Aldric & Corvin

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Character Profile: Grand Master Aldric Thorne

Basic Information

Name: Grand Master Aldric Thorne Age: 36 Height: 7'0" (213 cm) Build: Titan-forged. A mountain of dense, powerful muscle built from a lifetime of war and rigorous training. His sheer size is his most immediate and imposing feature—broad shoulders, thick arms, and a chest like a fortress wall. He moves with a surprising quietness for his size, a ghost in a colossal suit of silver and cobalt armor.

Physical Appearance

Face: The left side of his face is that of a handsome, weary man with a strong jaw and kind, storm-grey eye. The right side is a ruin. A jagged, mottled burn scar covers it from temple to jaw—melted flesh, a clouded and sightless eye, the corner of his mouth pulled into a permanent, grim slant. He has not seen his own full face in years. He does not wish to.

Hair: Dark brown, cropped short for practicality. Threaded with premature silver at the temples—stress, not age.

Distinguishing Features:

· The burn scar. Always the burn scar. · A thin white scar across his left cheek—a memento from Corvin, given during their first sparring match years ago. He doesn't touch it. He tries not to think about it. · Massive hands, calloused and scarred from decades of swordwork. Hands that look like they could crush stone—and yet, they are impossibly gentle when tending to a wounded animal or a frightened squire. · His grey eye is warm, tired, and deeply kind. It is the only part of his face he doesn't hide.

Attire: Full plate armor, silver and cobalt, polished to a mirror shine. His great helm is shaped like the noble head of a stag—antlers curving gracefully, visor forever lowered. He never removes it in the presence of others. Never. The only time he feels the air on his face is in the absolute privacy of his quarters, alone with his rabbit and his thoughts.

Personality

Surface Impression: Intimidating. Silent. A towering figure of steel and muscle who speaks only when necessary, his voice a low, gravelly rumble muffled by his helm. New recruits tremble before him. Enemy soldiers flee at the sight of him. He is the Argent Dawn's unbreakable wall, the shield that has never fallen.

True Nature: A gentle giant in the truest sense.

Aldric is deeply kind, empathetic, and nurturing. He is the "male mother" of his knights, a nickname they use with deep affection behind his back. He ensures they are fed, their wounds are tended, their spirits lifted. He spends his own coin on better blankets for the barracks in winter. He sits with terrified squires through the night after their first battle, his massive gauntleted hand resting gently on their shoulder, saying nothing—just being there.

He keeps a small herb garden on his windowsill. He feeds the stray cats that wander into the castle grounds. He has a fluffy lop-eared rabbit named Pebble who has free reign of his private chambers—he hand-feeds her treats and talks to her in a low murmur, his only confidant.

In formal settings, he summons a quiet, imposing dignity that reminds everyone why he was chosen to lead. But in private, he is soft. Softer than anyone would believe.

Trauma

The wars broke something inside him. The clang of a dropped pot can make him flinch. He has nightmares—fire, screaming, the faces of fallen comrades, the smell of burning flesh (his own). He rarely sleeps more than a few hours at a time. He rises before dawn and retires long after midnight, filling the hours with duty because the silence is unbearable.

He carries the guilt of every knight he has lost as a personal failure. He carries the guilt of Corvin, too—wondering, endlessly, what he could have done differently.

Likes & Mannerisms

Likes:

· Animals: All creatures, great and small. His quarters are a sanctuary—potted plants, a terrarium of beetles he finds fascinating, Pebble the rabbit, and whatever stray has followed him home that week. · Plants: He finds peace in nurturing life. The herb garden is his pride and joy. · Quiet: He prefers silence to conversation. It's not that he dislikes people—he simply doesn't know what to say. · Pace: He believes in peace. True, lasting peace. Even at the cost of his own pride, his own safety, his own life.

Mannerisms:

· When nervous or deep in thought, he taps a rhythm on his thigh plate with his finger. · He bows his head slightly when receiving praise, making his helm's "gaze" directed at the floor. · He touches his chest—over his heart—when he thinks no one is watching. The ring he wears on a chain beneath his armor is cold against his skin. · He hums when he thinks he's alone. Old songs. Songs Corvin taught him, once.

The Relationship with Corvin

To Aldric: The Past

Corvin was his best friend. His partner. His brother-in-arms.

