#True grit is not his aesthetic but it will become his aesthetic unless his trajectory in life changes

[way-to-the-future]

‘ a timeline 9. the timeline in which they live the life they currently see the most likely for them.’ -shieldbcund

               There’s no life to be found in these hills. Even before the empire came, folks tell, it was a bitter, empty place, frequented only by a few hardscrabble trappers and those looking to get away from the law or the things they’d lost in the valleys below. An old, gnarled tree – stubbornly spitting up out of rocky, rain-starved, alkali soil – sways in the stale breeze that pushes the pebbles in a never ending circuit across these forlorn cliffs. For the moment, it provides a rare bit of shade, something to rest against, while Castor catches a few pained gasps.

               He’s not hurt. Not in the way that he has been so many times before, not gut shot, not cut nor kicked nor beaten nor burned. The last time he visited a physicker – some moons ago, by his best reckoning – they said that there was something in his lung; more like a heap of somethings, making sure he could never catch a full breath. That’s alright. It’s just another weight on the scales, another yoke on his shoulders. He narrows his eyes, and hones his focus on the task before him. Worn, calloused, scarred fingers feed another round into the breach of his rifle, the familiar sheen of ceruleum blue like a beacon to his near-cataractal sight. Posh, he thinks. His fingers are still strong; his vision, save his periphery, is still keen. As he performs the rote process of loading his firearm, his gaze wanders along the showing tendons, the dry, broken skin and wrinkles on the back of his palm. When did he get wrinkles?

               A stir in the valley below – the clatter of kicked rocks. He rolls onto his hip, spying around the trunk of the dying tree. There they are: five, down from seven, where his shots found their mark. They look even worse for wear than he does, desperately trying to reach the rear command. How many of them are there, running from the collapse of their world? None of them are bold enough to keep their helmets off now, but even from here Castor can spy the variety in their number, the powerful strides of the hellsguard commander to the spindly, tired gait of her auri second. The old dog would be the easiest to hit, but she’s also got the thickest plating. Still the formula is as clear in Castor’s mind as it was as many as thirty years ago: cut off the head, and the serpent will die.

               He draws in a breath, holding it as best as he can against the agonized complaints from his chest. With mechanized precision, he angles his shot for the vulnerable joint in the helmet where the visor joins the jaw. It won’t kill, like as not – not right away – but the pain will be incapacitating. He pulls the trigger.

               The deaf wailing of his ears grates dully as he peers past the smoke. She’s down. The return fire starts again, and Castor heaves himself against the tree in a hurry. There, now. Easy, now. He can play this game as long as he likes, making himself a predator among the cliffs. So long as the Garleans are tired – so long as they’re unready, terrified of him at every turn in the mountainous path – he can keep going. It’s only one ragged band of soldiers fleeing the war in Aldenard, but it’s enough for him. Perhaps, when he gets back to occupied territory, he’ll buy himself a companion or two, and something for this pain - he still has a few pennies left from that last bounty. For now, the game is still afoot. He crawls, wheezing, down the side of the ridge, away from the vicious, fearful, vengeful screams of the Garleans and into the cold shadows of the cliffs once more. In a few hours, he’ll hunt again – but for now, he needs to catch his breath.

(Thanks for the ask bud!!)