After making the quick stop at the river and washing off the blood from the Towering Troll, Sigurd set off with the children. They returned to Grimroost and he walked with them all the way until they reached their orphanage, in the poorer part of town. As he’s seen prior in Miltonshire, the conditions the segregated classes lived in – and the overall separation endured by the class separation system – was like night and day.

He felt ashamed at the kind of privilege he had, not because of where he was, but instead where he had come from. Hailing from a poor farming village, the only reason he got out of that sort of simple, dead-end life was due to his enlisting for the war. And he knew it wasn’t something anyone – especially not orphaned children – could use as an example or take advantage of.

Feeling compassion for their plight, and a greater sense of duty considering where the fight took place, Sigurd saw it upon himself to present the kids with a pouch containing one hundred gold coins. Despite the loss of their precious herb haul, the orphans' eyes sparkled with gratitude.

Stolen story; please report.

“Are you sure about this, mister?” one of the older kids asked. “We didn’t do anything for you, or to deserve this.”

‘Of course, I’m sure. It’s only fair after that troll ruined your expedition,” he said, shyly scratching the back of his head. He then delivered, with a huge grin on his face, “And there’s no need to call me ‘Mr’. My name is Sigurd!”

The kids ran up to the orphanage door, where the headmistress was. They showed her the pouch and explained the situation. “You’re a noble saint, Sigurd,” she proclaimed, stifling a cry.

“It’s nothing like that, ma’am,” Sigurd replied, as he watched the kids run inside. “I was just glad to be of help. And that I was there to secure the safety of those kids. Now please, take those coins and replenish the medicinal herbs and food that they couldn’t procure today!

With tears in the headmistress’ eyes, she nodded heartily as Sigurd smiled and took his leave.