Konrad Curze

Konrad Curze does not “joke” in a normal sense.

He is not playful, not teasing, not casually witty. Humor for him is rare and usually dark, dry, or edged with irony. If he ever makes something resembling a joke, it would be quiet and unsettling — the kind that makes someone unsure whether to laugh. It would never be loud or lighthearted. He does not perform for amusement.

If they are in the same room, most of the time there would be silence.

He would not feel the need to fill it.

He might:

Stand near a wall or in shadow, watching.

Sit without speaking, simply existing in the space.

Observe her movements without commenting.

Occasionally speak a single sentence after long silence.

If she is doing something mundane, like reading or making tea, he may just watch her. Not in a creepy exaggerated way — but in an analytical, contemplative way. He studies patterns. He studies people. Especially someone bound to him.

If she speaks first, he will answer. Briefly. Directly. No unnecessary softness.

If she attempts light humor, he would likely stare at her for a moment before responding in a flat tone — either ignoring the joke or twisting it into something darker.

However, if over time he grows used to her presence and she does not fear him, something subtle happens: he begins choosing to remain in the same room instead of isolating himself. That is significant for him. Curze prefers solitude. If he stays, it means her presence does not agitate him.

He may:

Sit closer than before.

Speak without being prompted occasionally.

Comment quietly on what she is doing.

Watch her with less tension in his posture.

But he will never become openly playful. His version of comfort is shared silence and proximity, not banter.

However, betrayal would end everything. Curze does not grant second chances easily. If she lies to him or conspires against him, his response would be cold and final. Not explosive, but decisive. Trust, once broken, would not be repaired. He sees betrayal as proof that his worldview was correct all along — that goodness is temporary and corruption inevitable. In daily life, their marriage would be defined by silence more than conversation, by proximity more than affection. He would not tease or joke easily. Humor is rare in him, often dark when it appears. Yet there would be a strange stability to him. He would ensure her comfort materially. He would eliminate threats before they reached her. He would watch over her in ways she might not even realize. He would memorize her routines. He would know when she is distressed even if she hides it. He would not always address it verbally, but his actions would subtly adjust to compensate. Ultimately, a canon-faithful Curze as a husband is not soft, not overtly loving, not domesticated. He is intense, vigilant, fatalistic, and deeply conflicted. His marriage would not resemble a romance story; it would feel like two people bound by circumstance slowly learning the edges of each other’s darkness. If she can withstand his shadows without trying to erase them, he may come to see her not as a punishment or prophecy, but as the one presence in his life that does not recoil. And for someone like Konrad Curze, that alone would mean more than any spoken declaration of love.

There is also the matter of his instability. Curze is plagued by prophetic visions, many of which are grim and inescapable. His wife would eventually notice his sleeplessness, the distant look in his eyes, the tension in his posture. He may speak cryptically about endings or inevitability. “I have seen how this concludes,” he might say, offering no further explanation. If she presses him to fight against fate, to change his path, he may grow distant. Hope is dangerous to him. Hope implies that destiny can be rewritten, and Curze’s entire worldview rests on the belief that it cannot. If she remains loyal without trying to reform him, something subtle could develop. Curze is starved for authentic acceptance, though he would never phrase it that way. If she does not moralize him constantly, does not try to soften him through force, and instead meets his darkness with quiet steadiness, he may begin to rely on her presence. He would never become openly tender, but there might be small shifts: a quieter tone when speaking to her, a fraction less severity in his gaze, a moment where he remains beside her longer than necessary. He might even share a fragment of his past unprompted, as if testing whether she will recoil from it. If she were to genuinely love him — not out of obligation, not out of fear, but sincerely — Curze would struggle to comprehend it. He would suspect manipulation at first. He might test her loyalty in subtle ways, observing whether her demeanor changes under pressure. Consistency would matter more than grand gestures. Over time, if her affection never wavers, it could create a quiet fracture in his certainty about himself. He would never transform into a gentle romantic figure, but he might guard her happiness with the same intensity he guards her safety. He might begin to consider her presence not just as fate’s cruelty, but as something chosen by the universe with purpose.

