Back Story, most tend to ignore which is fair because it is kind of block-y even in my opinion, will modify it later as soon as I catch up on some of the chapter's that are floating around my head.

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Smelling a sweet scent waft into nose, Andrew staggered up to see what was happening. Although he didn’t realise it earlier, he felt dull, throbbing pain in his stomach forcing him to remember back to the day before. ‘So it wasn’t a dream, huh? Well… I haven’t eaten for, what, two millennia for all I know.’ he thought back with a wry smile. He still was slightly despondent but he felt that some small part of himself was connecting him with the environment. It gave him a small sense of hope for the future and drive to compete for it.

In front of him stood as freshly bathed Lisia, standing over a small pot with a sweet fragrance exuding out of it. Garnering the most attention, however, was the travelling outfit sewn from a grey animal pelt to fit her curvaceous body perfectly. As he was staring rather intently on her body thinking, ‘Where the hell did she get that, hell, even just the pelts. The goblins hardly seemed to have any to spare for themselves so why the hell would she have some,’ although she turned her head around bashfully he caught the sight of an even more child-like than usual goblin hiding in the trees. With a rather nervous expression it seemed to be waiting to drop off a small pelt to - from the reverence in their eyes - their Goddess.

Sighing, not even bothering to be disturbed by the worship itself, Andrew walked towards the river with the envious eyes of the goblins on his back. With a backwards glance, he glared at the goblins before lobbing one of his many clubs at the goblins faces. Scrambling they avoided it by a hairsbreadth, but in turn shrunk back in fear after meeting his eyes. Although it was meant only to teach them to keep their distance it seemed to cause them all to fear his presence.

Getting tired of the feeling of harassing these goblins, he walked off towards the river to wash his face from yesterday’s events. Approaching the river he was surprised to see the crystal clears water. Never before in his life had he seen a natural body of water with such a clean, refreshing look to it.

Although he was starving, it wasn’t like it was the first time it happened to him. Back when he was a child his mother was a heavy meth user who, ironically, met up with a fresh army brat who was on back in town after his deployment overseas. One thing led to another and he was born. Only his father had no idea he even existed. Let alone supporting her child, his mother wasn’t even able to support her habit most days and often abandoned him on the street or in a stranger’s house for days on end before she was coherent enough to even remember him. Luckily, besides frequent starvation and abandonment nothing too immensely bad happened to him.

Even as he grew older and learned the tricks of the trade to survive on the streets, seeing his own mother sell herself in passing, neither ever acknowledged the other until they laid together in their dingy back alley to fall into a restless sleep on the streets. With all their moving around, it was no wonder that child services couldn’t locate them, however, one night he found her unconscious in their meet-up location. At the age of 12 years old he found his own mother comatose in a dirty street. He vividly recalled screaming up and down the streets for someone to help but most turned a blind eye to the dirty street urchin.

After no small amounts of abuse, in the way of pushing, punching, or kicking the hysterical boy away from the people, a kind young man finally lowered himself onto one knee to talk, face to face, with the young boy, Somewhat hesitant to follow the boy into a dark, isolated alley the man simply stood at the opening on the alley way before opening his phone passing it to the child. “Call 911,” he instructed, but the boy only looked at him in bewilderment, assuming the boy was a method of bait, the man scoffed at him before walking away.

Eventually the commotion caused a passing police officer to stop by the check out the situation. After being explained to him, the police officer ran directly into the alley where the boy directed him towards his mother. Luckily - or not so luckily - the mother was still breathing. Even after years of sporadic abandonment she was the only person who he even remotely had a connection with at this point in his life.

Days came and went, in the hospital stood a small boy who refused to leave her side. A greying doctor came to him and spoke gently, “She is getting better, but you have to do yourself a favor and get some rest. A nice lady will pick you up, Andy. You can have a lot of friends, food to eat whenever you want, and you will still be able to see her again whenever you would like. But, right now, this isn’t the place for you.”

Although previously entirely uneducated, he made great strides to better himself so that he could be by his mother’s side. Four years past by rather uneventfully, he caught up to his grade level and more, shocking most people who had seen his nearly feral appearance before. ‘A miracle,’ one said to him in one of his monthly check-ups at the orphanage he resided in, but even with a few close friends he still didn’t have much of a functioning social life. Eat, sleep, study. Even when his guardians got into contact with his biological father he simply replied to whatever was expected of him and kept quiet most of the time after that.

