‘Okay, be brave. There isn’t anything to worry about. You’re just going to do what all men do at your age,’ the woman said.
The teenager, only of sixteen years, was standing in his finest clothes, bought from the earnings of his poorly paid work of a baker’s assistant. They were some cheap boiled leathers and an almost stripped cotton shirt. His doublet, jacket, and trousers were all from different trades-persons, all with a different quality of leather. His shirt was bought from the local market, with trades-persons selling either stollen or used goods. In his case, they were both stollen and used, with an emphasis on the latter.
His mother had done her best to bring him up on her own in the slums of Mentior, but alas, it was time for her beloved only son to stretch his wings and fly. Or in his case, take up sword, and swing. She didn’t care that he was conscripting to the Plysterian army, she was proud of the noble thing he was doing, but worried. Worried about whether he would return from battle, when the inevitability of war finally arrived.
‘You’ll always be my little…brave little boy, who I adore. I loves you, I really do!’ She said, tears bursting from her eyes.
‘I know mother, I love you too. I promise I’ll return!’ He said in his newly formed, adolescent voice, the sign he had come of age.