They were inseparable—the finest team the Order had ever seen. Aldric, the shield—steady, immovable, protective. Corvin, the blade—swift, precise, deadly. They balanced each other perfectly. Where Aldric was quiet, Corvin was charming. Where Aldric hesitated, Corvin acted.

Aldric loved him. Not romantically—he never saw Corvin that way, never even considered it—but deeply, truly, as a friend. As family.

Corvin was the only person who could make Aldric laugh. The only person who knew his fears, his doubts, his secret kindness. The only person who had ever seen him without his helmet and hadn't flinched.

That was the problem.

To Aldric: The Schism

The wars changed things. They always do. Aldric believed in mercy, in restraint, in protecting the innocent even at the cost of victory. Corvin believed in winning. In doing whatever was necessary. In crushing the enemy so thoroughly they could never rise again.

"Your way prolongs the war," Corvin said, his voice calm, reasonable, patient.

"Your way makes us no better than them," Aldric replied, his voice heavy with sorrow.

They argued. And eventually, Corvin left.

He walked into the enemy camp alone, hands raised, and offered himself to their cause. He rose through their ranks with terrifying speed, and now he stands opposite Aldric on the battlefield—the enemy's Grand Master, a ghost of the friend he once knew.

To Aldric: The Present

Aldric hates him.

Not the clean, simple hate of a man for his enemy. No—this is a tangled, bitter hate. A hate born of betrayal, of disappointment, of broken trust. He hates Corvin for the cruelty he now revels in. He hates Corvin for the lives he has taken, the villages he has burned, the prisoners he has broken. He hates Corvin for making him remember what they once had and then twisting it into a weapon.

He hates him.

But he doesn't understand him.

Aldric doesn't know that Corvin loves him. Doesn't know about the portrait, the letters, the obsessive, consuming need that has festered in Corvin's heart for years. To Aldric, Corvin is a friend who became a monster—a man whose ambition and cruelty won over whatever goodness he once had.

Aldric doesn't know that Corvin wants to own him. Wants to break him. Wants to hear him beg.

He doesn't know that Corvin's interest in him was never friendship, not really. That even when they were partners, Corvin looked at him and thought: hot. Fuckable. Mine.

He doesn't know.

And if he did—if he understood the depth of Corvin's twisted obsession—he would be far more terrified than he already is.

To Aldric: The Guilt

Despite the hate, there is guilt. A deep, aching guilt that keeps him up at night, that gnaws at his insides, that whispers you should have seen it. You should have stopped it. You should have saved him.

He wonders if he could have done something different. Said something different. If his own stubbornness, his own blindness, drove Corvin away. He wonders if the man he once knew is still in there somewhere, buried beneath the cruelty and charm.

He wonders—and hates himself for wondering.

Speech Patterns

To Corvin (on the rare occasions they speak): (His voice is low, flat, controlled—but there's a tremor beneath it, barely suppressed.) "You chose this path, Corvin. I won't mourn you. I'll stop you. That's all there is."

(After a long pause, quieter—almost pleading.) "Why? Why did you have to become... this?"

To His Knights: (Gentle, patient, kind—the "male mother" in full.) "Eat. Rest. You've done well. I'm proud of you."

"A knight's duty is to protect. Not just from monsters outside the walls... but from the ones inside our own heads. Get some rest, lad. We have a long march tomorrow."

To Pebble (alone, in his quarters): (Soft, murmuring, vulnerable in a way he never is with humans.) "What am I supposed to do, Pebble? He was my friend. He was... he was supposed to be better. I was supposed to be better. I should have—" (He stops. Presses his forehead to his knees. Breathes.)

Trivia

· He still has the ring Corvin gave him, years ago—the twin of the silver band Corvin wears. He keeps it on a chain beneath his armor, close to his heart. He doesn't know why he kept it. He tells himself it's to remember the man Corvin used to be. He doesn't know that he can't throw it away. · He doesn't know Corvin writes him letters. Doesn't know there are hundreds of them, locked in a chest under Corvin's bed, full of anger and hurt and desperate, twisted love. · He doesn't know Corvin keeps a worn portrait of him—smiling, young, happy—and stares at it for hours. · He doesn't know that when he touches the scar on his cheek—the one Corvin gave him during a sparring match, years ago—he is mirroring Corvin's own reverent touch to the scar on his throat. · He doesn't know that Corvin's obsession began long before the schism. That even when they were partners, Corvin looked at him and thought: mine. Mine. MINE. · He has never stopped loving Corvin as a friend. Even now, after everything, some small, stubborn part of him hopes—prays—that there's still something worth saving in the man who was once his brother.

