#𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐖𝐁𝐎𝐘: indie writing blog for 𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽 𝚅𝙰𝙽 𝚂𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙻𝙴 from the 1987 cult classic horror western 𝑵𝑬𝑨𝑹 𝑫𝑨𝑹𝑲. this blog will mostly serve as a place for me to share my writing when the mood strikes. personals are welcome to follow , comment , send in prompts and read my writing but do not reblog any roleplay threads. i will be selective with those i choose to write with and will only roleplay with other roleplay blogs , with writers over the age of twenty.
written by dhoome. he / him. 25 +. eastern standard time. mostly iconless. medium to low activity —- primarily operating through the queue. PLEASE READ RULES BEFORE INTERACTING , THANK YOU. 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚅𝙸𝙻𝚈 𝙰𝙵𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚄𝙻𝙵𝙷𝚁𝙰𝙵𝙽𝚇.
His bites are not pleasurable. There is no “vampiric ecstasy”. If he has sharpened his teeth they at least puncture smoothly, otherwise he will gnaw his way through like a crazed animal (because he is).
He is a messy bitch. We see it in the movie, but even more so in the script he guzzles, he slurps, gets it all over the place. Severen is almost always a mess. He gets blood on him, blood on his clothes, if he hasn’t cleaned up he probably smells like the T-Rex nest in Lost World. This man is disgusting.
He is heinously hungry. He will eat everything he can possibly get his hands on, even feeding multiple times a night. His other pack mates may have been satisfied even sharing a human, he can have three and be looking for more.
He has no qualms about his prey. Young or old, male, female or other, human or inhuman, friend or foe. It all eats and you are never safe from becoming a meal.
It's suggested in the script that Severen is scarred, but since there is no physical description of what kind of scars they are, I take it to mean he has faint scarring all over from the frequent trauma he puts his body through. Even knowing their weakness to sunlight he frequently steps out into it, or leaps into equally dangerous situations ( explosions for instance ) so it is my assumption that he is too much for his own body’s ability to heal.
There is also a scene depicting him filing his teeth, with the remark that they dulled “ faster than you’d expect. ” Even though enamel wouldn’t normally grow back, theirs supersede that, meaning that any dead tissue is still able to be rejuvenated.
There is always the sound of metal about Severen. From his chiming spurs, rusted chrome clattering, or fresh, polished silver, to the tinkling of the fly fishing lures tapping against the Metropolitan Police badge. There is a noise about him. That does not mean he cannot move silently. He can be as deceptive as any nocturnal predator.
Much like El Silbón, it is much better when you can hear him close, rather than when you do not hear him at all.
Severen calling Homer “lil’ boner” is definitely ‘ha ha funny’ in the ‘80’s, and a play on his name for sure. But in my previous headcanons for his origin, Jesse and Severen “recover” Homer from France during World War 1. Therefore, I think Severen originally started using it in the context of calling Homer a mistake. ‘Boner’ was popularized as a word for ‘a blunder’ in 1912 so it makes sense in the context of time period.
Severen has a very negative opinion on those that have been turned against their will, so although he has a brotherly fondness for Homer, he still thinks he was misbegotten. It’s both a personal nickname and solemn reminder, which could be a deeper understanding of his anger toward Severen calling him that. It is also an indication of his morose personality that he also accepts it.
My interpretation of Severen is asexual, a/demi-romantic.
Due to the time period I'm sure he was under peer pressure as a young man to “prove himself” so he learned to flirt and charm women, without taking much actual interest in it. His true enjoyment comes from reckless endangerment, adrenaline peaking behavior in the form of shootouts, bull riding, and other thrill seeking adventures. Something Severen appreciated the most about Jesse was his quiet discretion. He never pressured Severen to chase skirts or badgered him about courting anyone. Jesse just understood that his partner was not interested and didn’t pursue the topic, unlike others of their age.
I do not believe Severen has ever felt even lust for any mortals --- or immortals, more eager to hunt them than romance them. Even if he were to attempt to engage in something physical, I don't think his displays of passion are survivable by anything less than an immortal; and hunger seems to win out over all else with him--even as exampled in the movie.
Severen’s relationship with Lira / ulfhrafnx is particularly special for how and why she holds his interest. It is not who/what she physically is, but what she actually is that he is drawn to. The allure of death and blood surrounding her is more vexing than anything he has experienced and completely unique. She alone can meet his unhinged passions. He can be the unrestrained monster he is and she is more than his equal. They are two uncontrollable forces meeting, something he could have with no one else.
Even with a lightly superstitious nature, Severen remains very grounded in thought. Having met gods and otherworldly entities, he accepts them for what they are, much as he does himself, but it does not shake his worldview or make him believe in anything more than what is on the surface. Seeing an eldritch horror would not make him believe in multiple dimensions, ending up in one might. He would argue that you can’t know you can’t kill a ghost until you’ve tried.
Yes, this is a supernatural creature arguing against the supernatural, he doesn’t see the irony. You can point out that the most obvious holes in his faulty logic and he would just shrug asking if you were sure they had to be silver bullets.
Nuanced thought is not beyond him, he simply sees the world as black and white and red all over.
For my purposes, Severen has none of the more “romantic” aspects of vampirism. He does not glamour people, he has no supernatural abilities that are not part of his physical makeup. Any allure, or draw he has over others is just preying upon the human proclivity to walk into danger.
