[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/ILYbmdH.jpg[/img][/center]
[center][h2]Castor[/h2][/center]

[u][b]Luan Fields[/b][/u]

Everything burned. Cas was so absolutely exhausted and worn out that every muscle seemed to be screaming in agony. He’d been on the road for days on end, short on supplies and short on sleep, coming home from his first deployment with nothing to report but absolute catastrophic failure. Cas had been hoping for a chance to prove his loyalty, a chance he seemed to have been granted when he was shipped off to Archadia. Finally, a chance to bash some SeeR skulls in.

Of course, it had all gone to shit. Cas hadn’t even been around when SeeR struck; he’d been given scouting duty, and returned to find only dead and dying comrades. He hadn’t known any of them very well, but it still pained him to see so many bodies lying in the snow. His first instinct had been to chase off after SeeR, but he’d clamped down on that thought in an instant. They were three rookies with no supplies and no support against a force of unknown strength; the only viable course of action was to fall back and report the incident, rearm, regroup, and hit back later.

Cas was not thrilled by the idea of reporting such a disaster back to his commanders. Questions would inevitably come up, whispers he was tired of hearing. How odd that the contingent with a traitor’s son in their midst should end up ambushed by SeeR. How convenient that he’d been far away when the battle happened. The SOLDIER commanders would be sympathetic--Rene had always been a good mentor to Cas--but the Council and the  President would be distinctly less so.

The trip had been hard, more so because of the oppressive silence which had persisted throughout their journey. Sable and Walter were...adequate travelling companions, but even after all they’d been through he knew practically nothing about them. Sable seemed blunt, brash even, while Walter was the very soul of respect and courtesy, if maybe a touch withdrawn. Occasionally one of the three had tried to make smalltalk; Cas had asked if either of them followed strikeball, but gotten only denial in response. Perhaps they had nothing to say [i]because[/i] of what they’d been through. PTSD took many forms; those bodies in the snow were probably getting to them more than they cared to admit.

And now, eagles. Ironically, Cas had played professional strikeball for a team called the Esper Ridge Eagles, named after the giant birds now swooping down on his head. In all likelihood, he was going to die to a bird that he used to wear as a logo.

Then he heard a bellowing voice calling out across the plains. Cas couldn’t believe it. Another contingent of SOLDIERs, here, in the middle of nowhere, right when they were most needed, with an enormous sentinel leading the charge. The burning feeling intensified, but instead of pain, Cas felt relief, as if this even greater heat had purged his body of pain and fatigue. With allies close at hand, Cas placed himself between the eagles and his companions, daring the beasts to come closer. One made the mistake of diving a little too low, wings outstretched and massive claws reaching for its prey; with a roar, Cas hefted his lance and leaped forward, plunging the pronged weapon into the eagle’s chest.