The sun was still two hours from rising, yet young Arrens was getting dressed to go to harvest the fields. His father had woken him up, apparently hungover once more. Instead of a gentle shake of the shoulder, his father had slugged him in the ribs to get moving. “Don’t make me come in here again, boy,” the elder Caltrains had said in a gravelly voice. The dwarf spirits had taken their toll once more, Arrens thought to himself.

At the age of 15, he was used to it. His father had a drinking problem, compounded by his love for gambling away money the family didn’t have. Their meager farm was barely enough to sustain themselves. But his father was usually too far in the bottle to remember that fact, so he often gambled away three quarters of the crops to pay off the debts he incurred to the local loan sharks.

This day, however, was different. Arrens would wake up and get dressed as normal. But instead of heading to the field to do the preparations he normally did before his father stumbled out, he was going to take a different route. There was another life out there. One that didn’t involve drunken fathers and mothers that seemed in a perpetual state of mourning for one reason or another. Arrens was destined to find this world and experience it, even if he wasn’t particularly educated.

Packing a small bag with some food he had pilfered from the cupboard, a few items of clothing and a small knife, he planned his movements. The field was to the south of the house in Northshire Valley. He’d have to walk through it to get out of the surrounded valley’s walls. Where he went from there was still up in the air. But a large part of him heard the ocean calling. He had always longed to see the open waters of the Great Sea, maybe even one day set sail upon them. Perhaps he’d be able to secure passage to Menethil Harbor. Surely the town named after Lordaeron’s king would have some work on the docks for a young boy.

As Arrens stepped outside, he found himself standing directly in front of his father, a wholly uncommon sight. Usually his father wasn’t out for another hour, waiting for the younger Caltrains to do the prep work. “Where you think you’re going, boy?” asked Arrens’ father. “What’s that bag for?” he said, making a grab for the bag on the boy’s shoulder.

“Nothing,” said Arrens, dodging his father’s grab.

“Nothing? Lemme see that bag, boy,” said the father.

“Lemme go!” yelled Arrens.

“Gimme that bag, boy, before I pound you into the ground,” demanded the father, his large, meaty hands clenching into fists.

Arrens’ hand reached behind his back and pulled the knife from his belt, holding it out in front of him.

“You gonna cut me, boy?” asked the father, laughing. “Better be quick with that!”

Arrens’ father swung his fist at the boy. Reacting quickly, Arrens brought his knife up and caught his father, the blade slicing through his abdomen. The elder Caltrains dropped to the ground, his blood pooling around his now prone frame.

Arrens ran through the dark of the pre-dawn morning and departed Northshire Valley.

((Special thanks once again to Anna of Too Many Annas for the inspiration to this post.))