Although he has an extreme capability of regeneration, he does suffer consequences when taxed beyond a certain limit. This is why he does have faint scarring on his body (before and during movie timeline), and heavy scarring afterward (in all but the verse: the vengeful one).
Along with this he does have the usual heightened sense acuity, and physical ability (extended stamina, physical prowess, speed), but while he can overtake a horse or catch up to a car, he is not “a blur in the night”.
Severen does not have any mystical weaknesses. Sunlight will kill him under prolonged exposure (something like 10-15 minutes of direct light), and excessive, all encompassing bodily harm will most likely kill him, as well as being entirely drained of blood (this may just cause him to enter hibernation). Pure metals, holy objects or charms, wooden stakes, will be entirely ineffective.
While some vampire fiction has the creatures talk about tasting memories in blood, even if Severen can, he is not one for poetic thought. To him, blood is food, and he appreciates the nuance of taste, of the palpable characteristics, not so much if he can experience the person’s childhood or not.
If he does have some capacity of “dark gifts”, it is not something he would explore on his own. Coming from the Old West, he is of the mindset that things of that nature always come with a price. He knows the current demand, an unending hunger, which is one he is willing to feed. Without knowing what else might be asked of him, he remains satisfied with what he has. Should another attempt to enlighten him he may be willing to learn, but he is not one unhappy with the nature of what he is.
Severen enjoyed participating in the early “rodeo” ranch vs. ranch events back in his day, as well as breaking wild horses; often while bareback. After he was turned, he still took part—when able—in frontier days, stampedes, and cowboy contests; later known as formal rodeo in 1945.
Once inhuman, Severen’s ability to put on a thrilling show well surpassed others; due to the increased intolerance animals have of him. Other cowboys often commented on how crazed the animals acted, and some were made to wonder what he did to provoke them. If asked, Severen just told them:
“They just don’t like me much.”
He stopped accepting formal prizes when judges and fellow participants tried to look into his background. Admittedly, he was just in it for the thrill. That didn’t mean he left empty-handed…
Severen was not always as gluttonous as he now is. Roaming around the vastness of the southwestern US in the 1800’s meant he and Jesse had times of feast and times of famine. They got by with sharing the one person they could find camped out by a river, or gleefully indulging in a town left barren in their wake. Sometimes he and Jesse hungered for days; sick and starving, dragging themselves across barren plains.
He first got a taste for organ meats after resorting to sucking the blood out of them for every drop they could muster. Of the two of them, Severen was the only one who kept to indulging in the practice; Jesse fine with not making such a mess of things. What encouraged Severen to become the non-stop eater he is, was simply the increased availability of prey. As the human population grew, rationing was less of a concern. He could indulge, and while for Jesse this meant needing less, for Severen it meant taking more.
The rest of the family varies. Diamondback and Mae, though with no hesitancy toward killing— even creatively— simply don’t have the vastness of Severen’s appetite. The only other member of the family who does is Homer; who might otherwise gladly give into the base urge of devouring humans whole, sees it as a dark remnant of his past and resists. There are times when Severen can pull him into a gorge, but Homer does so very seldomly for fear of what it might bring back out of him.
The others are not too concerned with Severen’s insatiability. He sustains himself, and cleans up his tracks, keeping to the code they established long ago. Although Jesse may have a worry in the back of his mind that Severen could one day “go over the edge”, he knows that forced restraint could end up with Severen either getting worse vindictively, or simply carrying on behind his back. Without his family around, Severen does get more reckless than he was. He keeps to the guidelines of the original pact, but explores greater, more exotic flavors, straying from humans to other supernatural beings.
He never had a reticence to hunt the latter, but did not have much means of access; also too did he worry that he might call down something upon the lot of them. With only himself to truly watch out for, and a dangerous knowledge that he is even hardier than he thought,
Speaking for Severen specifically, but all of the family in general, I think one of the reasons they all continue to smoke is less that the addiction carried into their un-life, but that the nicotine does help curb their cravings some.
That being said I don’t think any of them particularly enjoy it. The smoke is probably too pungent, the flavors varyingly intense, or dull, stale or overwhelmed with other chemical tastes.
They prefer to roll their own, but make do with what they can find. Each has their own particular preference, but rarely purchase them, scavenging and trading amongst themselves. As with everything they look out for one another, Severen saving some Pall Malls for Diamondback, Jesse snagging an extra pack of Marlboros for him.
In particular for Severen, smoking also gives him something to focus his fidgety behavior on. He will often smoke and chew gum at the same time, especially when he is trying to concentrate. If he doesn’t have anything in his mouth he has a tendency to gnaw at the inside of his lip, lending to his often scowling visage. As smoking becomes less popular in the modern world he resorts to buying a pack or two if he finds himself running low, but he will always defer to feeding his bad habit off of others.
ᴇʏᴇꜱ. avoids eye contact when nervous, maintains eye contact when nervous, avoids eye contact due to being neurodivergent, enjoys eye contact as a means to read and convey emotion, looks down when emotional, looks up when emotional, cries openly, wipes tears quickly, suppresses tears, wandering gaze when lost in thought, holds gaze while thinking, seeks out eye contact for reassurance, seeks out eye contact to gauge enthusiasm during conversations, eyes move constantly during conversation, expressive eyes, emotions only evident through eyes, uses eye contact to intimidate, looks up while thinking, looks down while thinking.
ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. clasps behind back, rests in lap, fidgets with clothes, twiddles thumbs, chews at nails, pushes back cuticles, draws patterns on table/counter surfaces, animated gestures while speaking, only gestures to emphasize, utilizes sign language, speaks only through sign, callouses, scars, smooth, wrinkled, worn, soft, delicate, boney, slender, thick, veiny, touches others while speaking, reaches out while laughing, reaches out to comfort others, reaches out to seek comfort, places face in hands when exasperated, places face in hands when exhausted, places palms over eyes to hide when overwhelmed, rests chin in hands, taps fingers when impatient, taps fingers when nervous, taps fingers while thinking, scratches scalp, strokes chin, rubs back of head, toys with objects around them, runs fingers over surfaces while walking by.
ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ. chews lip, chews at inside of cheek, licks lips, bites tongue, chews on straws, resting frown, resting smile, neutral resting expression, resting pout, grinds teeth, flexes jaw, covers mouth when laughing, covers mouth when shocked, covers mouth when concerned, hands to lips while thinking, covers mouth when chewing, chews with mouth closed, chews with mouth open, smirks, grins, subtle smiles, wide smiles, sad smiles, intimidating smiles, menacing grins, openly smiles, tries to suppress smiles, bares teeth when angry, lips quiver when emotional, stutters, speaks quickly, speaks slowly, good pronunciation, poor pronunciation, moderate pronunciation, purses lips, sucks in lips, holds mouth open when shocked or confused.
ʟᴇɢꜱ. bounces leg when nervous, draws knees to chest when sitting, draws knees to chest as a means of comfort, sits on knees, sits with legs criss crossed, sits with legs spread open in chairs, crosses legs when sitting in chairs, sits with one leg folded under the other, places feet on furniture, never places feet on furniture, sits on counters, sits on desks, sits on tables, sits on edge of seat, sits hunched over with forearms on knees, arches one knee up, sits on the arm of chairs/couches, feet on dashboard, swings legs back and forth when sitting somewhere elevated, wiggles toes when nervous, wiggles toes as a general tick, shuffles feet, kicks foot into ground, stomps feet, loud footsteps, quiet footsteps, silent footsteps.
ʜᴀɪʀ. runs fingers through hair, tugs at hair, picks at scalp, chews on hair, twists locks of hair while thinking or nervous, smooths out locks of hair while thinking or nervous, prefers hair out of face, prefers long hair, prefers short hair, wears hair back, keeps hair down, smooths back hair, plays with other’s hair while talking, plays with own hair while talking, strokes hair to comfort others, likes having hair stroked for their own comfort, braids others’ hair while talking, braids own hair while talking, flips hair out of face, pushes hair out of face, leaves hair alone even when falling into face.
GO HERE and reblog with your character’s name in their handwriting !
Severen writes in a tight, classic cursive. It’s what he’d be given to learn in however much school he attended, and encouraged by his parents, one of which did have some formal education themselves.
Author’s Note: This is an interaction between Severen Van Sickle and an OC of mine. The character is the physical manifestation of the mortal sin of Wrath.
The ominous presence, of what presumed to be a church, was undeniable. The building felt like it had a will entirely its own. He’d never known another place to have such a palpable otherworldliness, a living essence even in the absence of another soul.
He looked down the empty, endless path stretching parallel in front of the large, wide, stone steps and could discern nothing in either direction; only a border wall of shrubbery to break up the grey. With no other choice, he proceeded upward— steps oddly muffled— to the large stained glass doors. Resting his hand on the burnished bronze handle he stares, fixated by the images depicted in the glass.
Scenes of violence, of fire, war, rage, drowning in a river of tar. He can’t really tell if what he is seeing is truly frozen in the colored glass or playing out right before him. It is mesmerizing cruelty. Something about it awakens his ever present hunger. The door opens beneath his hand, though Severen is nearly certain he did not depress the lever. It swings inward on silent hinges of its own volition; he releases his grip in order to not be dragged along with it as it completed its course.
He steps inside the darkness within, somehow darker than the night he has left outside and proceeds without hesitation into the interior. Candelabras bedecked with dripping candles line the path, casting flickering shadows in the wake of their disparate light. The pews are polished mahogany, void of bodies, tattered bibles marking the absence of the penitent.
“C’mon down son, no sense lingerin’” the voice is rich, warm as melted chocolate and just as smooth. It has the opposite effect on Severen, he freezes in place and stares into the gloom to the pulpit from which it came. There stands the speaker, dressed in a fine maroon suit, smiling like a fox in the hen house. This man was a predator, as much as he was and it gave him pause, wariness encroaching. He hadn’t known there could be another with that same fire in him, and this one burned even brighter. It was alluring, dangerous.
“Don’ hover in doorways when you’re bidden son, come on. Rih’ here”. The man slapped a hand upon the pulpit, a crack of metal on hardwood reverberating in the vast emptiness, and then indicated one of the front seats with palm raised heavenward.
Severen felt himself moving without consciously meaning to, legs more obedient than himself. As he approached he was caught up staring straight into the man’s face. It was difficult to tell if it was Severen’s own supernatural ability to see in the dark, or something about this other that made him emanate with an ambient glow. It deepened the shadows surrounding him, but made the details of his gentlemanly features perfectly distinguishable. Gentle creases framed his mouth as white teeth glinted in the dim light, revealed in a smile that made Severen reflexively think of the word ‘wicked’. Dark eyes remained locked upon him as he approached, as if they looked away he may turn tail— it occurred to him it may be wise to do so, but he’d never much been one for retreat. Gripping the top of the pew, so tight the wood creaks, the night creature sits, though he is far from relaxed; wound tight enough to burst upward at a moment’s notice.
