#about severin

[severtheheart]

Severino wearing his jousting armor (just his normal armor but with plumes and an ecranche) and, most importantly, besides his oldest friend, Destello!

[severtheheart]

[That scar over his chest. Originally, it was a line made with the edge of a rondel dagger held by his Lord, done a day before his knighting ceremony. The boy, the black gloves lined with black fur, the glint of his dark eyes. His fingers spreading the wound further, as the knife cut through the red threads of his soon-to-be-vassal's muscle. The gasps, louder than Hell within his own skull. The pain, Gods, the pain. Never-ending, shooting from the wound upwards to the very crown of his head, all the way down, like fire set inside him, like a never-ending whip lash irradiating from the wound to the tips of his fingers, to the end of his feet, below and above, as if the pain occupied his whole body. The dryness of his mouth, kept agape, gasping, crying, moaning. The Lord biting the tips of the glove's fingers to pull it off with his teeth, and his fingers jamming into the wound. Severin's scream quickly muffled with his other hand, tasting his own blood again like he had done a thousand times before. The dizzying feeling of losing so much blood. All that bright red seeping into the stone ground. His blood over the Duke's tunic, turning the rich blue into black. "You bleed so well", the Lord would say. Vicenzo's voice, that tone he had when he was lost in the pleasure of inflicting pain. That pant, that smile, that animal-like excitement at seeing blood. "I should cut another hole in you. I should fuck it." Spreading the wound over the chest open, as if he was trying to see the heart, as if he was spreading the hole of some whore open. "You're mine, forever, you know that?" Yes, he was his. That wound, to mark him forever as a belonging of the little Duke. The Duke would discard him a month later, bored of him. But that ceremony. That feverish dream. The Duke lowering his precious mouth to the wound. Lord Vicenzo sticking his tongue into the wound. Severin choking on the scream again. He didn't know why, but his instinct was to grab the Lord's head, and push him closer to the wound. closer to his heart. No matter how many times he reopened it after, it never felt quite the same.]

[severtheheart]

[severtheheart]

[Blood.

Blood. He is familiar with it. He has tough skin. The Lord once muttered "damn your hide, you take some time to bleed, huh?" while mindlessly drawing lines with his hunting knife across the boy's back. Yes, it wasn't that common for him to bleed. It took the bite of the Lord's hunting hounds, the harshness of the horse whip, it took effort to make him bleed. When he was younger, he didn't really find an explanation for why he began imitating his master and drew lines across himself with his own dagger.

At some point, he realized, it was because it felt good.

He didn't want to sully himself, he didn't want to sin by indulging the curious warmth below his navel. He didn't deserve it if the Lord said he didn't need it. He had to pray instead, because to indulge in sin is dirty. But once the feeling became too much, like a flood of warm blood inside of him, too much of a choleric humor, he had to let it out. With medical curiosity and divine instruction, he discovered only the sight of his own blood calmed him down.

Eventually the beatings felt good. Eventually the whip felt good. Eventually he began to misbehave to feel it. Eventually he started picking up fights in the guild. In the taverns. Breaking another boy's nose felt amazing. Watching the poor whelp cry as Vicenzo watched with a pleased smile was completely fever-inducing. Vicenzo quite enjoyed it when his squire started becoming possessive and angrier, dueling anyone he pointed at. An attack dog. Angry and foaming at the mouth and ready to kill. The little runt found out he liked to hurt others. The runt found out he wanted to be hurt. The marks of teeth over his tongue from a punch across his face, the bruises in his stomach, the raw knuckles. A savage. He stopped looking into mirrors. He began to collect scars like prayers and medals across his body.

Blood. The taste of blood. That hateful taste. That sweet taste. The metallic scent both of the armor, the weapons, the blood. Red swirls over a bowl of water meant to purify him.

Blood. The blood seeps through wounds. His master's hand, red and slick with it and with his own drool, providing the relief only he knew how to give him. Blood. His own hands covered in another man's remains. Blood. Over his boots, on the ground. Running down his nose. The fragments of a man's skull. Stabbing someone until he grew tired. Blood. The color of battlefield. Blood. The color of chivalry. Such a heroic color. Blood. His own or anyone else's.

Blood is the color of his purpose in life.

Blood is the color of life.

He shall not sin. He shall not weep. He shall not be afraid. Not even rage is... proper. Blood.

Blood.

Blood.

The only thing he was born for was to spill blood.

Like a pit hound. A soldier is decorated in blood. Blood, coloring the banners of noble houses. The color of bravery. Of life. Of life. Of prowess. Of joy. Blood. Yes, he knows it well. It is the shape of a sword and it is warm like another body. Yes.

Blood.]

[severtheheart]

[The squire shook a little, his breathing irregular, lips pursed in a sad little grimace. "But, my lord, what if I hurt you?"

Vicenzo started to laugh. The older boy's laugh, or rather, this particular laugh Severino was familiar with, had something akin to a sharp edge to it. Vicenzo sneered, growing annoyed, putting a hand on his hip. "You're simply not going to."

