He had grown up there, the son of a fisherman and a weaver. He had become fast friends with the single blacksmith, who was a kindly fellow, and took an avuncular interest in his upbringing. The future rental shop owner was called Treslune at that time, and spent his childhood cavorting in the sea, playing with his friends, and doing other child-like things.

One day, after much thought about the matter when out fishing all day with his father, he decided that he didn't see much of a life for himself in the small village, where everyone knew exactly what you were doing all the time and didn't hesitate to tell you their feelings about it. The life of fishing didn't appeal to him much since he didn't particularly care for the taste or smell of fish, and the monotony was hardly enjoyable. The tourist industry was even less enthralling, for, while Treslune liked people well enough, he didn't desire to be constantly dealing with rich chattery ladies from the big cities who, on a whim, decided to take a several day journey and see how quaintly people still lived. The giggling remarks about the squalor did little to enhance the appeal as well. Since there already were a blacksmith, general store owner and reverend, the only other occupations were taken. He decided to go out and make a future for himself.

Without warning anyone he packed his few belongings into a small and threadbare blanket which he then he tied up. At sunrise the next morning Treslune trotted off on the one-lane road leading away from the village. Not because he disliked his parents, who were decent people, or anyone else did he refuse to bid farewell, but because he disliked long and drawn out goodbyes — which are hard to be extricated from — and feared that they would try to convince him to stay home. By now he had made up his mind and was not to be dissuaded. By noon he hadn't covered as much ground as he would have hoped for he was used to fishing, and not walking. He also found, much to his discomfort, that he had not packed enough food to last him very long, and he had no money. It was late fall, and so the temperature was cool and dropped quickly at night. At last, thankfully, he turned into a tiny clearing in a copse and ate most of his remaining food. He tried building a small fire, but the tinder refused to catch, so he huddled, shivering, in his thin blanket. After some time his weariness overcame the cold and soreness and he succumbed to sleep.

He was rudely awakened an hour later by a crack of thunder and the ever-increasing amount of rainfall. The rest of the night he spent under the dripping trees, cold, wet, and miserable. He thought of the warm fire and waterproof roof of his house back in the village, and boiling soup being served with some roasted meat. He had never expected making a future could be so painful, discouraging and most of all, so hard.

The next morning the rain was still falling, though it had abated somewhat. The villagers, thinking that some catastrophe had befallen Treslune, were scouring the nearby fields in ever-widening circles. One group was searching along the road, when they saw in the distance a sodden figure squelching towards them. At first unrecognizable, Treslune cringed when he saw the group of men standing in the road and looking at him. He realized there was nothing he could do, so he steeled himself and slowly kept walking towards his neighbors.

After cries of joy at not seeing any bodily harm done to him, the villagers quickly started questioning him on his unusual behavior. He was forced to confess all, and after the angry and betrayed outcries died down to bitter muttering, they finally remembered to send messengers to all the other groups that they had found him.

In the church later that day, the whole village was gathered (excepting some of the womenfolk, who were watching all of the children) to decide what should be done to Treslune for the waste of a day's work of the whole village. His father already had thrashed him for a long time for his antics, and he was beginning to be sullen — after all, he had returned. After several hours of debate, the final verdict was he would have to spent every single day from sunrise to sunset for two weeks cleaning and mending the fishermen's nets.

He thought this was greatly unfair, since this was the least desired job in the village, and though that the others were doing this to him merely because they didn't want to do it themselves. Despite his growing bitterness, he said nothing. He knew that anything he said could and would be used against him. His two sole defendants were his mother and his friend, the blacksmith. His father didn't attend the meeting for shame and because he had already dealt out his punishment.

Treslune picked and threaded for the longest fortnight of his existence. He finally finished the tiresome work, but it took a month and a half for the smell of fish to dissipate completely. He performed the drudgery of fishing for three long years without complain, biding his time. He had not forgotten nor changed his views about his future, but he realized that he needed more preparation, and his father, who was advancing in years, would never agree to his departure. His father had died two and a half years later, and he waited six months more before starting to set off again. All during the three years he had spent his free time wandering the nearby fields and hiking in the sparse woods in the vicinity. He also had been performing odd jobs to collect a little money, and he now had an ample stash to last him some time.

This time, having learned something, he had packed some matches along with his flint and tinder, as well as a large amount of dried food, extra clothing, blankets, and a good stave. After saying farewell to his mother and the blacksmith (whose name was Jarlks), he started off on a bright mid-spring day, a tall young man at eighteen.

Note: Not much to say... If you notice any errors; grammatical, spelling, or factual, please point them out. Thanks, Snowshoe Hare