This is the story of the king of Millenia and formation of the great kingdoms. His name is Frolloman Richmond and as his story of heroism begins, he is a mostly normal human being in a very nearly unexplored world, surrounded by vast, possibly unending oceans and immense creatures beyond even the wildest of imaginations. His father’s surname betrays his greatness, but protects his future. We join him on his journey during the time he is but a mere child of seven years, happy and carefree. At least, that's the way it should be, but he is different.
He is born of the most noble of lineage, one created with the mixing of the founding bloodlines of Millenia. His ancient lineage hidden by the surname of his father. His blood tainted with the seed of cutthroats and other vile roadway scum. Almost a clever trick by Fate to make sure that the only person who knew of his true noble pedigree was his mother whose maiden name was Thatchback and whose knowledge exceeded that which she let others know she possessed. The current rulers of the land meant to wipe the land of the former king’s lineage many years ago and would not welcome a bearer of the name. This was one of the reasons that the last heir was fortunately a woman, however, there are other forces that would see this family killed, or worse. Maria Thatchback was fair not only in beauty but in her actions. All Thatchbacks have been born leaders and have never acted unjustly. They were a Light in a world which is slowly being consumed by Dark. Until the age of seven, Frolloman was weak, sick with an illness unknown to nearly every human. He moved only to the places where his parents carried him and his mother had to stay by his side all day every day to feed and take care of him. Although still weak, Frolloman was forced suddenly and quickly to face the real world the day he lost both of his parents.
Frolloman and his parents lived in a small cottage with a thatched roof, the quality one would expect an undesirable to have, as it was hand made by Frolloman’s father. His father was not the wealthiest of the land’s footsoldiers, so it was built mostly using large stones that he took from a long river that flows from the Atryggan lake in the east to a western bay that is connected to the unending oceans that surround the mainland. Cementing the stones together, a simple mud mixture that dries quickly. It was a small but sturdy building with two rooms, one for sleeping and one for dining. Normally they’d all sleep in the same bed, but with Frolloman’s father guarding a town over a half of a day’s journey away, and his mother constantly watching him, Frolloman was the only one who got any good sleep. Most of what he did was sleep, he was unable to do much more than that. His mother blamed herself for his illness, and always told him that it was her fault that he had been this way, that she should've known he would inherit her own infantile sickness. The disease was one which ran through her family, passing from generation to generation. A disease of kings with only one cure, a cure which his mother knew would mean the worst. The only way for Frolloman to be free was for the one who passed the inheritance on, to die. The morning of the fateful occurrence which would free Frolloman of his affliction, started no different from any other. He lay weak and struggling to breathe in his bed. His mother was out getting food and water, as they were low on supplies. Just the other day Frolloman was moved toward the window so that he could smell the fresh scents in the meadow as Spring’s first flowers bloomed and gave the wind a sweet embrace. Frolloman was a physically normal boy, given his strength and stature, the disease did not interfere with growth. He was weak from a lack of energy, but in his condition, he could still perform small feats of his own. Today it was his ambition to see the flowers that comforted him while his mother was not there. The blue sky was the most he saw of anything which was not made of mud or covered in it, aside from his mother’s favorite dress, which was a regal purple with a shiny yellow lace lining and with what appeared to be a sort of golden crest with the shape of a sword and the sun resting under a sideways crescent moon.
Once he made up his mind on what he planned to do, he spent a fair amount of time struggling to remove the heavy blankets placed upon him by his mother. She worried for his warmth in the Winter, but never remembered to remove his burden once the sunny month arrived. Once he accomplished removing himself from the entanglement, he proceeded to attempt to hoist himself up and on to the lower edge of the window. He was able to gather the energy to do so and was met with a welcoming and exotic sight. Bright colors filled his vision with images of morning glories and flowers which he had never even been told of. Dandelions filled much of the expanse, and created a yellow sea the likes of which he could never have dreamed of before the moment. Frolloman was happy for his efforts, no matter how tired he was. He was always tired, this was his time to be tired and happy. He spent hours hung in the window, dreaming of just being out there, dancing among the sway of nature. When he moved his gaze further into the valley, however, he was not greeted with more flowers or trees. Sitting as a giant dark crown to counter the joy of the canvass of nature’s painted beauty. Frolloman could hardly begin to imagine the possibilities of its content before his mother came into the house ready to make dinner. She noticed him in the window and became worried. She pulled him down and laid him back in the bed. It was at this time that she noticed the number of blankets on Frolloman which only did the job of smothering him in a hot embrace that only served to weaken him further. She removed most of the blankets from him and kissed him gingerly. Frolloman felt happiness of her company, which always made him feel stronger, and noticed that he had spent the whole day in that window, the sky was darkening. Just before his mother could start to prepare his evening meal, the gallops of horse hooves and the clank of armor could be heard approaching the valley. This was normal, as the structure in the valley was a fortress and the only way into the valley was through the passage which they had built their house next to, but his mother could hear the call of a familiar voice.
“Frolloman, do you recognise that voice?” she said. “Your father has come home! He will be so glad to see how much you’ve grown.” Frolloman was happy that he would see his father, who provided him everything he had and used through the work of his own labors. His father built the house he lived in, the bed he slept on, and the stove which kept the house warm in the Winter. Even the spoons and other eating utensils in his house were handmade by his father. Unfortunately, his father was not here with good news. When she saw him, she ran towards him as quickly as she could. He was badly beaten, and blood ran from his ears, mouth, and various wounds. He dismounted his horse, Heracles, and fell to his knees. She helped him to get up, and asked him what had happened. His news was more grim than she could have thought.
“The entire town is gone. There was an army. I must signal the fort.” She could not fathom what she was hearing. He continued.
“It started with a few rogue goblins, but soon an army arrived in front of me, and I had no idea what was going on. once I grabbed my sword from my belt, the entire town was levelled. Everything was in flame, my first thought was to come here.” He wept for the lost lives, and he wept in the knowledge that he was going to die and leave his son without a father.
“You must go,” he urged, “grab Frollo and leave this place. I will find a way to signal the fort.”
As quickly as she could, Maria grabbed Frolloman from his bed and climbed onto Heracles. She rode at full pace towards the west, leaving her home in the northern part of the valley and her husband. Frolloman watched the scene behind them as they raced away. His father used a piece of flint and a rusty horseshoe to light the roof of the house on fire. Smoke rose from the house, and the bells of the fort rang. In an instant the trees were turned to ash, and the forest lit afire. An army of monsters great and small came from the gap, and Frolloman’s father picked up a kitchen knife and stood his ground. The last scene visible from Frolloman’s view of the fight was a troll ripping the house out of the ground and using it to bury his father in rubble. Suddenly, Heracles stopped and the forest around them was on fire. Frolloman looked forward to see a cloaked figure standing in the way of them, wielding flames which lept into the trees. Frolloman was frightened, but Maria calmly came off of the horse and pulled out a white shortsword, which he had never seen before. She urged Heracles to keep going, and it resumed its gallop. The figure allowed the passage of the horse, and as Frolloman looked back one last time, he witnessed the figure hurl the flames at his mother, and in a flash of light, the man disappeared, and his mother lay dead and burnt on the ground. Frolloman gained strength like he’d never felt before, and sat upright in Heracles’ saddle, trying to alter his course and go back to his mother. Heracles resisted his desires, and continued to head westward. Tears streamed down Frolloman’s face, he would never see his mother again for as long as he lived and he knew that.
