“Then who decides? You?”
4am. As the only member of this sorry band of adventurers not to desecrate the banshee’s dwelling in this plane, I took a second watch.
Miguel played the confessor to Brond. I couldn’t sit there and listen to him try to defend his actions.
Brond’s only moral code is monetary gain. My motives are alien to him; since I’m not killing to earn gold, I’m a hypocrite. But there’s no place in his philosophy for altruism, or justice. So he simply can’t comprehend those whose actions are guided by a nobler purpose.
Having spent two decades chasing a probably long-dead warrior because I could, I know neilaasinro beyrovin when I see it. The once-Captain has lost his company, and wishes he’d been buried in those Sodden Fields too. It’s easy to justify one’s own actions when it doesn’t really matter if tomorrow comes.
Gold keeps Brond “pure”. Purely what? I took an oath. I live by a code. The tenet of vokiirund keeps me grounded, my actions just; krif avokei vokul gives me purpose.