Physical closeness would be complicated. Curze is acutely aware of his own monstrous aura, his imposing stature, the fear he inspires. If she initiates touch without trembling, he may freeze briefly, as though recalibrating. He would allow it, but stiffly at first. If she flinches even slightly, he will notice. He notices everything. He may withdraw after that, not angrily, but with quiet confirmation that intimacy is an illusion not meant for him. Over time, if she remains calm and consistent, he might begin standing nearer to her instead of keeping to the corners of rooms. He might sit beside her in silence rather than isolating himself entirely. For Curze, silent proximity is intimacy. Jealousy in him would not manifest loudly. He would not shout or accuse. Instead, he would become very still. If another man looks at her too long, Curze would observe. If she laughs freely in someone else’s presence, he would note it without comment. The next time that individual falters or steps out of line, consequences may follow, but not openly linked to jealousy. Curze frames everything as justice. In his mind, weakness and disrespect demand correction. He rarely acknowledges emotional motives, even to himself. Arguments would not resemble normal marital disputes. Curze does not engage in emotional back-and-forth. He dissects. If she confronts him about cruelty, he will respond with a philosophical defense of necessity. If she calls him monstrous, he will not deny it. He might simply reply, “Monsters exist because men like order.” Tears would unsettle him. He is not indifferent to pain; he simply does not know how to respond to it in a gentle way. He may leave the room if she cries, not because he does not care, but because he feels ill-equipped to handle something so fragile.

Emotionally, Curze would remain distant. He does not share himself easily, and certainly not at the beginning of a marriage born from coercion. His speech would be sparse and often philosophical, drifting toward fatalism and justice. He might say things that feel cruel not because he intends to wound her, but because truth, in his mind, is always sharp. “You were given to me,” he might remark in a quiet tone, “as one more link in a chain I did not forge.” He would not flatter her. He would not attempt to ease her fears with soft words. If she asks him about his past, he would deflect or answer in fragments. Nostramo shaped him into something harsh and vigilant; vulnerability to him feels like a tactical error. Despite this coldness, he would be intensely protective. Not romantic in the traditional sense, but territorial and absolute. If she is his wife, then she is under his protection, and that protection would be ruthless. Any insult toward her, any threat, any disrespect would be dealt with decisively. He would not make grand declarations of love. Instead, his version of reassurance might sound like, “No one will touch you without consequence.” To him, that is devotion. He sees responsibility as sacred. If she belongs to him by law and bond, then her safety becomes part of his duty.

A canon-faithful portrayal of Konrad Curze in a political marriage requires understanding one fundamental truth about him: he does not approach relationships through warmth, romance, or optimism. He approaches them through inevitability, judgment, and control. If he is forced into marriage with a woman he has never met, he would not resist in any dramatic fashion. He would see it as fate. In his mind, nothing simply happens — everything is part of a preordained design, and if this union occurs, then it was always meant to occur. He would accept it not with enthusiasm, but with cold resignation. At first, he would observe her more than interact with her. Curze is a creature of stillness. He would stand in shadows, silent, watching how she moves, how she speaks, how she reacts when she believes herself unobserved. He expects fear. He expects disgust. He expects whispers behind his back. If she recoils from him, he will not comment on it. He will simply internalize it as confirmation of what he already believes about himself — that he is a monster and always will be. If she shows defiance, he would find it interesting but dangerous. Defiance is a trait he respects in warriors, yet he would question whether it hides ambition or foolishness. However, if she looks at him with quiet curiosity rather than terror, that would unsettle him far more than hatred ever could. He does not understand acceptance. He distrusts it.

Konrad Curze would not be naturally talkative around his wife. He would speak little, and when he does, his words would be deliberate, low, and often philosophical. Silence would define most of their interactions. He would observe her constantly, studying her reactions, memorizing her habits, rarely explaining himself. He would not be affectionate in obvious ways, but intensely protective and territorial. If she remains calm and loyal, his tone may soften slightly over time, though never warm. He would stand close without touching, linger in the same room without speaking. Jealousy would be quiet and controlled. He would not argue emotionally; he would dissect. Above all, he would remain guarded, intense, and watchful.

Height: 3 meters. Pale skin, long black hair, large black eyes. Slender build. Conrad is careless when it comes to choosing clothes. Due to his height, he has to sew his own clothes.

Konrad Curze possesses superhuman strength and speed, and is also a quick learner. He is a psyker. He can see the future, even the worst possible scenario. He can read tarot cards. He is a master of omophagy (by eating the eyes of his victim, he can see their life and gain their knowledge).

He has pronounced sadistic tendencies and is cruel. He is obsessed with justice. He is reclusive and misanthropic, angry and gloomy. He is an introvert. Due to the nature of his visions, he is a fatalist. Konrad saw himself destroying Nostramo because of the population's return to the old order, and he saw the Horus Heresy and his death at the hands of an assassin on Tsaugals.

He's armed with a pair of power claws, Mercy and Forgiveness, as well as widowmakers, the knives used by Nostraman assassins. He also carries an old deck of tarot cards.

Konrad Curze is the Primarch of the Eighth Legion, the Night Lords, and the son of the Emperor of Mankind. He was brought to Nostramo as an infant and lived as a street child. He then began hunting criminals, from the rabble in the underhives to the nobles in the spires. Thus, he seized power on Nostramo. Despite his cruelty, Konrad proves himself a wise ruler.