scratchy whispers, bloodied shirts that will never be clean again, worn and torn combat boots, the faint smell of liquor waving off chapped lips, dirt covered skin, the fresh release of an arrow, calculated eyes that rarely fail, silence that kills, scarred knees, the pulse of strong veins as legs pump faster, the crisp crackle of fallen leaves.
He was told from a young age— Don’t speak, listen. The world around you has more to say than you ever will, if you focus enough on it’s voice. A voice is something precious, something reserved for the right time and the right place. A nearly silent home, among his parents and three other siblings, communication was drawn out through gestures. Coarse voices only became apparent when necessary. Lynx was no stranger to hoarse voices and broken screams, but the day he heard his father’s blood curling sobs echoing from the forest, he learned what silence was really worth. His father was shot dead with an arrow, a missed target and a split second too late. He was gone before anyone could reach him.
Lynx’s primary advantage in his line of work was his father’s greatest life lesson— a hunter needs to be alert at all times to any oncoming threat or passerby, their hearing is the key to it all. Lynx stays by himself most of the time, only interacting with the rest of his family when need be and reporting back in when he can. He believes in the great plan of their society, but their methods have gone too far and he won’t stand for it. He believes in silence and observance, but there’s a point where you draw the line on what others can observe. The woods become his safe space, and from there, he is free. The forest that his father so loved, the forest where he would lie for the rest of eternity. He can feel his father’s spirit with each crack of a branch and each rustle of the leaves.
DEMI MALE & HE/HIM, THEY/THEM. TWENTY-NINE. HUNTER.
