Quinn paused and turned his gaze upon the young man, he forgot his second question for the answer to his first was not one he expected. Inhaling deeply he moved with ease towards a ruined porch. Turning his back on the lad, for he sensed the young man had some honor, if not in his actions but by his statement.
Laying his helm on the porch he shifted and swung the heater around in a graceful move and slipped it from his shoulders in one action, leaning the shield against the step. After a second he pulled the sheathed sword from the frog that carried it and stood it upright against the shield.
Tunring, his stormy eyes focused on the face of the boy, a wistful smile tugged at the corner of his eyes as he sat down and placed his hands on his knees.
“Son...we.” He extended a hand to the younger warrior, “When we as warriors take up arms it is for one reason. Someone, some person, some group of people deserve to die. I do not enjoy taking the life of another man, yet in my years I have killed many men, so many I believed that deserved to die. And I am sure in their view, in their mind, I was the one who deserved to die.”
Shaking his head, his voice having taken on the sage like quailty that older warriors often took when talking to younger ones. “We, as men, regardless of our race, religion or belief must take a stand as to what we believe is right and wrong.”
Pointing to his heater, “I have my shield covered because I am not at war, I am merely a pilgrim. But if I come across a wrong, an evil or injustice I will reveal my hearldry and fight the good fight to right that wrong.”
Leaning on his knee he pointed to the younger man, “Son, you have a blade. You carry a weapon and with that weapon you make a stand.” Waving his hand around the ruined village, “I would wager if you and I were here when this destruction occurred, we would both have taken a stand to stop it.”
Shaking his head he spit on the ground, his eyes cloudy with rage as he took a deep breath, “I have for the better part of my life stood against those who would hurt and rape the weak for their own pleasure. There are people who deserve to die and I am their executioner. How God will receive me is my cross to bear, and if I am to face the fires of hell for my actions it is a debt I will gladly pay.”
Quinn fell silent a moment as he looked at his hands, a soft chuckle left his lips as he glanced back at the boy, “If that is your cross son, then we are more alike than different.”
The writer who cares more about words than about characters, action, setting, and atmosphere is unlikely to create a vivid and continuous dream; he gets in his own way too much; in his poetic drunkenness, he can't tell the cart- and its cargo- from the horse.
"Grieve not, wise warrior. It is better
to avenge one's friend than mourn too much.
Each of us must one day reach the end
Of worldly life, let him who can win
glory before he dies: that lives on
after him, when he lifeless lies."