Bromelson

I ain't neva bin one fer nice things, not used ta luxuries. Rough world we live in and it ain't gettin' easier; what's tha fuckin' point I ask of overstuffed sofas, piles a gold, and fashionable shoes wit lil gold buckles when I could get me skull split wit an ax tomorrow?
Point bein' I ain't necessarily shown up fer da money when ole Grodmok calls fer me. Yeah, dat's right, a gob employa. See, this place ain't quite like some a tha other places ya heard about. Our goblins is smart, skittered outta their holes millenia ago and now dey run da streets, 'specially in the larger cities. Nah, see, when dat filthy, fat, stinkin' gob has work for me, I show up for tha excitement. And if I can clunk some skulls together and make enough coin for the tavern... well, dat's fine wit me. Course, I do like ta have somethin' ta give ta tha children's home... but more on dat lata, maybe.
On the night in question, I was in fact, enjoyin' spendin' some coin at a tavern. Knockin' em back like a real champion when Grodmok's lil toady pats me on da shoulder and helps himself to da stool next ta me. Lil fuckin' creep we call Worm. Says the ole gob has somethin' fer me.

Bromley Bromelson. The one and only Slagjaw himself. He plods a slow course through the dark streets of Hamblin, heading toward the south side of town where Grodmok keeps a tavern. The street itself is like most of the others, littered and dirty. Broken glass. Scraps of food for dogs to fight over.
He stops when he reaches the corner of Main and South, stares up at the building there, same way he does every time he finds himself on this particular corner. Pasted on the long abandoned building is a poster, or whats left of one. The aged parchment is announcing a fight at The Grand Royale. Bromley 'Slagjaw' Bromelson and Manish Ham. Winter of 544. Rough one that year. Seems like eons ago. Bromley won that fight and Manish Ham never quite recovered.
Bromelson lights a smoke as he stares up at the picture of himself, thirty years younger. He tucks his hands – large as bricks – into the pockets of his long coat, finds the locket there, and wraps the chain of it around two large fingers.
“It is you, then...” says a small voice. The voice stirs Bromelson from his memories, returns him to the present with a thud. He looks down to find a young boy standing next to him on the corner.
“Bit late fer you, ain't it?” Bromley rumbles.
“Not a such thing when you make your home behind the butcher,” the boy says.
“Ah,” Bromley digs a couple coins out of his pocket and hands them down to the urchin. “It's me,” Bromley says as the young boy takes the coins, small as bottle caps in Bromelson's outstretched hand.
“Trust you'll spend dat coin on food,” Bromley says.
The boy nods and then, “Do you miss fighting?”
“Sure, sometimes. Sometimes I think I only dreamed it... was a long time ago.”
“Mum, once said it makes a man stupid,” the boy says.
“Never got hit hard 'nough to go stupid,” Bromelson chuckles, “Tha other guys maybe.”
“Is Manish old and grumbly like you?”

Poor ole Manish. Had it hard growin' up like me, dint deal with it as well maybe. He didn't live long 'nough ta get old and grumbly. Complications from fightin', was never right agin afta our match. May be that I killed em? Scrambled his eggs too hard, maybe.