“Good”, it is said with a cheer that is skin deep, the man sauntering around the wooden stand; adjusting his tie with skilled aplomb. Long, pale fingers run down the ebony silk, dodging an opal tie pin as they run the course. A sharp crack resonates as his black, crocodile skin dress shoes connect with the two stairs down to the carpeted main aisle. Severen watches the performance with familiarity; the swagger, the uncontested confidence, he knows this prowler innately— as if this were himself.
“It’s good to have you here son”. The man stands before him now, Severen has to look up to see his face, most likely because he is sitting, however, it feels like more than that. There is something discordant with the man’s visual appearance, an untruth in the physical way he presents himself; the material trappings unable to fully restrain what truly lies beneath.
“Where’s here?” Severen asks almost petulant, not keen on being the less dangerous thing in the room. He leans back against the uncomfortable bench, bracing his arms down either side, taking up as much space as he can. He tries for a casual calm— a feeling that does not exist in this place— although his irritation is obvious; never much good at disguising his more negative emotions.
“It’s nowhere, where ain’t special. This could be”, the man rotates first one direction than the other, arms splayed outward as if only seeing this place for the first time today, “Anywhere!” An amused snort from the man and he inclines forward in a conspiratorial manner, “Although I do appreciate this, it is rare I get to be anywhere I am truly at home”. Severen feels left out of the joke, but finds the man’s charm impossibly infectious, he has a half cocked grin on his face without knowing why he’s smiling.
“Forget ‘where’”, the man hikes his pants and slides onto the seat beside Severen, “let’s work on ‘who’”. One wide palmed, long fingered hand is extended to his guest, for that is exactly what Severen realized he was now. How or why he was invited to this place was a mystery— for the time being— of one thing he was certain: he was present at the behest of this man, his host. Without a second guess he wraps his own strong fingers around the proffered hand and the two hold in place, neither moving. An intensity of heat, absent of the comfort warmth typically brings, wraps his body. It felt like a furnace within had been ignited, or further stoked perhaps. Despite himself, Severen took a sharp inhale, a tremor of sudden exhilaration shuddering throughout.
“Yes, boy, you do know me”, the buttery voice penetrated his mind, “not by name, but by profession, I am delighted we are familiar”. For the first time, in a very long while, Severen understood what it meant to be hunted—captured. This man had drawn him, a card from a deck he had full control of, and held him here, held him close, for a devising all his own; and certain to be singularly serving.
“Ira is a name good as any”, the man offers, now releasing his grip, yet the fire stays burning in the cowboy’s chest. “And you, Severen, Mr. Van Sickle, have no need to give anything more of yours to me. You’ve granted me plenty, to which I am eternally grateful”. The laugh that comes after his words is humorless and vicious in a way that puts Severen on edge in a way that is completely unfamiliar.
“Never mind that, a personal jest”, dismissively he waves it away, as if clearing the words from the air, “You are right to feel compelled to this place, you are right that I brought you in particular, invited, if you will. There is an offer I wish to make you son, one you’ll be most inerres’ted to entertain. In fact I feel I can guarantee your answer, but as choice is of a particular importance to me, I will elucidate”.
Usually when one looked to strike a proposition to another— at least in Severen’s experience— they were not quite so bald faced about having manipulated the outcome. The deceitful dance of dithering, of finding the alignment that suited both parties was not present here. He could not be sure if this was a one-sided arrangement he would see little or no benefit from, or if his prize had already been decided without the chance to bargain.
“Don’ you worry your head over none’a that Mr. Van Sickle, I wouldn’t seek to lose you for anything this world could hope to provide”. It was oddly emotional, like a father feeding his child the words of adoration only a parent can give.
“What’re you proposin’?” Severen says shortly, mistrust of Ira building, becoming conscious of himself in this place, of his individuality, breaking through the overwhelming, suffocating nature of his surroundings— of the man before him. Ira claps his hands and it sounds like a whip crack, “Mr. Van Sickle, I want to get you directly on your way home!” He speaks with exuberant glee, as if it were him being benefitted by this proposal. Dark brows knit over blue eyes.
“What’d you mean?” The words leave his lips before he can stop them. A secret part of him knows exactly what Ira means and it has stopped Severen from knowing this truth himself. There is a quiet mental cry at the prospect of remembering, but it is too late to go back now, a door opened can no longer be closed without force.
“Ahhh son, I forget how much ya’ll don’ like that part, sorry for this”, there is an actual hint of apology in his voice, “but it will help with your decision I reckon”. Ira leans forward and clasps the side of Severen’s face, heel of his hand resting on the rise of his cheek. The thumb presses upon the start of his brow and traces the dark line end to end, and with the gesture a line of piercing fire enters Severen’s brain. It all surges forward in a blended crescendo of overwhelming agony. There is such horrid desperation and pain he cannot recognize himself in it. Certainly those are not feelings known to him, not anymore, and yet they are born from him like fetid butterflies bursting out of the chrysalis of his mind.
