I don't care to hide the fact that I spent three years of my life as an apprentice woodworker. I hated every minute of it, but it happened, and I can't ignore it. So, therefore, a full account of my life must include at least some from my apprenticeship, though there are only two parts which really must be touched on: the beginning of it, and the end of it.
At the age of 14 or 15, my parents sat me down and forced me to decide where my life was heading. Of course I told them the truth: I always wanted to be a hunter, and I had yet to change my mind on the matter. My father had his doubts, but he could be convinced; my mother, on the other hand, was adamantly against the idea. She thought I might shoot myself or get eaten by a bear or something to that effect, as if those were common occurrences amongst hunters. They aren't, you know, my mother was just being irrational.
So, not caring past that point, I told them I wouldn't mind being a woodworker (how wrong I was!). My uncle was a woodworker, and he always seemed to be making interesting items, so I thought I might enjoy that line of work. So dad got in touch with Roger Sorrel, an old fishing buddy of his who was (and still is) the Master of Apprentices at the Three-farrow Crafting Hall, and immediately he found me a master and put me to work.
My master's name was Gib Heathstraw, a good man who had just achieved true mastery in the craft, and was looking to start his trade as an independent woodworker (since before he had always worked under someone else). As a result, he needed an apprentice to dump slop work on, and unfortunately for both of us he was stuck with me.
So for three years I worked under Gib, the poor fellow. He soon learned he couldn't give me any truly important task, as it would take me too long, and invariably it would be rather low quality. Not long after I was hired, he was forced to take in another apprentice to pick up my slack. Fenley Brittleleaf was his name; only a child at the time, but already more talented in the whole carpentry business than I was. Gib really should've fired me as soon as Fenley came along, but he was a good man through and through, and surely he didn't want to have to confront Mr. Sorrel about it, due to his relationship with my father.
During this time I also carefully crafted my second bow, which I have already mentioned in this journal. Really, that was the one great quality item I crafted in my entire time as an apprentice.
Then, as I neared the age of 18, I started thinking about things. Life, death, the meaning of it all, that sort of nonsense. And I had an epiphany: I realized that I wasn't in control, my parents were. They had forced me to choose something when I wasn't ready to choose, and now I had to face the consequences of their actions. I had to deal with the fact that I was stuck in a profession that I hated for the rest of my life.
The idea came to me suddenly: I would quit right then and there, and I would take my bow (which I had crafted just for the novelty of it) and become a hunter, like I always dreamed. So I went to Gil, and told him "There is nothing for me here anymore. I'm going to live a life of adventure as a hunter. I quit."
Almost happily, he told me to go inform Mr. Sorrel, which I did promptly. Then I set off into the Chetwood on my first hunt, and my life got far better from there on out.
Word reached my dad from Mr. Sorrel before I got the chance to tell him myself. He was disappointed, somewhat, but not as much as my mom. She was falling ill around that time, an illness that slowly killed her. I try not to think that her irrational worries for me might've accelerated her decline.
I suppose that's a rather dower note to end a story on, but the saga of Wincer the Woodworker is best left short, blunt, and rather unsatisfying.
