Every year, the Institute of War received hundreds of missives regarding recommendations for new students. From as near as Feldhart, to a far as the Mira'i Desert, hopefully penned letters from all corners of the earth chomping at the bit to receive that waxed envelope with an acceptance letter inside. And every year...most of those hopefuls had their dreams dashed against the floor as they were told to "reapply next year" and to "continue being good citizens of the Udelhoven Kingdom."

Inversely, ever since King Udel III started his "outreach program", each year the halls of the Institute would welcome 100 new students of "low-born" citizenship. That is, people who weren't born with a silver spoon in their mouths or a fancy title before (or after) their names. People like you. When you got that missive, you first thought it was some of the local nobles having a laugh at your expense. After all, you were simply a . . .

>child of a simple farmer. Your parents barely knew how to read or count, meaning they obviously taught you nothing but how to till the land. In between chores and minding the farm, you'd sneak away to the town library and work under the archivist.
>only son of a blacksmith father and milkmaiden mother. Eventually, you went from smithing the blade to holding one--your father was more than willing to teach you the basics, but only after your chores were done, of course.
>Only child of a sellsword, your mother having died long ago (under circumstances which your father refuses to acknowledge, much less tell you). He had built up quite a reputation, but decided to turn in his blade in favor of a bottle, and he's been struggling between the delicious poison and being a semi-decent father to you ever since.
>Write in.