He sees things he knows he was not present for, death he had not witnessed, and the horror of what had happened after he had been forced to oblivion is worse than anything he had suffered. When Severen regains a present consciousness he can’t tell if the scream reverberating in his head was loosed aloud or not; either way, Ira holds the same expression as before, unbothered. His hand falls away and rests in the gap between them.
“You were right to hate him”, Ira’s tone has changed from jollity, to a sumptuous melancholy, “You were right to distrust and to want his destruction”.
“I was right” Severen repeats, but stops when he realizes how lured he was to say so. He doesn’t like how easily Ira pries into the core of him, and immediately becomes defensive.
“If I was right to mistrust one stranger, why should I trust you?” he snaps, muscles tensing in anticipation of confrontation. Ira only laughs, a rich, melodious sound.
“Mr. Van Sickle, was I not already clear that we are the furthest thing from strangers?” Severen looks hard into the face now, taking his meaning literally, although the features bear no resemblance to a memory he can form. Inexplicably Ira’s eyes, which he had taken for auburn, seem to flicker, he thinks it is a reflection of the firelight caught in his iris, but in actuality he knows that they are a fire unto themselves.
“Son, I been with you more days than anyone you ever known”, he gestures for Severen to not interrupt, “You may not have known I was there, we have little rules for these things, but trust I know every second of your life, it’s my favorite story”. The truth of the last three words is apparent in the utter pleasure displayed in the smile he shares with Severen, it is discomforting, yet he finds himself more intrigued by ‘why’ rather than ‘how’, or ‘what for’.
“Because you are The Savage One”, there is a reverence in the title, “A wild tempest of brutality the likes’a which I ain’t never known before or since. Well,” he leans back into the pew rotating his palm one way and the other in a “more or less” motion, “there have been one or two others, but none with your won’erful consistency”. Severen has not forgotten how they got to this point and returns to his first line of questioning.
“What’s this gotta do with you makin’ me an offer?” Ira braces a hand down on his wine colored dress pants, bending forward “Everythin’ boy!” He looks almost bewildered at Severen’s lack of understanding, “Want revenge don’cha?”
“Innit a lil late for that?” Dark sarcasm adds to his seething, gloomy disposition, the furnace within dissipating some, pain returning.
“It ain’t late for anythin’, in fact it ain’t even begun” Ira speaks in a secretive fashion, low, eager, trying to drag the other into his own giddiness, but only partially succeeding in the fact that Severen is once more intrigued.
“Lissen Mr. Van Sickle, I know I’ve been elusive, downright enigmatic if spoken true, but that’s the nature of these things, it’s interpretive you might say. If I say, ‘Sure would be a kick to see you drag that milksops intestines ‘cross the state ‘a Oklahoma’ that don’t rightly put in place what I’m offerin’”. Severen waits for him to continue, he does so gladly. “Now, ‘Wreck vengeance in my name, burn blade of fury and malignant hate’ so on and so forth, now that’s more akin to my way of things”. Severen plays the words once over mentally and latches onto an understanding; as if coming through a thick wood onto a clear meadow. “You the devil at this particular crossroads?” “Sumethin’ like that".
“We fiddlin’, cause I was always better on guitar”. Ira bellows a laugh, the metal thud of his rings on wood again as he slaps the top of the pew.
“This is a damn fine pleasure ain’t it!” Even in a laughing squint his eyes seem to intensify in their red-orange glow. “Mr. Van Sickle, you got the gist of it, but I’m not one for game playin’ or wheelin’ dealin’ nonsense”. He clears his throat, coughing out the last of his laughter.
“This is a true and honest petition to have you back where I think you oughta be, an’ my only fine print is that you keep doin’ what you been, an’ keep on doin’ it”. Severen’s eyes narrow a second time.
“That hardly sounds like a deal”
“I never called it a deal, I called it an offer. Got your superstitious western ways all tangled in this very forthright proposal”. Leaning back, replaying their conversation over in his mind Severen analyzes Ira, all his abundant words, his conniving motivations, what he has declared of who— what— he is, the knowledge he claims to have of who Severen is; and his fixed desire to have him continue his malicious ways.
Blue eyes move from the man to their surroundings, the marble walls, the elaborate trappings of ethereal worship, he sits up with a conclusion come to, not in haste, but with acceptance.
“All this to ask me somethin’ you know the answer to, and nothin’ in return? Superstition er’ not that seems like a deal that gets a man in trouble”.
“What other trouble you got to get in son?” Both men are leaning toward one another, a standoff in all but action, two combative entities sizing the other before swinging. The challenge ignites another intense flare in Severen and he feels nearly overwhelmed by the heat, it is revivifying, as if he’d never known what it felt like to be warm.
“You doin’ that?” He growls, clasping his chest in something that is not quite pain, but is certainly not pleasant.
“Haven’t done anythin’ to you Mr. Van Sickle, thas on you, in you rather”, all grins again.
“Y’see I don’t need you to verbally agree, it’d be nice, all clear cut and in the open, but like you said just now, I know you’ll take this offer, ya’only protestin’ cause it’s in your nature to do so. ‘An it ain't like me to divert someone from their chosen course, far from it”. There is a faint chuckle, another personal joke, “What you’re feelin’ is what I am promisin’ you”.
“Resurrection?”
“More”.
“More?”
“Much more”.
