Refusing to return to Ishgard, and without any known living family, Warren was taken in and raised by the mercenary company instead. With new purpose and resolve, he sought to live up to the expectations of the company. Raised among soldiers and killers, living out of tents and wagons, Warren was no stranger to conflict. Though he simply did menial tasks around the camp in his youth, as he grew older he joined the numbers of the fighting men and women amongst the Rust Ravens. The Ravens were an eclectic bunch, made up of outcasts and strays, bound by informal oaths and the charisma of their leader. It was with this strange band that Warren found a new family, up until their fall.

One of many unfortunate children of Ishgard. Born into poverty and knowing little else in his youth, Warren was both unwanted and forgotten admist the many other troubles that burdened the city-state. With the city considering a street orphan like him a burden at worst, or simply scenery at best, he fled into the frozen wastes seeking brighter horizons elsewhere. Unwelcoming to even the prepared, it was a death sentence to a child, and he would have found his death if he was not instead rescued by a mercenary band calling themselves the Rust Ravens, with whom he would soon find himself a member.

A fate as inevitable as taxes, and one all too common among those who make a living by shedding blood. A job gone wrong fighting against the Dravanian Horde saw their numbers decimated. The Rust Ravens, though competent, were always considered an unprofessional group and their company departed from history in anonymity. Few, if anybody, still remembers them, though one still wears their colors even if he does not refer to himself as one very often anymore, simply letting his work and his deeds stand as testament to those now departed. The last of the Ravens remains, living a life he chose when he was given no other options, and fighting to one day die for a pointless cause.

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