Calar's life is routine. Every morning he rises to work long hours at the smithy. He bangs out shields and armor for the local guards and the mercenaries hired onto the lumber consortium. He keeps to himself, and distances himself from the other smithies, most of whom he considers unintelligent and crass.
At night he wanders home -- a small room he rents from a dwarven couple, the Steelshanks. He dines alone with whatever food the missus has laid on his cot. He lights a candle and pores over the tomes that the mister has accumulated. Tales of battle, tactics, and historic events; when the candle has burned dim Calar enters the night to practice his own weaponplay, making an attempt to break a furious sweat each night.
The next day he repeats.
However, Calar has come to loathe the life he is living. He has come to despise the cruelty and backwardness of Falcon's Hallow, and he has come to long for something more.
Calar has gone so far as to pack his belongings. He would have left too, had it not been for the plague. The plague has instilled a whooping cough in the Steelshank's young son. Despite his loathing of Falcon's Hallow, Calar does care for and feel indebted to the Steelshanks, who have practically raised him. He will do his best to ease their suffering through this hard time. And then, then he will leave.
