Swordsmanship and little boys
He was his father's son without a doubt. He would train, unyielding, from morning to night and always wake up at the crack of dawn. At first he resented it, sometimes refusing point-blank to participate in the exercises his father rigorously practiced. His father acquiesced and allowed his son to stay in bed. The boy left his defiant personality as soon as the front door slammed and always shouted at his father, "Wait, wait daddy!" and his father complied; they would then jog for five miles around the forest and mountains that surrounded their expansive property. After the warm-ups they would proceed with sparring, beating makeshift bamboo staffs and swords until someone conceded defeat or the weapons broke, and the son would always wind up losing and his father would pick him up and dust him off and then tell him what he did wrong and correct his postures and moves.
Archery was also another part of practice as well as setting snares and traps, the little boy's mind was filled with various information ranging from different types of bows to the trajectory and flight path of an arrow. By age nine he could hit a bull's-eye ten out of ten times and completely incapacitate a target without killing it. His father also taught him falconry. He loved the winged wonders almost as much as his father and by age ten could outhunt and outfox almost any creature, human or otherwise.
The boy loved his father to the point of wanting to become the very image of him when he got older and the boy's father would say something along the lines of, "Son, be anything you want to be, but be careful, you only have one life" and the boy would nod, pretending to understand and then stay up all night trying to figure out what his parent meant.
When he was thirteen his father bade his family a farewell and went travelling across the world leaving his son to take up the father's profession, the boy was determined to live up to and surpass his father's name. The boy's name, Falkner.