The smile that was once mischievous and guarded becomes openly pleased, eyes flaring, no longer with the suggestion of firelight, but as barely contained infernos themselves.
“What’s it that plagued you while you terrorized humanity?” Severen’s hand still works his sternum, the roiling blaze there pulsing.
“Slowed you down and kept you hidden away?” There is a pause while he follows the line of thought.
“You sayin’ I can walk in daylight?”
A snicker, “Son, you can strip down in your drawers and do cartwheels on the beach if you have a mind”, hearty laughter, “Tha’s what I’m here to provide, a ball of fire and gas cain’t burn away what’s already aflame”. Severen meets his eyes again and the painful burning surges outward down his extremities and into his head. It courses like poison through his veins, scalding his insides. He stares at his arms, hands, looking for the visible signs of the track it has blistered through him, but there is no indication whatsoever, just the radiant heat that won’t stop.
“Is this, is this deal done?” He asks in panting gasps, finding it hard to breath— unsure if he needs to— “Is this, is this what I am now?”
“You don’t have a clue yet boy, but you will, in time”. He rests his palms on his thighs and hunches forward preparing to stand, “As for your question, I s’ppose that is our business concluded”. He rises, again the surreal juxtaposition of the physical and otherworldly presence, and slips his hands into his pockets, glancing over one shoulder to his companion, “This was a true delight Severen, an’ I hope in all this pageantry you do know that to be the truth”.
The name almost seems like it belongs in another time. Once he had clung to a title he’d known from his human past, The Reaper, he had reclaimed his given name of Severen in his time of gluttonous desecration, now the unspoken title he had gained because of his unfettered wrath called loudest, The Vengeful One. All torment of fire ceased upon this revelation.
That same grin of affection was cast upon him.
“You are free son, I loose you upon the world, a plague of my own invention, a beast of blood and fire molded from the star’s own heart. Go forth and be triumphant in your unholy deeds, and as you reap and water the earth with the blood of damned and saintly alike do so with only one thing in your heart, Savagery”.
“Amen”.
Sermon concluded he opened his eyes to the blinding white light of high noon sunlight, reflecting off even the pale dust of the abandoned road he lay upon. All was coated in beige, even himself, but there was no pain, there was no burn. He sat up, stood, stared into the life taking light, looked around his surroundings. There was no point in questioning if what had happened was real, current circumstances were evidence enough, but even without it he could feel the difference inside himself. There was no crippling hunger— although he felt starved— there was only a feeling of barely contained power even he was hesitant to uncoil.
But he would, how he would.
First, though, he needed a drink, and even if he wasn’t sure where he would find it just yet, he knew he would.
She had been feeling the call even more intensely as of late.
The intoxicating sound of the night.
Not once since Mae been turned had it not called to her, mystifying her with its absolute wonder; of the moon and stars, the subtle smells, the quiet— deafening— noises. It was impossible to recall properly if she had ever found the dark hours as fascinating in her 16 human years as she did now. Surely she had looked up there, as everyone does on occasion, but had she even gotten close to seeing what she saw now?
Impossible.
Her fascination had been considered charming by her new compatriots, remarking at how the young found wonder in all the minutiae of the world; and paying little mind beside. It wasn’t until her first accident that she and Homer were pulled aside for a talking to.
“I need to know if I need to be worried” Jesse said plainly, thin arms crossed over his boney chest, gaunt face placid, though his stare went unnervingly through her.
“No Jesse, I jus’ got distracted is all…”
She had a hard time meeting those stone gray eyes, and opted to stare into the depths of the abandoned garage they inhabited (for now) instead. Her fingers curled along the sides of the stiff plastic chair she was sat in, shoulders hunched in a defeated posture.
“Distracted is what’s gonna get you killed if you aren’t careful” he shot back, voice reminding her of her father anytime he said he was “disappointed” in her. She had always hated that, it was somehow worse coming from the patriarch of their group. Mae curled her legs into her chest, looking more like a child than Homer— who stood beside her implacable as usual— did.
“She’s fine, and we haven’t had any problems since she joined” Homer interjected, touching Mae’s shoulder comfortingly.
“It wasn’t like she left someone alive, she just lost track of time, simple mistake.”
She appreciated him stepping up for her, always her supporter, still it did not deflect the harsh judgement she felt coming from the others. Diamondback, from her own seat near the wall speaks up, “I was new once too, and there’s a lot that’s overwhelmin’, excuses don’t solve that”. She rises and comes over to the pair, she has a maternal air about her; it does not waver from scolding alongside Jesse.
“You are one of us, but you haven’t lived like we have yet”, she crooks a finger under Mae’s chin and gently pulls it up to look at her, “We have our weaknesses too. Don’t go thinkin’ you can’t get hurt”.
Mae looks up, soft, innocent gaze disguising what she truly is now. She gives Diamondback a nod of acknowledgement; whether or not she takes it to heart, gives a gentle smile, and turns her head to look back at Jesse— well, next to Jesse.
“I am careful, there’s just so much…I’ve never felt so much before. I just can’t help wanting to…to feel…”. The words are hard for her to articulate, yet there is no lack of comprehension amongst the assembled. A dark voice cuts in.
“You gotta be more than careful”.
