"In all of Galgia, how do I get the drollest son!?"

Theokritos squeezed the bunched up fabric of his tunic so he could keep still, closing his eyes as he listened to the conversation inside. His mother and father were fighting again -- she wasn't pleased that he had come back from the magic academy testing.

She was even angrier that he had failed to exhibit any show of magic.

"Dear, calm down." His father mused, no doubt stroking his bushy brown beard. "He's the son of an Aggerosk and Morialis! My family's entire line have served both the local lord and the empire itself for-"

"Generations, I know! Everyone in the Morialis dynasty could use magic, too! But he can't use magic and his swordsmanship is gaudily awful! How could he be a proper heir for either of our lineages? You know what we have to do!"

The silence that followed his mother's venomous snap made Theokritos' heart sink. Theokritos turned his head, watching the door. All he wanted was to know his father supported him. If he did, then-

"We will cut our losses, then. You are still young enough to bear a child; Theokritos is not even a full-grown man yet. We will give him a new dynasty of his own, some money and let him take on a name that won't besmirch either of us."

Theokritos felt his heart sink and gently plopped back against the wall in defeat. All he could hear was ringing; a cursed ringing that seemed to carry him through the monotonous days that came along. He ate, drank, sleep, woke and packed his things all to their orders. He didn't even realize where he was until the door slammed closed and left him standing in the streets. All he had was the pack on his back, a pathetic amount of gold, his short tunic, and travel sandals. His hands clasped a parchment he thought his mother had given him but all of it was still a blur.

Theokritos Martell was his new name, his value less than nothing in his parent's eyes. His old life as he knew it was over.

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Years went by and Theokritos roamed seeking work. Initially, it was hard; many times left him scraping together discarded food or filthy from work. The further he left everyone behind, the more light his heart became. While he had left the village in his late teens, he had made it as a second-rate beggar. Perhaps his parents would have been proud to see him at least successful -- even in such a pathetic field -- if they had known he survived. Theokritos wondered what it would have been like to meet his younger sibling and to see their destiny. Being an older brother had intrigued him greatly, eventually inspiring that distance to shorten and his journey to take him back home. A young human male without any true talents could find work back in Burolo, especially if anyone remembered him. There was only one problem, something he couldn't have expected as he reached the top of one of the many hills surrounding his village.

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The village of Burolo had been raided.

Theokritos paled beneath the layer of grime and dirt adoring his body, breaking into a sprint as he raced down to the village outskirts. Living on the border of the empire meant that Burolo was exposed to many of humanity's enemies. Elves, orcs and dwarves alike enjoyed pilfering their sparse goods and people. All of monster-kind were scum that just enjoyed ruining things for humanity. Yet he couldn't give this to any of them based on rumors. Bodies weren't lining the streets, there were impoverished survivors wandering the streets and some of them were still trading goods for pathetic sums. It had likely been the work of bandits or an enemy lord, using the infighting that nobles participated in to gain favor with the emperor to no doubt sate their bloodlust.

Theokritos eventually saw houses that seemed familiar, slowing his pace and pulling off his bag. Even if he was reduced to a patched tunic, mangy hair and fuzzy bear he didn't care; seeing his parents and that child alive would have calmed him. But there wasn't anything happy waiting for him when he turned the corner.

The plaster and wood home he had grown up in was a burned out shell with half of its roof collapsed. Both family banners that had been hung over the door were charred and tattered, barely clinging to the severed holding bars that lay in the dirt. There were two corpses huddled together within, burned too black to recognize by anything but intuition. Theokritos knew it was his parents though -- perhaps the only blessing was that the woman in the pair didn't have a large stomach and there wasn't a child there.

"You! Halt!"

Theokritos wasn't moving but he remained where he was, turning to face the voice. Five figures wearing the blue and gold tunics of the local lord approached, each of them wearing a bronze breastplate and pointing spears at him. Four of them wore hoods but the fifth wore a full legionary helmet with the local militia's yellow plume of authority. All of them had soot clinging to their attire and blood-stained bandaging covering some part of them.

"You're their boy aren't you?" The captain barked, lowering his spear's tip and stepping forward while the rest kept watching. "Theokritos... you look like you're in better condition than most. Here."

The captain released one hand from the spear and reached to his belt, pulling his sheathed knife from his belt and offering it. Even if he was a beggar, the man trusted him; Theokritos took the weapon and watched the man wave for him to follow.

"Looking at you, I bet you don't have a place to stay anymore since I heard you left years ago. Come along... it's time we get you all cleaned up and proper."

"Proper, sir?" Theokritos pondered, stumbling up and trailing behind the captain. "But I only just got back! I... I don't understand. What good can I do helping you?"

"You can hold a knife! You can move debris! Even if you're not the best fighter or a mage like that mother of yours, you can still serve in the militia!"

The man kept walking but Theokritos slowed and came to a stop. The man turned back and patiently waited as this new reality sank in. For the first time in years, he wouldn't need to run off and about, seeking work or begging for coin and food. Being in the village's militia meant things could change. As part of the militia, he could defend the last bit of hope for his home he had left. Burolo would carry the name Martell in its history books if it was the last thing he saw too.