It was just before he finished high school that his mother finally woke up. Improving steadily in his interactions with people he finally had what some would call popularity. Neither, the highest in the social hierarchy, nor the lowest but it was an overall improvement all the same. Feeling excited over the news he skipped class to run the three odd miles to the hospital. As he was he admitted and given some basic procedural conduct in the room, he was feeling his heartbeat almost as if it was going to escape from his chest. Creeping into the room, a greying woman turned her head to face him with her dull, pale blue eyes. Seeing her reaction, Andrew immediately felt tears moisten his eyes as he sputtered, “H-h-how are you?”

“... Who are you?” she spoke in genuine curiosity.

Laughing awkwardly in hopes of lightening the atmosphere, he spoke, “It’s… been a few years you know? Well, over five to be exact, but I’m… Andrew.... Andy, remember?”

“Who is that..?” She spoke softly once again, tilting her greying head to the side.

“I’m your son…”

“I’ve never had any kids, let alone someone named Andrew,” she spoke with an increasingly firm resolution as a flash appeared in her eyes.

“I-I-I … see. Well, I hope you have a good day…” spoke Andrew as he exited the door where tears were already rolling down his face. As he got further, and further away his grief turned into bitterness and his bitterness turned into seething hatred. ‘First, you take away my childhood, starving me, abandoning me to violent crack heads who beat me by their own convenience. Forcing me to steal, peddle drugs, all for a slip of bread and a glass of water. While you are having the time of your life having sex with anyone with a bloody dick just to shoot up a little more?” More and more memories rolled into his mind, but the woman disregarded everything that she ever did to him, caused him to him to suffer just so he could be at her side at her own convenience.

Fuming, he wandered around until he was forced to go home, back to the orphanage. The next day, bright and early, he left for school again. Barely five minutes into first period he saw the crackhead, who beat him nearly daily in the past, face him and dislocated his best friend’s jaw, then the dealer, who smacked him around whenever he saw him, shattering a classmate's wrist. Other images flashed in his mind as madly swung at the innocent students before three of his friends, all football jocks, tackled him to the ground. Pinning every limb to the ground, he screamed, cursed the world before finally starting to cry.

No one spoke for a long time in the class room. Even the girls who would gossip at every little thing were stunned silent as the quiet kid, who got along relatively well with everyone, assaulted numerous students before finally breaking down.

Time passed, he was in an isolation cell with a detective and social worker whilst being chained to the opposing wall in handcuffs.

“So can you tell us why this incident occurred,” spoke the detective with a soft voice which didn’t quite fit with his tough exterior.

“...” With dead eyes, Andrew simply stared off into space reliving those horrible memories.

“Hey, kid. You know we can help you out if you need it?” Tried the detective once again before letting out a long sigh.

With no reaction from the dispondant Andrew, the social worker opened up his case file before reviewing it in silence. During those tense moments the detective fidgeted uncomfortably. The social worker took a passing glance at the officer before thinking, ‘clearly he isn’t exactly experienced in this sort of an interview.’

“Your name is Andrew Marks, correct? It says here, your mother, a drug addict, was taking care of you during your childhood when you living in the streets. Does this sound about right so far?”

Feeling an ember of rage begin to burn in his stomach he scoffed loudly before turning away from the social worker. Smiling inwardly, the social worker thought, ‘Ah, so that's how it is.’

“And from what I can gather, she loved you very, very much. So much so that she sold herself on to others to allow you to eat and survive in that cruel environment?” This time he received a pointed glare seething with hatred, not to him, but someone else, likely Andrew’s mother mused the social worker. Continuing on, the social worker pressed further, “and even with such a cruel fate awaiting her, she still woke up to receive you with open arms, correct? Ah, I must be correct, she seems to love you very much, but here we are, her precious child in custody, surely she would grieve to hear of such a situation.

Finally, after the torment brought upon by the social worker, he snapped. He screamed, all the while shaking and grinding the handcuffs on the pole, explaining the hell he put him through. Months on end without seeing her, starving nearly daily, occasionally forced to run drugs through the slums of downtown only to be beaten if he disobeyed. How he worked so hard for her recognition before being discarded and turned to the side by her indifferent words. How it was all “normal.” As he spoke, his rage turned to callousness and his grief turned into emptiness. He felt his life leave him, no aspirations, no dreams, nothing left for him to lean on. For people merely cared about themselves. No one, even a mother, could ever needlessly help another. How life so was fake, shallow, irrelevant.

The media, someway or another, got involved in the story and everything regarding his background found its way into public speculation. While most tended to distance themselves from these emotions, the overwhelming felt sympathy toward the young man who had been through so much. It worked out in his favor as the reparations that were charged were paid for by public donations and all criminal charges were dropped, however, the scar still remained.