Deep in the woods of Albion lay the small town of Oakvale. It was a village of thatched roves and unpaved roads, bordered by farmlands and forests. Unchanged by time and untouched by the sword, Oakvale prospered quietly in its small corner of the world.

It was here in this idyllic place that a young boy lived. The traditional way to begin a hero's story would be to say that he dreamed of greatness, but history includes enough creative embellishments as it is. The truth of the matter is that the boy dreamed. Sometimes of greatness, yes, but not as often as pure daydreaming. He liked to imagine what life would be like if he was a gypsy, or if he was a chieftain of Knothole Glade and must defend his home from vicious balverines. What if he was a woman, and his family owned merchant ships instead of a farm? Could he hope to court one of the beautiful Grey sisters if he had been born into a wealthy noble family?

His mind wandered, sometimes brushing upon feats of daring and bravery, as a noble knight or powerful wizard. Even more fleetingly, he would consider the whims of evil and malice. However, his thoughts would always eventually have to return to his heart, his feet, and the grass of Oakvale upon which he stood.