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In his persistence, your father has shackled you to his tradition against your will. Born into the world of the forge, your apprenticeship in the family blacksmithy began before you could even walk. The burden of inheritance didn't weigh heavily on you until your father went away to war when you were a young child. For six long winters, he was gone to fight in distant lands, leaving no respite in your mind to whatever fate befell him in his absence. Your mother, while a blacksmith herself, was the child of a Skald. Perhaps to ease both your mind and hers, she sang tales of cunning heroes slaying beasts of yore. In the absence of the smithy, dreams of adventure filled your mind. Perhaps you, too, could be a hero that Skalds sang of.
When your father returned, he was a changed man. There was no shortage of battle scars earned over the years. A missing eye, a freshly amputated leg, and no doubt many others hidden from the eye were present. But in his eye, there was a unique dimness. Perhaps in his journey, he had constant thoughts of his legacy. You. His return brought a reinvigorated burden into your life. Although you honed your skills in his absence, they always lacked in your father's presence. Your dreams were for naught. All that mattered now was the legacy you alone would inherit. And you had better do your damnedest to be worthy of one like yours.
