[centre][img]https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/436941809848025090/536961132636930069/gwyn.gif[/img]

[h1]Gwyn Therwyn[/h1][/centre]
[hr]

To the casual observer, Gwyn was a man defeated. Any psychologist worth his salt would look at him and come to the same conclusion: everything about him, from the haunted eyes and the sunken cheeks to his shuffling gait and his limp grip on his rifle spoke of someone who had been utterly, entirely, hopelessly routed. This, the shrink would say, was a boy coming home from a lost war. But then our theoretical psychologist would look at everyone around him, the tired but otherwise high spirited soldiers, and wonder just what was it that made him so miserable? Was he a traitor? Perhaps he had lost a close friend in the last fight. Or maybe, he had recieved some bad news from home.

Reality was far less dramatic, though no less harrowing for dear Gwyn. He had proven himself utterly useless in that last fight. While everyone else found their mark and performed their jobs admirably, Gwyn himself seemed to have all the impact of a baby sparrow in a glittery dress against the Imperial forces. Every shot rang out wasted. He offered no support, scored no kills, made no real effort. He was dead weight, and he knew it. That little fact dug its way into the back of his skull and made a little nest in his brain, and the wight of his uselessness hung on him like a great big pancake on his head. He couldn't even meet his squadmate's gaze without blushing and looking at the floor. He was just waiting for the inevitable bullying that was going to occur. He, the one who had been training his entire life for a situation like this, had been the least effective. Oh, the irony!

So perhaps it was no surprise that he stayed away from the body of the crew as they made their way through the streets. At Jean's instruction, he slumped against a wall and sat there, praying for a sniper to pick him out first. Go on, you pussy. Give him the excuse. No such luck. The Imperials they encountered were, for lack of a better word, friendly. Some aristo leading them. Gwyn didn't care enough to get a good look at him. Didn't pay to get acquainted with someone who would later kill you - or who you would later kill. Not Gwyn, though. He was firmly aware of his own uselessness, unless on of his companions cared to use him as a human shield, and even then, with his height, he wouldn't be much use even then. What a thing to think!

Still, if it was a trap, better he go than the others. He was skeptical of the Imperial's story - there was no way that there was just this oasis in the desert for them. This was war! They'd do everything they can to murder each other! They all saw what the Imperials did to the cavalry units. God knows, he was cleaning viscera off his boots all night.

Unbidden, and reluctant to wait for instruction, Gwyn got up out of cover and marched straight towards the place that the Imperial had said was neutral grounds. If his story was true, he had nothing to fear. If it wasn't, well, the squad wouldn't lose much. The Imps might actually be doing them a favour by getting rid of him.

"I'll check it out," he called over his shoulder. "If I'm not back in five minutes, don't bother trying to avenge me."