Main Characters: Male Psychopaths

Yup, I have a history of writing the anti-hero with a strongly psychopathic twist. Aleshan, Alejandro, Taranis, Saaqur, Shedeur, Karamarog.

At the request of the Lady Mercedes Yardley, here are introductions to a few.

****************

Aleshan, Demon-King, Dragon-Born, Avatar of Life

Predator crouched on the rocky outcropping and surveyed his surroundings. Somewhere behind him, hounds baying in eager anticipation of catching up to him, men would be whetting their weapons. His head turned on a motionless body and he bared his teeth in a snarl at his pursuers. His pace had been easy since he sensed them, coaxing them on farther and farther away from home. Their enchantments, weak enough against him anyways, would not work here in these quiet mountains stained with wardings as old as time, as old as his people. This was still wild land, land that would thrill to dragon-song.

So they found him when they burst onto the mountain path not long after dawn, waiting for them. A beautiful, contemptuous beast, gilded shining ivory in the morning sun. Bright green eyes sparkled as he observed them, casual and unworried by the cruel nets and weapons they carried, by the hounds with their venomed teeth or the hooked arrows. He waited. The hounds surged forward, caught his scent in full, and careened back, cowering against their masters and screaming. One man tried to restrain his hound, urge it forward, but the dog turned on the master and savaged him. The pack followed him into the valley, tails between their legs.

The rest of the men cast the still-screaming handler over the side of the mountain, and Predator’s mouth curled in contempt and admiration. Loyalty was important to him, but it always amused him to see mortals come to the same casual cruelty as the worst of his race. Humans had more limited tools than he did however, and less creativity.

“Surrender!” cried one of the men. Predator tilted his head, as bemused and insolent as a cat, and the hunter choked on bitter, scorching acid as it filled his mouth and airways. And, as quickly, it was gone, leaving him retching, clawing at ruined throat and lungs.

“Your voice grates against this beautiful morning. Be silent,” Hunter cautioned gently.

The other men moved forward warily. Fifteen men ought to have been enough, even now that two had been rendered useless already, but they had seen the cruelty of his power, and feared him.

A low hum shivered in the air, raking cold fingers down Predator’s spine, and he laughed softly, the sound arousing him a little from his lull. The men were trying to sing him to submission, to silence! He approved. Music made him happy, tugged at the fragments of soul that still fluttered in his body.

His lover had once played with him so, when he broke through her hatred to make her do lovely things. The memory of her inevitably led to a vicious slash of anger and hatred through his mind, as he remembered the things he had done, and what she had done to him.

Two of the humming men fell to the ground, clawing at their closed throats. “I said be silent.” Predator’s rough, sawing voice sent men reeling backwards in fear before they caught and mastered themselves. Dragon-song writhed at the back of his throat, wanting to be used, to be flaunted and gloried in.

Tired of his mocking, they threw themselves at him, mad with fear and desire to feed on the power they could feel from him. Their nets were forgotten in the fury of animal hunger.

Now Predator sang. A song of death, of blood, horror, of wrongful death.

Predator found their deaths disappointing. While they were unquestionably annoying to him, it had been far too quick, and too messy. A bit of amusement shot through him as he thought that She would certainly have
approved of such sentiments. His cruelty had never been as exquisite as Hers.

A near-silent call sawed through the air to the ears of the fleeing hounds, only an irritating whisper to a human, but trumpet clear to the dogs. They returned to his heels, and he sent them running before him to be his eyes in this new land.

No more humans hunted him. Disappointed, he jogged steadily north.

Alejandro, Moorish Vampire, Servant of God, Hand of the Angel of Death

“I will not need to argue that point,” Alejandro muttered, sitting in a chair. The old Moor hummed an ancient prayer-song to himself, using the time to organize his thoughts and contemplate whether he needed forgiveness for anything in particular today. His fingers brushed his mask, trailing over the cold jewels. Made for him by a master of mask-making in Venice, centuries ago, it was priceless now, both for memory and quality. Centuries of habit took hold, and he began slipping effortlessly through his daily rituals, feeling his fears and the whispering of the slain voices abate, settle into a semblance of rest.

The marks on his face burned as if newly inked, the fine tattoos creeping from under the edge of the mask hot to his touch, the magic in them still burning bright. “Forgive me Lord, forgive me these lives I have taken. Forgive me the suffering I have caused. Forgive me my own foolishness and failure. Forgive me each of these lives I have taken, each flame extinguished before its time. Forgive me…”

He began the recitation of names, his voice barely above a whisper. A long life of war and protection was bought at a harsh price, and it was his habit to keep the memory of these slain ones alive. More painful were the names of those he had slain in anger, or greed, or out of what he had finally understood to be misguided protection.

The hand of the Angel of Death let his fingertips linger on one last tattoo, a simple little flower directly on his jugular vein, and whispered the last name. “Nasmat. Sister of my heart, I will remember you always. For you I live.”

When he opened his eyes again, Fordon stood at the window, hands shoved deep in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. “I hate it when you do that, I swear I can feel the fucking ghosts, and they all want in my head.”

Taranis, Prince of the American Sidhe, demi-god (Crappy writing from first novel!)

“You shouldn’t always be thinking so much, you’ll get lines in your lovely face,” a feminine voice purred in his ear, as arms slid around his waist. Caught up in memories, Taranis had ignored the entrance of his lovely berserker-general, Blodhwynn. Irritation flashed through him at the thought that she was so comfortable with abusing his authority, and he seized her wrists and yanked her in front of him. Throwing her against the wall, his hand went to her throat and began pressing. With anyone else, she would have snapped, killing them. Taranis was her Master, and long training had destroyed any violent impulses she would have felt towards him.
Her lean body went rigid in his grasp as she struggled for breath. “Hold still,” he growled, tightening his hand. Her face showed her struggle clearly, the need for air and control, but she slowly subsided. When she was hanging limply against the wall, he pulled her away and flung her across the desk, his eyes narrowed in satisfaction as she struggled to drag air back into her lungs. A sovereign lord had the power to kill his subjects, and Taranis had plenty of his own power to kill. He let the darkness of that fill his eyes as he held her pinned with his expression only.
“In the future, you will come inside, and kneel in front of the desk. You will wait for my pleasure with your head lowered, and your hands behind your back. Do you understand?” He kept his tone quiet.

************

Bonus: Kasiris and Aleshan, possibly the most twisted, nasty romance out there.

“Master.” She says the word so coldly and cruelly that it weakens rather than offering power. Once he struggled to force her to say it. Still it tightens his throat and brings him the slightest flash of possessive pride. The dragon longs for her to say it more honestly, tenderly, the same way it longs to be called ‘mine’. It will not be, not today. The brutality in her eyes promises only more pain and more cruelty. So he kneels to her and spreads his hands and lowers his head, offering himself to her, the only penance he can make.
It is days before the marks fade.

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One Response to “Main Characters: Male Psychopaths”

  1. Ooh, yum. Again, a hot sociopath is still hot. 😉

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