With a chill Mae realized that the points of light she has been staring at in the gloom belong to someone. Something. Severen. She draws her legs in tighter, as if any part of her body could protect her from what she has seen him do. In a slow, easy, heel-toe gait— metallic chimes announcing each step— he walks out into the moonlight the others occupy. Standing casually beside Jesse, hands in the pockets of his well-worn coat, Severen could almost seem casual, but if Jesse’s eyes were hard to meet it was far beyond her to stare into that wild, blue fire.
“You gotta be downright diligent” the pointed way he says the words feels like they are being driven through her.
“That’s some big talk coming from you! How many places go up in flames because you can’t keep your teeth out of anything that moves!” Homer snaps back, although he too is a hypocrite in this. Severen makes a show of looking down at his elder.
“But I do all the burnin’ , I do all the cleanin’, what mess a’ mine have you stepped in?” He pauses, just a moment, yet there are no voices raised in protest.
“Tha’s right” the ferocity in his expression is near feral, there is a cruelty hidden there waiting to be released; it seems he thinks better of the words that linger on the tip of his tongue. They all know it is because Jesse is there, watching Severen, the only leash the mad dog has. In turn they all watch Jesse, wondering where he draws the line. Severen picks one choice insult “Boner”— succinct— and gives Homer a challenging stare. The shorter man snarls and steps forward, the strength, despite his size, obvious by the rigidity of his figure. He does not engage his tempter, stepping back, though the fury comes off him in waves. Mae almost feels queasy from it.
“You made your point Severen” Jesse calls off the attack, grabbing Severen’s shoulder tight. The Savage One backs away a few steps, still smiling in that destructive way, although the temperature decreases significantly.
“He ain’t wrong” Jesse says, Homer scoffs and rolls his eyes, Diamondback chides him with a look. Mae can almost hear the ‘lissen to your pa’ projected from it.
“The only ones protectin’ us is each other, from the sun, from people, from ourselves”.
Jesse speaks somberly, he lets the words sink in. They do. Severen is watching him intensely, as a sinner soaking up gospel.
“I expect everyone who rides with us to respect that, to own it”. He looks around the room, meeting every pair of eyes with his own set of steel. Mae is the last one he settles on, she expects to feel fearful, shamed, contrarily she feels a fatherly concern, a worry— perhaps that they were wrong about her after all this time. The teenage meekness drains from her, she understands now.
This was not about punishment— or not just— they really were worried that they had lost her. This was fear for a family member in danger. Mae unfolds her legs, placing the soles of her sneakers flat on the concrete, grit crunching beneath them.
“I am sorry Jesse, Homer, Diamondback”, she turns to each as she makes her apology, leaving the still stern faced one for last, “Severen”.
“Maybe don’t do shit you gotta apologize for” he snaps, the reaction almost automatic.
Jesse shoots him a mean look, “I wouldn’t go around castin’ stones quite yet Sever’n, you may clean up after yer’self, you also make messes ain’t need to be made”. The rest of their argument is held in silence, a battle of wills one man against the other. It is Severen’s loyalty that makes him back down first.
Mae can’t help the stray thought that crosses her mind, of what the beast would truly be like loosed, what was Severen without Jesse? She had no knowledge of what other ties might bind Severen, of what he was other than a tempest of teeth and destruction. Would he protect them without his keeper? What would he do if left to his own devices?
Mae jerks out of the reverie at the sound of Homer’s voice beside her.
“How about we meet up before and after the hunt? I’m the only one that’s never caught in the day”, he glares a warning at Severen, who gives a laugh in response, “I can keep an eye on her”. He sounds fearfully possessive, she can’t tell if it is at the idea of losing her—what she is— or her actual demise. She supposed it might be unfair to judge him either way.
“No” Jesse shook his head, “Mae knows well enough, she does this on her own. That’s what trust is ain’t it?” Mae quirks a smile at this, it’s the closest thing to an open compliment she has received from Jesse—- or maybe anyone; at least one not tied to her looks. It had stuck with her, that declaration.
She had followed the doctrine to the letter, penitent for her idleness and eager to prove how well she belonged with them. Things had been so good and they’d been having such a lark, and it was because of this that she was so angry with herself now. She had known she’d been lingering, caught up in the stars. Feeding always made it stronger— not for the first time she wondered if it was Homer’s old world blood that made the world sing for her— and with her body positively electric with power she had launched herself into the night with abandon. She had run with coyotes, grabbed at mice in the field with owls, followed shooting stars through the sky, all until the rooster crowed. And that’s when she realized how bright the horizon was getting.
She had already been warned once, would anyone come for her now? Where in this open field could she hide herself, and when she did— and if she survived— would they seek her out or move on?
Pure panic engulfed her.
Mae buckled to the ground, knees scraping on rocks as she bent toward the low, dry grass, desperate, fear filled sobs escaping from her as she frantically searched for anything that could shelter her. Back the way she had come there was an old drainage tunnel, but could she make it in time?
It was hard enough convincing herself to stand amidst the numbing panic. They had been right in their condescension; she had proven them right. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t take care of herself, so how could they ever rely on her themselves?
As the world brightened and the shadows drew away she prepared herself for the singe, wondering how long it would take to die. It was the smell she noticed first, searing hair and flesh. She gagged, eyes watering, strangely feeling nothing of what should have been excruciating pain herself. Something fell atop her, heavy, itching her skin, a wool blanket. The ground falls away, she is being lifted, bundled up like a wounded animal. An engulfing heat surrounds her, she feels suffocated, and any effort to struggle tightens the vice around her. Mae thinks she can feel movement, her senses are so overwhelmed she can’t trust them, she tries to let the world fade out instead. The next thing she knows she has been dumped unceremoniously onto hard ground. Cool cement greets her cheek, and despite the brief pain upon landing, she is grateful for it. She knows now that she was saved, and without looking up Mae knows who it is.
