casper lafleur / d12 / (fin)

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Graphics 3,094 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 25, 2024 20:49:16 GMT -5	casper lafleur / d12 / (fin) May 15, 2019 15:26:16 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on May 15, 2019 15:26:16 GMT -5 casper lafleur 18 / hunter *“What are we made of but hunger and rage?”* (Anne Carson)
	Last Edit: May 19, 2019 12:59:45 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. 堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
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casper lafleur / d12 / (fin) May 16, 2019 9:53:37 GMT -5

Quote

Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on May 16, 2019 9:53:37 GMT -5

The Lafleur hunters were a dying breed.

There used to be a time in the Lafleur bloodline where they were lavished with faux fur and revered by the public, wealth like a crown atop their golden curls.

They were a large empire, an unyielding legacy built on animal bones and hides. Back then, the Lafleur hunters were honored and worshipped, with numerous acolytes that wanted to learn the secrets of their trade. They were ferocious hunters, swordsman and dead-shots that roamed the wild patches of lands amongst the districts for beasts to slaughter, their blood rumored to had been consecrated by Artemis herself, goddess of the hunt. Casper had seen the bows his ancestors used, from reading the large encyclopedia they’d kept as concrete proof of their achievements, spun from bones and the strongest trees. He lived with the taxidermied heads that hung on his walls, so much history packed into their glassed eyes. Once, the Lafleur hunters were considered glorious, warriors of old and night.

But, the war stole everything from them: the prey, the weapons, the honor. As the Capitol went out to colonize, plunder, and, eventually, conquer the districts, most of the Lafleur hunters fought back, only to succumb. Silver arrowheads were no match for wildfire and most of the hunters vanished, leaving no traces except a sillage of woodsmoke. And those who survived burned with a desperation to resurrect their dead glory.

One of those survivors was Casper’s mother, a huntress who had frozen lakes for eyes and iron for a heart. She was everything a storm was—electric, cold, her voice a thunderclap. Casper was passed on the blue eyes, but not the iron heart, not the storm. Ever since he was old enough to understand the world, he was his mother’s tool, her gold-edged sword, the vehicle for her vengeance. All that Casper had ever known and lived with, were the heavy expectations that he was mandated to meet. He was taught to hunt and to endure, to wear his silver skin with pride and never give an ounce of mercy to his prey.

The first code of the Lafleurs: no stroke of grace.

A Lafleur hunter must never give a mercy killing; their skills and prowess were to kill a prey with utmost efficiency. Preys are meant to be killed, his mother had said to him. Killing meant going for the jugular vein at all times and making sure that someone was dead so quickly that there was no need for a mercy blow. She taught this to him through moths and candlelight; for the rest of the week, Casper had dreams about the moths’ vicious cries as they are thrown into the flare, their wings reduced to colorful ashes.

The second code of the Lafleurs: be economic.

After a prey was dead, every part of it was useful. A hunter’s duty was to harvest these parts, adeptly, and make sure that nothing went to waste. Casper was ten when he learnt how to converse meat – the precise ways to keep it away from rot. Already at ten, his nostrils recognized the scent of blood and sinew and his hands were stained, meat particles caught in between the palm lines and beneath his fingernails. Adolescence and its delights were never experienced by Casper; his days were spent fingers-deep in animal carcasses, digging for their organs that his mother thought sacred.

The third code of the Lafleurs: the hunt never ends.

It would never end, as long as the survivors lived. The Lafleurs were built on legacies stacked atop each other, years of histories interwoven with their hearts. The hunt was more than a tradition—it was a way of living, a rite of passage, a steadfast pulse that never slowed. Hunters in the Lafleur bloodline weren’t trained, they were simply born. Casper knew that the way his fingers knew how to draw a bowstring naturally was strange. He knew that his built physique was a result of fast metabolism, passed on from generation to generation. He was a legacy, whether he liked it or not.

The final, unspoken code of the Lafleurs was:
no Lafleur has the rights to refuse their task.

Last Edit: May 19, 2019 12:55:38 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Graphics 3,094 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 25, 2024 20:49:16 GMT -5	casper lafleur / d12 / (fin) May 19, 2019 13:01:21 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on May 19, 2019 13:01:21 GMT -5 he's done!
	堕落天使

Tom Moderator 5,143 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him last seen Apr 25, 2024 19:19:16 GMT -5 OowoO	casper lafleur / d12 / (fin) May 19, 2019 19:15:59 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Tom on May 19, 2019 19:15:59 GMT -5 The last of the hunters, love him!!!!
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