The Sun sends its fiercest fighters into battle - and they are beautiful.
Smoldering willfulness meets cold indifference in an age-old war.
Rage against inertia.
Battleworn spears reach their target;
The battles themselves are won and lost;
Won and lost.
Drawn out, simmering, FLARING UP!, tapering out.
Fluctuating, a war that can only ever be won in its continuation.
The front lines are held by the fiercest soldiers.
Beautiful in their idealism.
The very embodiment of their Cause.
They are the first to herald a new forward push—
Commencing new battle when all seemed lost again.
The first to fight.
The first to die.
Beautiful in their bravery,
breaching the offending obstacles with a might
that belies their frail shields.
Their might is of the Sun.
The Sun has sent its very own children to the front;
their shields a display of its magnificence:
Every single one a symbol of the Cause itself.
The war is endlessly important.
The war is endless.