Severino nodded. His pride was hurt, but he had learned to simply let it sting instead of trying to argue with his lord. He stared at the marquis' black boots as Vicenzo explained:

"You have to learn grappling. And the fechtschule's teacher does not have my best interest in mind. I have the duty to teach you personally." He said the "you" with a bit of that painful little tone Severino didn't like. He liked it when the "you" was part of a command, not a complaint. Vicenzo knew that it pained him when he said it like that. He carried on, "I am your lord, and knights are supposed to teach squires things. I do enjoy it, despite your daftness."

Severino nodded, about to open his mouth, but Vicenzo immediately grabbed his shoulder. "And if you apologize right now, I swear to the Gods, I'm gonna beat you silent, yes?"

The squire nodded again. Vicenzo liked it when he went quiet and afraid. And Severino liked it when Vicenzo smiled, pleased, at his silence. It was a proper trade, so Severino dared not to speak again.

"So, we shall practice grappling. And we are not going to stop until you get it right. You understand?"

Another nod, and a quiet "yes, my lord".

"I will turn you into my personal bodyguard. You already make my bed and wash my clothes, but you have to be ready to kill and die for me. Yes?"

"Yes, my lord", the boy said again, now stumbling less in his words.

"I will teach you everything! You needn't anyone else. You will have to be perfect for me, you understand?"

"Yes, my lord", now lightly louder. Vicenzo looked upon the boy. He somehow reminded him of himself, awkward and small and wide eyed at the swords and the paintings of great warriors hung in the ancestors' hall. He liked the way he was fond of sharp things, and he liked the fact he was so stupidly loyal.

The squire was meant to be a punishment. An act too reckless, too brave and too successful in a recent siege had given the young marquis fame, and the Lord-Duke had granted him an early knighthood, despite his father's displeasure. Therefore, his father had obtained this strange child before him, this little broken mirror too eager to learn and do. Something between annoyance, little brother and dog. Slave? Toy?

"On guard", the young marquis commanded. His squire immediately assumed his grappling guard, not too bad. He knew the boy liked to fight, but the squire was too afraid to hurt him. And Vicenzo enjoyed it, that fear. That possible adoration turned into shyness.

He would beat that little bastard until he cried. And the fool would do nothing about it. He was sure of it.]

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[The Capital's fighting guild is great in size and reputation. Knights and squires arrive to prove themselves. In these days of peace, hastiludes serve to maintain training and prove one's worth. The constant drilling of soldiers, the sparring, the older knights surrounded by those eager to listen to their tales and their successes. The tavern full of boisterous laughter and singing by the sunset.

But here he is, like a shadow among joy. The foreigner joins the tourneys without cheer, spars and trains in silence. He dresses like if he was mourning. The blackened steel of his armor remains without a spot of rust, and his jaw is tense. He is wiry muscle and bile, always staying close to himself. He does not sleep in the barracks. He is like a shadow burnt into the fabric of existence. Whatever Gods favored his birth must be the ones made of dust, steel and burnt bone.

He is good with the sword. But the training in the guild does not suffice. Two knights were killed by brigands, and it took just another two to get rid of them all. He asks farmers if he can rent their carts to drive the corpses to the city's guards. He trains in the sun, in the rain, in the mud. He kills in the forest. He kills in the roads. One of the dead men no longer had a face. His hands were spotless, but you could see the blood drip from the bag he carries his armor in.

He goes to the Cathedral and prays his litanies. He holds his clasped hands and rests his head over his knuckles, as if crying. In a tavern brawl, he struck with his palm the nose of an older knight. He is quick to rage. Rage like only animals know, teeth bared and foam rolling down his chin. The dagger hanging from his hip is a promise. He counts the praying beads and in the same beat he slams a man's head into a table. He is so young. The foreigner stares with an empty look at the squires and the lords play-fighting. The foreigner drinks only water and eats without joy. Cynical, meaning dog-like. This one likes blood.

You can see him practicing his cuts against the wind. You can see him riding through the edges of the city, patrolling the roads. You can see him in the guild, waiting for his turn to fight.

and he'll remain a shadow burnt into the wall.]

[moranandsons]

Severin Thaddeus Moran - Bio

Severin Thaddeus Moran was born on 13 May 1994. He is the son of media mogul Augustus Moran, and actress-turned-socialite Helena Harding.

His childhood was largely a happy one. Most of his time was spent at the family home on Fitzroy Square, with summers at the country estate. Severin was the definition of old money and he knew it from an early age. This knowledge did nothing to help him develop the scrap of humility that may have made him tolerable to other children.

As a teenager, Severin was educated at Eton College before his expulsion in 2007. He quietly completed his education in Switzerland at Institut Le Rosey.

After leaving school, Severin returned to London to study Fine Art at Central Saint Martins. After some persuasion from his father - who saw no merit in an arts degree - he dropped out before completing his first year. He wasted some time studying Philosophy at Oxford, though after three years and a long list of failed classes, he quietly crept off campus empty handed.

Now, Severin works for his father at Moran & Sons as an executive assistant. He is vastly under-qualified for the position, and exactly what he does on a day-to-day basis is a mystery to everyone. But loyalty to his father is his number one asset, and being the only child still caught up in the apron strings comes with some perks.