Double-Dead shook his haed. "I do not know who did this. I know of no such thing as a guild of ninjas, but I do know that Thrice is not responsible for this, at least. It may have been a group from a foreign land, attempting to prepare for war by defeating Burland's specialized forces."<br/><br/>This time, it was a crack of his neck. "I am certain they will strike again. Perhaps on Thrice, perhaps on At-Arms, perhaps even the Mage's Guild. I do not know who will be attacked next, but if possible, we must lend our services to them, We cannot have Burland crippled." Cold-hearted as he may have seemed, Double-Dead still did care about his country. It was his birthplace, and he would not be able to bear seeing such a proud nation brought to its knees.<br/><br/>He took a step or two towards Sbatarra, pain showing across his face, and said, "You are my finest apprentice," his eyes having a shimmer to them that was almost unearthly. "I want you to go out, to grow stronger, to strike out on your own, as I had done when I was still new. There is much to see, to fight, and with which to garner power." He gave her a thoughtful look, and then walked to the far wall, taking from it a mounted sword. Drawing it, he revealed a falchion that was made of solid gold; it shone in the dim light of the room, though instead of the bright yellow one would have expected, its gleam had a slightly reddish tinge to it; it was tempered with the Oerthblood that Sbatarra had been brought.<br/><br/>The guildmaster gave it a long, almost sorrowful look before sheathing it again. He stepped to Sbatarra again, and held it out to her. "Take it. Consider it a token, a trophy that you should hold with pride. You have always served me well, Sbatarra, and you are deserving of such a gift."<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>