Saxon Flint, District Two

Saxon Flint, District Two Jun 30, 2011 16:13:17 GMT -5

Post by elysium on Jun 30, 2011 16:13:17 GMT -5

Name:

Saxon Flint, the Old Man.

[/center][/font]
Age: 47.
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 2
Appearance:

Time has been good to me. I’ve seen it do much worse to men my age.
The old man stared into the face of the figure reflected in the mirror’s musty reflection, as if he had stumbled upon something new.
Not all men are as fortunate as I’ve been. I’ve seen time wear down men larger and stronger than I’ve ever been until there was nothing left.
He glanced again at the creases in his own weathered face.
“Lucky”, he said.

For as long as he could remember, the Old Man had looked that way, or at least similar. Six feet even. Broad-shouldered. A face that showed the indelible scars of days past, covered in part by the patch concealing his ruined right eye. Age had started to show, however, and he was hardly the man he used to be. His thick, steadily graying hair was certainly a newer addition. Wrinkles reflecting ages of grimacing looks and mournful gazes had begun to show themselves at last. He cut his hair off cleanly at the shoulder, and let it hang. Simple. Unassuming. Just the way he preferred. Under his rough beard, one could see the cracked edges of a mouth that never spoke unless it needed.

He cared little for frivolous clothes, settling instead for the more practical combination of an old, buttoned shirt, a worn vest, and woolen trousers which had served him well in the past. No matter the weather, the Old Man could always be seen in the duster handed down to him by his father. He kept a spare, nearly a perfect match, on a peg in the hall, though he never wore it a day in his life.

Funny thing, time. It tears down the strong and heals the wounded.
He pulled back the collar of his outer garment and traced with his finger the long, straight scar that stretched from his neck into the folds of his shirt.
But it certainly doesn’t heal everything.

Personality:

The Old Man glanced at the small black book he kept in the pocket of his duster, flipping until he found the calendar. He already knew what day it was, but he glanced again, just to see the small red circle that marked the day of the Reaping. That wretched day. The day that marked both the beginning of the Hunger Games and the end of his former life.

It’s about time I took on a new student.
He focused on the lines of his rough, blacksmith’s hands. It had been several years since he had worked with a tribute, helped them to stand a chance in the arena. Everyone knew that training before the Hunger Games was strictly prohibited, but at the same time, the rule itself was moot. So he trained them. The Old Man, with his stock of hand-forged weapons and survival experience, drilled potential tributes on how to survive in the arena until he thought they truly stood a chance. He acted as a sort of unofficial mentor, who helped them train before they began their descent into the Games themselves. He never sought them out, but they came to him regardless. He thought himself to be a good teacher. Firm, but never callous. Always aware of the limitations of his pupil, and never pushing them beyond what they could handle. He only took on students because he cared about them. Deeply. Though his rough exterior would never suggest it, his heart held compassion for the youth about to sacrifice their lives.

The Old Man was wise. Maybe not book-smart, maybe not the most resourceful, but certainly wise. However, his wisdom came with a price. Only through experience did he learn the ways of the world, not by scholarly reflection or instruction. He struggled to express his wisdom to the young tributes that stood in front of him, but knew he could only impart so much. Youth, he knew, was a prideful time. No one needed to listen to the ramblings of an old man past his prime. Everyone believed that they were ten feet tall and invincible.
Until they stepped into the arena, and realized this was the furthest thing from the truth.

This combination of compassion, frustration, and unwavering will gave others an image of the Old Man that he lived up to. He came across as gruff, never saying much, but every word meant something. He never wasted his breath, knowing the futility of arguments before they began. To others, he was intimidating, but well-respected for his power and instruction. The representation of a life full of guilt, anger, and wasted years. He knew differently, because the memories that haunted him were the same that drove each action- his actions that someday, he hoped, would spare the life of a tribute thrust into the Capitol’s deathtrap.

[/size][/font][/blockquote]History:

The scars that covered his body told stories that the Old Man’s lips would never recite. The crossed marks of the lash. The quick, sharp cuts of a blade. These wounds were much more than skin deep.

In his youth, he had not borne these wounds. These scars represented what he knew to be the death of his innocence; the end of his youth had come quickly and brought years of agony afterward. But for a moment, he could remember his youth. “The halcyon days,” he thought to himself.

He was born in the year of the eleventh Hunger Games, making him forty-seven years old. Ironic, he thought, that the days of our lives should be counted an event designed for the sole purpose of taking life. As a boy, he grew up under the tutelage of his father, a well-known blacksmith who made weapons to be used both for ceremony and for the Games themselves. He went to school, climbed rocks, and slowly grew older. And then, out of nowhere, his life was changed forever when he met her.

Maggey. His Maggey. He sighed aloud at the thought of her name. He could remember the sound of her laugh as clearly as the sound of his own voice, like a birdsong echoed across the mountains. Her skin as pale as marble. He eyes as vibrant as twinkling stars. Her hair, the color of a soft, flickering flame, carried from her shoulders by a soft wind.
Maggey.

No words could capture the feeling of those days, when the only emotion he could feel was joy. Those halcyon days, when he could hold his Maggey for hours as they gazed at the stars from a secret place known to their minds only. It was there that he asked her to be his bride, a his own shaking voice replaced by her soft passionate, “Yes.”

Maggey’s family welcomed him as one of their own, as he treated Maggey the way her mother had always hoped a suitor would. Even her brother, Brenann, treated him as his own brother. The two of them were engaged to be married in October, when the leaves of the trees turned the color of Maggey’s hair. How quickly plans can change.

Suddenly, the Old Man is eighteen again. He stands before a stage as the crowd around him holds its breath, waiting for the calling of two names.
The first is his.
Without a second’s notice, his place is taken. Brenann put an arm around his shoulder.
You two deserve to be with each other. She needs you. Treat her well.

And with that, he was gone, sliding through the crowd to his place on the stage. At the train station, he attempted to give Brenann his gratitude, but could only muster up the words, “Thank you,” with a brief smile and a handshake. He wished he could have given him something more.

His death was quick, but brutal. District 2 watched as Brenann’s head and body were cleanly and silently separated by the long blade of his executioner. And yet Maggey was forced to watch every second. No one understood her pain except for those who had lost their own families in the Games. But then, Maggey did something unprecendented.
She retaliated.

The Peacekeeper nearest Maggey kept those wounds until the day he died. She attacked like an animal, with a fury that her lover had never seen. And then, suddenly, the sound of thunder echoed from the stones of the square, and Maggey fell to the ground. In the resulting skirmish, her once-fiancée lost his right eye, while gaining scars he would keep for the rest of his life.

And suddenly, the Old Man was forty-seven again, staring at the musty reflection of the figure reflected in the mirror.
Yes, it’s about time I took on another student.
His motivation was simple. If two children were to be offered up to the jaws of the arena, he would make absolutely sure that one of them came home alive.