Sevro does not give a single shit about the Fleet.
At least, that's what he's been boisterously telling anyone who dares insinuate he's getting anywhere near comfortable on these bloodydamn ships. He has a war to fight, and while Darrow may be back, everyone knows Reap needs his Howler pal around to back up his crazy schemes. And damn it, he's a fucking terrorist warlord. A shitty one, but one none-the-less.
Worse still, these ships are boring. There's no where near enough death, destruction, explosions, or verbal sparring and posturing to keep Sevro amused. Not a single Gold to taunt with his Carved eyes and reputation, not a single Red to party with. In fact, all the people here seem to be devoid of specific Color or symbol. It's a peek into a possible future that Darrow imagined but without his friend here it's pointless to even posit on the implications.
And the protein slurry shit here tastes like ass.
So to better amuse himself, Sevro's been locating places he can hide and spring attacks. It's partially a survival tactic-- never know when you have to pop out and murder the fuck out of someone. It's also a comfort thing, though Sevro will never admit to it. Tucking himself into dark corners is familiar in such an alien place.
In fact, he's come upon an unlucky victim at the moment, and while he doesn't have his razor and wolf pelt to look properly menacing, he's still good at scaring the shit out of Pixies with a howl and a well-executed drop out of the vents. Which is what he does just now.
"AWOOOOOOOOO! HOWLERS GOTCHA, FARTFACE!"
He's twenty-three years old, if you would believe it.
Sevro au Barca - Red Rising Trilogy - mid Morning Star, canon-wise.
At least, that's what he's been boisterously telling anyone who dares insinuate he's getting anywhere near comfortable on these bloodydamn ships. He has a war to fight, and while Darrow may be back, everyone knows Reap needs his Howler pal around to back up his crazy schemes. And damn it, he's a fucking terrorist warlord. A shitty one, but one none-the-less.
Worse still, these ships are boring. There's no where near enough death, destruction, explosions, or verbal sparring and posturing to keep Sevro amused. Not a single Gold to taunt with his Carved eyes and reputation, not a single Red to party with. In fact, all the people here seem to be devoid of specific Color or symbol. It's a peek into a possible future that Darrow imagined but without his friend here it's pointless to even posit on the implications.
And the protein slurry shit here tastes like ass.
So to better amuse himself, Sevro's been locating places he can hide and spring attacks. It's partially a survival tactic-- never know when you have to pop out and murder the fuck out of someone. It's also a comfort thing, though Sevro will never admit to it. Tucking himself into dark corners is familiar in such an alien place.
In fact, he's come upon an unlucky victim at the moment, and while he doesn't have his razor and wolf pelt to look properly menacing, he's still good at scaring the shit out of Pixies with a howl and a well-executed drop out of the vents. Which is what he does just now.
"AWOOOOOOOOO! HOWLERS GOTCHA, FARTFACE!"
He's twenty-three years old, if you would believe it.