"Furlaf! Furrrlaf! Oh where is that boy?" Came the call from the house, amid the laughter from outside the door. Furlaf and his brothers and sisters were busy "working" in the streets, preying upon those who looked like they could afford a fancy set of armour or even a hot pie from the bakers.
His mother stepped outside the door, calling down the street, "Furlaf! Get in here, I need you to do something!" Obediently Furlaf stopped what he was doing and ran across the cobbled street back home, or what you could call a home, possessions were a luxury the Eversharp's didn't have. Furlaf stepped in and immediately smelled the pungent odour from the fire, mother's cooking supper again, he thought.
"What do you need me to do, mother?" asked Furlaf.
"What don't I need you to do... Here, take this and run down to the blacksmiths, your father is there getting what work he can. You know he does try..." replied his mother, beginning to drift off into another story.
"Mother!" interrupted Furlaf, desperate to leave the stench of the house.
"Yes?... Oh, right. Here you go and hurry up! Supper will be ready soon." She continued, passing a sealed note to Furlaf, her eyes warning him not to open it.
He grasped the note and placed it into his shirt pocket, departing swiftly from the house. Upon stepping out the door, he took a breath of the outside air though the smell was but a little better than the inside. Before he could become sidetracked, Furlaf set off at a jog down the narrow streets toward the blacksmith, his anger building. He had loathed his father for years, ever since he had forbid Furlaf to leave the walls of Minas Tirith and refrain him to the life of a poor worker within the slums of the White City.
Before long, however, Furlaf had reached the blacksmiths' and called out, "Theolaf!", abstaining from using the word 'Father'. Upon the call, a large bearded man with a stern face tumbled into view, apparently after being shoved. "If you dare come back to this place, you will feel the force of this here hammer, you thieving scoundrel!" Bellowed another man, dressed in a black apron coated in grime from his duties. A sigh departed from Furlaf's lips, he knew that his father had yet again attempted to steal from his workplace.
"Furlaf! What are you doing here!?" Demanded his father, unleashing his anger out onto his son. "Do you think you do not have to work? What are you doing wandering these streets? Speak, boy!"
Furlaf saw red, "Do not speak to me like a creature that dwells in the gutter! Mother sent me here, to give you this!" He threw the note at his father, landing softly in his chest before dropping to the ground. But his father did not attempt to pick up the note, nor even glance at it, for his eyes were firmly set on Furlaf. By this time, a small crowd had formed around the upstart, fearing his reputation may be at stake, Theolaf strode up to his son and gave him a firm smack, "Do not speak to me like that, boy. I am your father and you -will- show me some respect." continued Theolaf.
Yet it was too late to recover from his outburst and without thinking, Furlaf pulled a small blade out of his belt and thrust it towards his father at a speed that could only relate to the speed of an arrow nocked loose from a bow. Before he could react, the blade had punctured Theolaf's skin just below his heart as an immense pain burned through his body, "Ahhhhhh!" cried the man, as he fell to the floor. Furlaf stood there, with a cold stare and a grin subtly emerging from his face, "No more of your reeking foulness, father. Find peace in the abyss." The crowd stood silent, shocked at how the quarrel had unravelled, but before any could apprehend Furlaf, he had no sooner disappeared into the streets. For he had run past his home whistling for his hound, Fang, his companion instantly replied by following Furlaf to the gates of the city and into the wilderness beyond.
This, was the beginning of Furlaf's life...