The words that wait upon her lips are “thank you”, but they don’t want to come. She sits up, eyes downcast, takes a breath, “Severen—“
Bright eyes in a charred face fix on her and she startles. He leans bodily into the side of the cement tunnel and sinks to the ground, still smoldering as the flames slowly die down. She can see his chest heaving, whatever shirt he had been wearing has either melded to his skin or burnt off, she notices he had been running barefoot.
“Severen I’m—“ she remembers what he had said the first time and reevaluates what she should say.
“Thank you for finding me”.
It seems she chose wisely— or he hasn’t the strength to chastise— his gaze skates off of her and lingers on the wall ahead. Exhaustion must be setting in, his breathing is slowing, eyes staying closed longer and longer with each blink. There is a crunching, tearing sound, Mae realizes his lips have parted, thin, bright rivers of red stand out amongst the darkened flesh.
“Protectin’… family” he manages to say, voice raspy, deepened from raw irritation. Just those two words have pushed him to some sort of limit and he wavers, catching himself with a palm that skids on the ground leaving a trail of ash.
The sight makes Mae feel nauseous, empathetically agonized at his obvious pain. She wants to show a sign of concern, however, she can’t conceive of what would be appropriate. What would he not find offense in, what might he use to ridicule, what kindness could she show to the beast who made sport of consuming the hands that dared to feed it? He is trying to stay awake, desperate to be alert, frequently checking the entrance that they might have been followed. Mae crawls over and sits across from him.
“I’ll keep watch, you rest. When the sun sets I’ll wake you”.
There is protest in the look she is given, but it is a fight already lost. Severen’s head lolls and he is soon asleep, silent and limp. Mae does as she said, she watches the day go by, watches Severen sleep. A coyote comes sniffing and she shoos it away. Toward midafternoon her own eyelids grow heavy; just one glance at the blackened mass in the shadows reminds her of the obligation she made.
In the twilight hours Severen stirs, small sounds in his sleep, it jerks Mae out of her head nodding and upon seeing the dusk a wave of relief washes over her. They’ve made it, the night is coming to bless them once again. Mae softly slides over to Severen, careful to avoid the dead skin that has sloughed off him revealing fresh pink beneath.
“Severen, it’s night” she whispers, there is no response. “Severen we can go now”, she tries again, to no avail. Nothing about her voice gets a rise out of him, she goes for a different tactic.
“Get up”, at the sound of her declarative statement he jerks awake, suddenly vigilant. It takes him a moment to understand where they are, eyes cast one way, then another, finally locking on her own.
As he stands she realizes how thin he really is, without his leathers he is rangey, lithe. With the sheer amount of force she had seen him exert she had thought him much more muscular, the disconnect between his size and strength gives her pause. A palm is extended to her, Mae stares at the reddened skin and places her own hand atop it delicately. Her fingers are crushed by his own as he boosts her to her feet, she stumbles not expecting the force of his “assistance”.
“Jess is sure to birthin’ cattle at this point” he states evenly, voice sounding more like what she is used to. Severen is at the mouth of the tunnel surveying their surroundings, he steps out, black flecking off of him like tainted snow. Mae follows just behind, still unsure of how to address what happened, what the cost of this favor might be. He must have felt her eyes boring into his spine because he stalls in place and looks over one shoulder, a few strands of recovered hair falling into his face.
“I only did what oughta be done for any of us”. It is a far departure from what she expected him to say, prepared for a scathing reprimand, or talk of her ineptitude.
“That’s what trust is, that we’ll all be there for one another”. He’s right, and her heart swells with love for them, the family that has taken her in. It is impossible to tell if it is raw affection, or because of the unique nature of their lives that influences this influx of devotion. But whatever the case she knows she doesn’t want to be anywhere else. She certainly didn’t see her daddy from her other life running out in his jeans to look for her, hell her disappearance hadn’t even made the news. This is true family. Or what she had hoped one might be like.
“I understand”.
He nods, and they continue back to the shed without another word. Homer and Diamondback fuss over her, the latter breaking off to scold Severen afterward. He takes it with a dose of sarcasm and relays the encounter both downplaying and embellishing what they went through. They all stick together that night, posting up in a little dive bar (always easy game). Jesse and Diamondback do most of the work, but Mae is eager to prove herself and drags one of the patrons over to Severen herself.
“A sign of my thanks” she smiles.
He looks bemused behind dark colored glasses, taking the offering lackadaisically. Severen kicks out the man’s knees and feeds messily at the table, Homer makes a snide comment, Mae feels the gesture was appreciated.
She feels a sense of pride, of joy looking at her night brethren. She can’t shake her smile. Later in the evening as they hole back up, plans to move to the next town established, Jesse and Severen tell stories of their past.
Mae does her very best to stay awake and listen, it proves too difficult to fight against, the lull of their voices, the safety she feels wrapped in, the joy of belonging. As she drifts into an all consuming repose she relishes the warmth of the cold ones around her. Mae decides then that there is nothing in the day for her, she belongs to the night. She belongs with them.
