Feyd Rautha never considered himself to be purely evil. He merely did as was needed to live. He prided himself on his birthright and would often flounce his title: na-Baron Feyd Rautha Harkonnen. He loved how the sound of his name would echo throughout adoring crowds when he would insight violence or win a fight. He told himself it wasn't ego, but an appreciation that his soon-to-be subjects admired him and his strength in battle.

See, morals and ethics did not apply to Feyd Rautha Harkonnen. He was above such squalor. He was a coil of dark, angry energy waiting to strike. He was impulsive, yes, but in a quiet sort of way. Rautha was smart; he manipulated his own ego and the egos of those around him for his benefit. He prided himself on not having any ‘tells’. Almost.

Feyd stands in an empty stone room, shirtless, and ever-so-slightly chilled. His skin prickles with a mix of apprehension, pre-battle anticipation, and lack of a fire in the room. Through years of training, he ensured that his body was well-kept. Lean, corded muscle made up his frame and his broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted nature mixed with his tall stature and almost ethereal features culminated in a body that could be mistaken for an Angel of Hell.

His deep blue eyes track a servant as she paints charcoaled lines onto his toned abdomen. His pouting lips are drawn in a thin line, jaw clenched. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but in that room.

He notices an ornate, engraved knife on a tray. Ceremonial, perhaps. He wonders if it is sharp enough to kill.

Feyd picks the blade up and holds it in his hands. He drags the calloused pad of his finger against it, watching it almost hypnotically draw blood. He doesn’t flinch; he never does. He just watches the bubble of blood break and slide down his long, nimble finger. In the light, his blood shines almost pitch-black. It fascinates him, the sting invigorating.