War Born was in Cyre when the mist came. Mid-battle. All the softies went insane; most stopped fighting, staggering off into the mist as it grew more and more dense. Some of them were killed by swift, multicolored, prowling shapes, glowing ominously, brightly. They would shine through even the densest mist, like beautiful, deadly searchlights. The sounds the shapes made were foreign, but violently animalistic. The sounds the softies made, though, was the same as when they were killed by other softies; dying is dying. Yet other soft bodies he found appeared to have died by their own hands, driven mad by the oppressive gloom.
Born wandered through this somber alien landscape of mist and dread. War is one thing — this was a cataclysm. He kept walking, avoiding any roving lights, and eventually staggered out into the sunlight. He was nearly blinded by the intensity of the clear blue sky, and stumbled to the ground. When he had warmed in the sun for some time, he opened his eyes again. The first thing he saw was a flower. Its petals were the most vibrant, beautiful thing he had ever seen. He stared at that flower for hours, marveling at his fortune to have made it out of the mist. It had all seemed so hopeless… But that was over now. He walked away from the giant wall of mist, wondering just how far it went, anyway?
In much better spirits, he walked and loped along until he found enough water to bathe with. He took his time, cleaning off the stains of battle and counting his scars. Every critical hit he’s taken has scarred him permanently. A jagged gouge along his shoulder, dented metal plates on torso, legs, and arms, a couple small chunks taken out of his hands. Fourteen… fifteen. Good, he thought, there’s a new one. A nice deep furrow in his thigh to commemorate surviving the mist. He is proud of each of them, proof that he can endure.
Before long, Born knew he was on Brelish land. He had removed his Cyrian markings, and replaced them with armbands from light blue fabric taken from an abandoned supply cart near the misty border. Better to be captured than go back into to the mist, and wearing their colors may buy him time if nothing else. Eventually, he was found by a Brelish patrol, some days West. They were so eager to talk about The Fall of Cyre, that they bought Born’s hasty story about being the last of his Brelish party. They took him with, back to their camp, all too eager to have the help. He was eventually found out, as it’s hard to hide when you’re a Charger; there’s only so many ever made. But by then, he had proven useful and loyal, and wasn’t imprisoned for long. Far too valuable an asset out in the field, after all. Born was shipped back to the front, on the side of Breland, one year before The Peace.