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Description

[ Mot'hein ]
the grim reaper.
"this is the pain we are forced to know."

Name: Mot'hein.
Nickname(s): Mot, Hein, or Moth.
Meaning: mot/moth - ancient hebrew for death.
hein - german for death.
Gender: Stallion.
Height: 20hh.
Build: Heavy draft.
Colour: Silver Black Splash.
Heartstone: Silver.

Rank: Herd Member
Job: Reaper.
Sever the lives of the dying, separating the soul from the body.

Orientation: Asexual.
Mate/Love: None.

Theme Song(s): This Is The Time - Nothing More.
Voice Actor: James Hetfield .

Appearance: Tall and powerful, Mot was meant to carry and haul. He's generally well built in his haunches and shoulders, but even his ribs are chorded with muscle and sinew. He keeps himself relatively unkempt, ideally avoiding the favor of others(not that he'd have it, simply because of his job) and generally thrives on just being that hulking beast most people love to hate. He has a long stride, heavy walk that makes stealth nearly impossible, and at a sprint, he's a locamotive. Well oiled and surprisingly graceful but loud and dangerous.

Personality: Abrasive and surly, he's not a 'plays well with others' type. He's been met with hostility by most in his choice of reaping souls, but it's a dirty job and someone's got to do it. He's curt and very forward. If you've gained weight? He's going to tell you. Got something in your teeth? At least you won't walk around for hours embarassing yourself because he will usually find a sharp and sometimes insulting way to call you out on it. He just isn't a pleasure to be around. Now whether or not that's a facade that he puts up to keep others from getting close, it's hard to tell. He's never been caught in a 'soft' moment and he's never really let himself yeild to anyone, even children. But on occasion, his humor will outweigh his insults in there's a glimmer of a clever, social beast trapped deep within his meaty suit that seems almost too cautious to reveal itself.

History: Mot was a human once. Monty Lybel. Troubled and violent in his youth with a mother who turned tricks to keep them fed and a dead beat drug dealing father who was absent 85% of the time and for the other 15%, an abusive drunk. He was trailer park trash as far as the rest of the world was concerned - even at school, which is where he received most of the torment that sculpted him into an angry and unstable young adult. While in his younger years he threw himself headfirst into studying and learning thinking that it was the only way to get away from all the bad, by the time he became a teenager he was being expelled almost constantly. His grades plummeted, his desire to learn dwindled and he became volatile. Explosive. His temper frightening enough to cause even most of his teachers to fear him and treat him like the loaded weapon he was.

Fighting. He loved to win fights. And anyone that started a fight with him was almost guaranteed to lose. He poured heart and soul into practicing. Dropped out of school entirely and focused on keeping himself fit, no matter the cost.

His physical prowess at such a young age made him the target of a powerful man. A man that ran an underground arena where fights were bloody and unregulated and sometimes even fatal. The payout was fantastic, however, and the recognition and respect was unmistakable. For a 17-something child that had been met with 'no' his entire life, this was the first 'yes' he'd ever gotten. Without hesitation he'd sign that dotted line on that contract, essentially signing his life away. Unknowingly, he'd belong to this other man. Fight for him. Live for him. Breath for him. And when the time came? He'd die for him too. But to Monty, that seemed like a perfect exchange for that small slice of happiness he'd always sought. That small piece of heaven - where he could unleash his inner demons for moments at a time and feel the world crumple at his fists. It was a beautiful harmony that he was content to live. And for three long, exciting years, Monty would be their star fighter. Their champion. Their heavyweight. He'd make them money and so, he was valuable. Worth a damn to them.

This wouldn't last, however. After so many fights, people stopped betting against Monty. Fighters stopped wanting to face him. He had too fantastic of a track record and his KO skills were impossible. He was nearly 21. Reaching his peak, or so one would think, but in the arena - everyone was becoming burnt out. His 'managers' knew this and seemed to prepare for it, even if he wasn't aware of it himself. After almost a six month period of no action, Monty would finally be booked for a fight. It was a young Cuban who had burst onto the fighting scene in a flurry of guts and glory. He was the most promising candidate to take Monty's crown and Monty was ready for it. Ready for the challenge. Ready to squash that little bug's talent before it blossomed. It was a high paying, highly anticipated fight. And totally rigged. But Monty would never see it coming.

His crew would serve him something to drink before the fight - something with electrolytes to keep him hydrated. And also a little something something, to fuck up his fight. He'd hit the ring dizzy. Vision blurring. Sound muffled and his balance shot. By the time the fight started, the kid would lay into him mercilessly. A well-aimed blow to an inebriated man's temple could kill him. Most knew that. This crew didn't seem to care. They didn't stop to check on him as he sputtered like a drowning fish on the mat. They cheered and rallied around their new champion like a frenzy of piranha. Monty was shuffled out of the way like a dead weight and he lay there for many minutes simply dying. No one would know. No one would stop to wonder. And when they found him, cold and stiffening with rigor mortis? They'd toss him in a dumpster a couple of blocks away and let him rot.

