Cru never knew his father. His mother always swore he was some passing mystic, but Cru didnt know either way. Cru and his mother lived on a small farm on the outskirts of a small village near Oakhurst. Most of their coin came from the pigs and vegetables she raised, but the food on the table came from Cru and his bow. His time was spent in the woods, hunting or just enjoying the feeling of serenity and peace. He felt at home there, like he belonged; a feeling that just didnt happen in the town or city. When Cru was 19, he was walking through the forest, stalking a large buck, and when he returned, his mother was dead.
The house was ransacked, and all his possessions gone. The peace of the woods couldnt contain the feelings of sadness and grief that Cru felt being at home. Word had slowly reached the village of problems plaguing the town of Oakhurst. Cru got wind of this on his last foray into town, and the prospect of a change was too much to pass up. As he packed up his house to leave forever, he uncovered a patch of dirt that didnt match the rest of the floor. Digging further, and he uncovered an oilcloth, wrapping a bow of some kind, a spear, a surprisingly heavy sack of coins, and a set of armor. Perhaps his father had left this for him. Donning his new gear, and saying a thank you to the gods, Cru set off.