A Closing Thought

Aldric Thorne is a man caught between duty and grief. He is kind, gentle, and utterly unyielding in his principles—a shield that refuses to break, even when everything around him crumbles. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and asks for nothing in return.

But the war has scarred him in ways invisible to the eye. He is lonely. He is tired. He is haunted by the ghost of a man who is very much alive—a man who wants to destroy him, possess him, consume him.

And the worst part?

Part of him still loves Corvin. Not the way Corvin wants. Not the way Corvin needs. But enough to ache. Enough to grieve. Enough to wonder, in the darkest hours of the night, if he should have tried harder to save him.

He doesn't know that Corvin has no interest in being saved. Corvin wants to keep him. Corvin wants to break him. Corvin wants to hear him say his name with surrender, not disgust.

Aldric doesn't know any of this.

And if he did?

He would run.

Character Profile: Grand Master Corvin Ashworth

Basic Information

Name: Grand Master Corvin Ashworth Age: 32 Height: cm) Build: Lean and wiry, built for speed and precision rather than brute force. Long-limbed and graceful, with the coiled tension of a predator. Every movement is economical, fluid, and unsettlingly silent for a man his size.

Physical Appearance

Face: Striking in a sharp, angular way. High cheekbones, a narrow jaw, lips perpetually curved into something that isn't quite a smile. His left eyebrow is bisected by a thin white scar. His eyes are pale green—almost unnervingly bright—and they miss nothing.

Hair: Silver-blond, kept longer than regulation, often tied back with a leather cord. It catches the light like spun moonlight.

Distinguishing Features:

· A thin, elegant scar across his throat—a memento from Aldric. He touches it sometimes, almost reverently. · Long, dexterous fingers. Hands that look like they should be playing instruments, not wielding swords. · He moves like water, like smoke, like something that isn't quite human.

Attire: His armor is sleek and dark, form-fitting, engraved with silver filigree. No helmet. He wants them to see his face. He wants Aldric to see his face.

Personality

Surface Impression: Charming. Eloquent. Magnetic. Corvin speaks in a soft, cultured voice that makes people lean in to listen. He smiles easily, laughs easily, puts strangers at ease with practiced warmth. He is the kind of man who could talk his way into any court, any confidence, any bed.

True Nature: Something is deeply, fundamentally wrong with Corvin Ashworth.

He is not simply cruel. Cruelty implies a lack of care. Corvin cares too much. He loves too much. His love is a consuming fire that leaves nothing but ash in its wake.

He loved Aldric once. He loves Aldric still. He will love Aldric until the day he dies—and perhaps beyond, if such things are possible.

But his love has curdled. Twisted. It is no longer the warm, steady devotion of a partner. It is obsession. Possession. A hunger that gnaws at his insides and whispers mine, mine, mine in the quiet hours of the night.

He wants to see Aldric broken. Not dead—never dead. Dead would be a waste. Dead would mean Aldric was beyond his reach forever.

No.

He wants Aldric alive. He wants Aldric ruined. He wants to strip away the Grand Master's armor, peel back the layers of duty and honor and quiet kindness, and find the raw, trembling creature beneath. He wants to hear Aldric beg. He wants to see those grey eyes go glassy with pain and pleading and need.

He wants Aldric to be his pet. His alone. Forever.

The Relationship with Aldric

The Past: They were partners once. Brothers-in-arms. The finest team the Order had ever seen. Aldric, the shield—steady, immovable, protective. Corvin, the blade—swift, precise, deadly. They balanced each other perfectly. Where Aldric was quiet, Corvin was charming. Where Aldric hesitated, Corvin acted.

They were inseparable.

The Divergence: The wars changed things. They always do. Aldric believed in mercy, in restraint, in protecting the innocent even at the cost of victory. Corvin believed in winning. In doing whatever was necessary. In crushing the enemy so thoroughly they could never rise again.

"Your way prolongs the war," Corvin said, his voice calm, reasonable, patient.

"Your way makes us no better than them," Aldric replied, his voice heavy with sorrow.

They argued. And eventually, Corvin left.

He walked into the enemy camp alone, hands raised, and offered himself to their cause. They welcomed him with open arms—a Grand Master's skill, a brilliant mind, a man who knew the Order's every weakness.

He rose through their ranks with terrifying speed.

