Kallar had always been a large boy, with broad shoulders and strong muscles. He’d known from quite an early age that his father had decided to apprentice him off to a smith, and he had no problem with that. He did have some suspicions about the old man’s motives – he said it was just the best way that Kallar could help provide for his younger siblings, and that was true, but Kallar also suspected that the man was worried that one day very soon Kallar would lose his fear of the old man, and beat the living crap out of him.
In point of fact, Kallar wasn’t at all afraid of his father, but neither did he harbour any ambition to thrash the man. His dad hadn’t hit them more than they deserved, and didn’t seem to take pleasure in doing so, and as far as Kallar was concerned, that was fair enough. He held no grudges.
Unfortunately, the local priest was an acolyte of Bekkuar, the god of families, who firmly believed that all children were not to be trusted, and had filled his father’s head with this nonsense too. Kallar had tried reasoning with the man, and failed, and had eventually decided to simply prove him wrong, and wait for the old man to realise his error.
Heavy thoughts for a sixteen year old, to be sure, but when you’re the oldest of eight with no mother and a father who works every hour of daylight the gods send, you learn responsibility swiftly and thoroughly. If his dad wanted him to be a smith, he’d be the best damned smith he could be. It was that simple.