|Posted on December 8th 2015 12:21 AM|
Name: Castus Maximillian Dorn Havelock
Birthday: 14 March
Magic:The Ardent Armoury (Requip)
Although an idealist in his youth, Castus has seen enough of the world to develop a certain bitter demeanour that is often expressed through snarky retorts and a stoic acceptance of events. Yet, this does not imply he invites defeat and failure, remaining steadfast as long as the possibility of success still exists. Despite this, Castus is not an unpleasant partner at all in everyday conversation. Enjoying time spend amongst people, especially unfamiliar faces, discussing the finer points of life, as befitting his noble birth. Ambition is another key part of Castus’ personality, along with a certain confidence that comes with this. Owing to his military career, when he gives orders, he expects them to be followed. It is this confidence, in him and his ability to lead that drives him and those around him towards success.
Yet at the same time, can at times leave him blind to his own failings, dismissing them as not his own, but of those around him in a sort of arrogance. Despite his stoicism and apparent friendliness, Castus tends to hold a mean grudge and is slow to forgive those who have wronged or betrayed him. With this comes a habit of hardly trusting anyone ever since he left his previous line of work. He can be overly critical of those around him, accepting only the best from those that would fight with him.
Overal, Castus is what you'd expect of a veteran: ferocious and courageous but not without compassion. Just another man, trying to find his way.
Castus is a well-built male, standing tall at approximately six feet and weighing in at twelve stones and a bit. He has a strong, straight posture with a slight hunch so typical for warriors used to wearing heavy armour. His eyes are of a soft green, set in a plain face with only the straight jaw hinting at his patrician origins. Castus’ hair is largely unkempt save for the short goatee on his chin. He is usually found wearing some kind of armour underneath an embroidered tunic along with a pair of plated greaves and vambraces. His shoulders are covered by small spaulders embossed with his family’s sigil, his one concession to his noble ties.
Fate/Grand Order: Hector
Born as the third son of a minor noble family, Castus' future was set in stone from the moment he was born. Not inheriting any land, money or titles, his would be a political life. Growing up, he was extensively schooled in things such as swordsmanship, archery and riding, but also liberal arts such as literature, history and music. At roughly the age of twelve, Castus believed he was going to be an officer, a hero, a soldier. It was of course these things that he had been prepared for all his life: a honourable position in the king's army.
Eventually at the age of sixteen summers, he was accepted into the cadet corps. Although his military education was tough, taxing both mentally and physically, within four years, he was assigned the commission of lieutenant and placed under the command of Captain Octavia Lorn; capable yet ruthless woman with a streak of cruelty to her. It was under her leadership that Castus first saw real action. On the valley of Artoran, located between two rugged mountain ranges, Captain Lorn's company, the Argent Claws, clashed with an army of insurgent lesser nobles. Although it wouldn't turn out to be a protracted engagement, the fighting was fierce. For Castus, however, it was a grueling experience. No amount of training could prepare a man for taking another's life, after al. Despite his initial horror, Castus survived his first blooding; something that gained him a certain degree of respect from both his fellow officers as well as his subordinates.
From here on out, Castus' career progressed slowly but steadily, marked only by small engagements and exercises. After five years, his commanding officer, Captain Lorn was promoted to a staff position, freeing the way for Castus to rise in the ranks in turn. It was during this period that Castus’ latent magical power began to stir. Two years later however, Castus was beginning to feel disillusioned with the life he’d chosen. The glorified image of being a solider had been tarnished beyond repair and so he decided to leave behind position as Captain of the Argent Claws to find new purpose in life.
"We all want to be heroes, in our own way. Truth is, there are no heroes--only dead men."
Castus looked down at the field with a sense of unease creeping up his spine. He felt his gorge rise and turned as not to soil his boots as he heaved again. This was the third time. They had said it would get easier. They all said that.
‘So, again, how many?’ he asked to his second after recovering his posture, wiping his mouth. The man, a sergeant with a weather-beaten face named Gallain coughed.
‘Just about half, sir’ he added quickly as if still unaccustomed to the young man being his superior. The sergeant looked at him, expectantly, urging him to speak. ‘
Gather a detail and start digging,’ Castus said, sounding a lot more confident than he felt. ‘I’m afraid there aren’t nearly enough trees around here to give anyone a proper funeral pyre. The least we can do is giving those poor saps grave.
’‘Sir!’ the sergeant said, straightening and banging his right fist on his chest in salute before he hurried off towards their platoon standing and sitting around, exhausted, muddy, bloody and in general not looking too happy with their lot. Gallain barked out some orders and some of them got up, slowly, gathering their gear before setting off to dig the graves for the fallen.
Castus strode away from the bustles of men; he could see other platoons being rounded up to do the same, dirty work. Walking amongst the fallen made him feel sick and apprehensive but he kept going on, glancing left and right to see if he would recognize a familiar face. Friend and foe, side by side. Only in death, Castus thought. They all looked the same to him. Young men, send into a fight they neither understood nor cared about. The apprehension slowly faded, being replaced by a morbid serenity as he realized just how absurd it was. Only by mere chance had he been spared the same fate as the men around his feet. Noble birth meant nothing here. Death cared not who your father was. He was lucky to be surrounded by the men of the Argent Claws. A favour for a favour. He looked out for them, or at least tried to. And they looked out for him.
The blow was meant for him. It came at him at a low angle. He was too slow. Something caught the blade, deflecting it harmlessly upwards, screeching as it ran across the shield, metal meeting metal. The man next to him had saved his life but Castus didn’t have the time or the breath to spare to utter a thanks. Instead, briefly nodding before he raised his own shield again, stepping forwards as he raised his own sword, stepped forwards and stabbed. Around him, he could feel his men do the same, surging forwards in an ordered, methodical fashion. The Claws were eerily silent compared to the rebel army. They only made the occasional shout as they took yet more ground. A step and a stab at a time. The rush of adrenaline was intoxicating, making him almost forget his place. He was supposed to lead these men and keep them together. He took a quick breath and bellowed over the crashing sound of two armies meeting one another like waves breaking on the rocks. ‘Into them! Give them not an inch!’
He shook his head and brought himself back to the present. He could still taste the metallic tang of blood and wondered if he would ever get rid of it. Hesitating for yet another moment, he turned around, casting a final glance at the field before he headed up the slight incline, back to camp.
|Posted on December 8th 2015 12:39 AM|
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|Posted on December 8th 2015 01:01 AM|
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