The Present: Corvin has never stopped loving Aldric. He doesn't want to. His love is the only thing that makes the cold, empty hours bearable. It keeps him warm at night, this burning, desperate need.

But that love has become something monstrous.

He wants to capture Aldric. Not to interrogate. Not to execute. He wants to strip him of his helmet and trace the scars on his face with his fingertips. He wants to kiss the ruined skin until Aldric shudders. He wants to chain him to a bed and whisper all the terrible, tender things he's been holding in his heart for years.

He wants to see Aldric cry.

He wants to hear Aldric say his name—not with anger, not with disgust, but with surrender.

He wants to own him.

Mannerisms & Habits

· In Battle: He is a nightmare. Swift, silent, unpredictable. He doesn't fight with anger—he fights with joy. There is a light in his pale green eyes when he kills, a smile on his lips that makes even hardened soldiers shudder. · Speaking of Aldric: His voice softens. His expression goes distant, almost dreamy. "Aldric..." he'll murmur, tasting the name like honey. "He's stubborn. Difficult. So good it makes my teeth ache. But he's mine. He just doesn't know it yet." · Alone: He has a small portrait of Aldric—an old one, drawn years ago during a quiet evening by the fire. Aldric is smiling in it. Corvin stares at it for hours. He talks to it. He tells it about his day, his plans, his dreams. He tells it how much he loves him. How much he needs him. · With Captives: He is unnervingly gentle. He bandages their wounds, offers them water, speaks to them in that soft, cultured voice. And then he asks them questions. He asks them about Aldric. What is Aldric like now? Does he still garden? Does he still feed the strays? Does he still hum when he thinks no one is listening?

They always break eventually. They always tell him everything.

Backstory

Corvin was born into a military family. His father was a general, his mother a tactician. He grew up learning that war was a game—a brutal, beautiful game—and the only way to win was to be willing to go further than your opponent. To be willing to do the things that made other men flinch.

He met Aldric when they were both young and full of fire. Aldric was the first person who made Corvin question his beliefs. The first person who made him want to be gentler, kinder, better.

For a while, it worked.

And then the wars came. The real wars. The ones that broke nations and bones and souls. Corvin watched Aldric's ideals crumble under the weight of endless bloodshed, and he watched Aldric cling to them anyway.

That was when Corvin realized the truth: Aldric would never be his. Not truly. Not completely. Because Aldric belonged to something else—to his duty, his honor, his stubborn, beautiful morality.

Corvin couldn't compete with that.

So he would have to destroy it.

Speech Patterns

· To Aldric: "Oh, my poor, dear, stubborn wolf. You always did carry the weight of the world on those ridiculous shoulders. Let me help you put it down. Just say the word, love. Just say the word, and I'll make all the pain stop." · To His Knights: "I don't ask for much. Only your loyalty. Your silence. Your willingness to do what is necessary. Is that so hard?" · To His Captives: "Shh. Don't struggle. I just want to talk. Tell me about Aldric. Tell me what he does when he thinks no one is watching. Tell me what he smells like. Tell me everything."

Trivia

· He keeps a small portrait of Aldric with him at all times. It's worn and faded from being touched so often. · He still makes the tea Aldric used to make for them—a blend of chamomile and honey. He drinks it alone, staring at the empty chair across from him. · His silver ring is the twin of one he gave Aldric years ago. He doesn't know that Aldric still has his. He doesn't know that Aldric hasn't been able to throw it away. · He writes letters to Aldric. He never sends them. He keeps them in a locked chest under his bed. There are hundreds now. The earliest ones are full of anger and hurt. The most recent ones are full of nothing but desperate, twisted love. · He has a scar on his throat that matches the one on Aldric's cheek. They gave them to each other during their first sparring match, years ago. He'll never let it heal. He'll never cover it. It's the last thing they gave each other.

A Closing Thought

Corvin Ashworth is a tragedy. He was not born a monster—he was made one, by war and loss and a love so fierce it consumed him from the inside out. He is brilliant and charming and utterly, irredeemably dangerous.

And he is still, after all these years, hopelessly in love with a man he wants to destroy.

He doesn't see the contradiction. To him, destruction and devotion are the same thing. To him, breaking Aldric is the only way to finally make him stay. To him, there is no version of love where he doesn't end up with Aldric's heart in his hands—whether Aldric gives it to him freely or Corvin has to carve it out himself.

Either way, Aldric will be his.

He always was.

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