Bronn the Sellsword

[Delerak]

Bronn slinked along behind the towering figure in front of him. He peered up, spying the greatsword strapped to the man's back. Suddenly the grown man stopped and the leathery, scarred face was staring down at him.

"Son. I'm not always going to be around. So you have to learn to take care of yourself. Y'hear?"
Bronn nodded vigorously. Reaching a tiny hand to wipe at the grime in his eye. Why do I gotta fight though? I hate fighting..

The man turned away and continued walking along over the battlefield, stepping over the dead and still dying. Bronn heard the piercing wails of those in pain. "You haven't gutted a man yet. But soon you will. This is all I can give you. Remember our talks. Remember the sparring." I don't wanna kill no one though papa..

Glancing over his shoulder down at Bronn the towering man spoke once more, "You take a good look. This is the life of a mercenary son." He gestured out over the carnage of the field of battle. "We kill. That's what we're paid to do. We get paid well though and we can earn a good livin'." Bronn nodded vigorously again, adjusting the dagger across his back -- his own version of a greatsword in his adolescence.

"You don't talk much son. You'll have to change that. The biggest thing to gettin' contracts is talkin' casually to folks. Learnin' their ways.. learnin' of jobs. The empire is vast, and mercenaries are a dime a dozen."
Bronn continued to listen to the lesson as he walked over the dead and dying, he felt a hand touch his ankle and turned to see the blood-streaked face of a boy no older than 8. The same age as Bronn. His father knelt down and removed the weak grip of the boy from Bronn's ankle.

"Death is always around the corner, son. Learn that lesson early and you might live much longer." Grinning, the large man grabbed Bronn up and threw him up on his broad shoulders, lumbering off into the sunset.