Borgrim very slowly unsheathes his sword. It is unnecessarily large - almost as tall as a man, wide, gleaming brightly from near-compulsive levels of sharpening and maintainance. It is a prescence in the room, like a fifth person, a promise of lethal violence, a poem of death. It seems to almost whisper .. don't be afraid - it will be swift - there will be no pain - I am your best and final friend ...

Borgrim doesn't utter a word. He just let's the menace of the bared blade lend it's weight to Rosa's.