal tender of the Southern Traders and henceforth would be excepted almost anywhere as fair tender for their value. The inquisitional eye might wonder how Sigur acquired such coin and if asked he only replay that the price of blood was a high one indeed. Sigur spoke calmly to the ghosts that he felt in the room. [b]"Thank you Dunstan for the hospitality you had always shown our family. May Gruumsh guide you on your immortal journey, and may this coin resolve debts that can never be repayed."[/b] Slowly he dropped the coins into the hole as priest would bless a grave before recovering it to be found again at a later date.

He arose most solemnly juxtaposing the terrible warrior that stood in his place moments before. [b]"Remember go silent, leave no trace, and may the trees guide you home."[/b]