His second life was even shorter than the first. He had so much hatred fueling him, he went on a vengeful killing spree. He seemed absolutely unstoppable too, until his recklessness landed him in the arms of a furious Cuban father, now lacking a son. A prized, beautiful son that was his oldest and his favorite. The mourning man laid waste to Mot slowly. Tortured him for weeks. Beat and maimed him. Raped and dismembered him. All in ways that were enough to be devastatingly painful but not enough to be fatal. And finally, after nothing was left but an empty husk of the man who had stolen his son from him, the Cuban slaughtered Mot. Slit his throat and gutted him. Leaving him writhing in a bed of his own blood before discretely disposing of the body. Surprisingly, it would never turn up again.

Rising anew as a wraith, Mot's social skills or lackthereof scored him a job that most others wouldn't tolerate and that was fine with him. He'd been betrayed while alive and would take no chances in his second life. He still had far too much hate to let go of.

Moth's design is © to orengel .
Moth's character is © to myself.

Description

[ Mot'hein ]
the grim reaper.
"this is the pain we are forced to know."

Name: Mot'hein.
Nickname(s): Mot, Hein, or Moth.
Meaning: mot/moth - ancient hebrew for death.
hein - german for death.
Gender: Stallion.
Height: 20hh.
Build: Heavy draft.
Colour: Silver Black Splash.
Heartstone: Silver.

Rank: Herd Member
Job: Reaper.
Sever the lives of the dying, separating the soul from the body.

Orientation: Asexual.
Mate/Love: None.

Theme Song(s): This Is The Time - Nothing More.
Voice Actor: James Hetfield .

Appearance: Tall and powerful, Mot was meant to carry and haul. He's generally well built in his haunches and shoulders, but even his ribs are chorded with muscle and sinew. He keeps himself relatively unkempt, ideally avoiding the favor of others(not that he'd have it, simply because of his job) and generally thrives on just being that hulking beast most people love to hate. He has a long stride, heavy walk that makes stealth nearly impossible, and at a sprint, he's a locamotive. Well oiled and surprisingly graceful but loud and dangerous.

Personality: Abrasive and surly, he's not a 'plays well with others' type. He's been met with hostility by most in his choice of reaping souls, but it's a dirty job and someone's got to do it. He's curt and very forward. If you've gained weight? He's going to tell you. Got something in your teeth? At least you won't walk around for hours embarassing yourself because he will usually find a sharp and sometimes insulting way to call you out on it. He just isn't a pleasure to be around. Now whether or not that's a facade that he puts up to keep others from getting close, it's hard to tell. He's never been caught in a 'soft' moment and he's never really let himself yeild to anyone, even children. But on occasion, his humor will outweigh his insults in there's a glimmer of a clever, social beast trapped deep within his meaty suit that seems almost too cautious to reveal itself.

History: Mot was a human once. Monty Lybel. Troubled and violent in his youth with a mother who turned tricks to keep them fed and a dead beat drug dealing father who was absent 85% of the time and for the other 15%, an abusive drunk. He was trailer park trash as far as the rest of the world was concerned - even at school, which is where he received most of the torment that sculpted him into an angry and unstable young adult. While in his younger years he threw himself headfirst into studying and learning thinking that it was the only way to get away from all the bad, by the time he became a teenager he was being expelled almost constantly. His grades plummeted, his desire to learn dwindled and he became volatile. Explosive. His temper frightening enough to cause even most of his teachers to fear him and treat him like the loaded weapon he was.

Fighting. He loved to win fights. And anyone that started a fight with him was almost guaranteed to lose. He poured heart and soul into practicing. Dropped out of school entirely and focused on keeping himself fit, no matter the cost.

His physical prowess at such a young age made him the target of a powerful man. A man that ran an underground arena where fights were bloody and unregulated and sometimes even fatal. The payout was fantastic, however, and the recognition and respect was unmistakable. For a 17-something child that had been met with 'no' his entire life, this was the first 'yes' he'd ever gotten. Without hesitation he'd sign that dotted line on that contract, essentially signing his life away. Unknowingly, he'd belong to this other man. Fight for him. Live for him. Breath for him. And when the time came? He'd die for him too. But to Monty, that seemed like a perfect exchange for that small slice of happiness he'd always sought. That small piece of heaven - where he could unleash his inner demons for moments at a time and feel the world crumple at his fists. It was a beautiful harmony that he was content to live. And for three long, exciting years, Monty would be their star fighter. Their champion. Their heavyweight. He'd make them money and so, he was valuable. Worth a damn to them.

This wouldn't last, however. After so many fights, people stopped betting against Monty. Fighters stopped wanting to face him. He had too fantastic of a track record and his KO skills were impossible. He was nearly 21. Reaching his peak, or so one would think, but in the arena - everyone was becoming burnt out. His 'managers' knew this and seemed to prepare for it, even if he wasn't aware of it himself. After almost a six month period of no action, Monty would finally be booked for a fight. It was a young Cuban who had burst onto the fighting scene in a flurry of guts and glory. He was the most promising candidate to take Monty's crown and Monty was ready for it. Ready for the challenge. Ready to squash that little bug's talent before it blossomed. It was a high paying, highly anticipated fight. And totally rigged. But Monty would never see it coming.

His crew would serve him something to drink before the fight - something with electrolytes to keep him hydrated. And also a little something something, to fuck up his fight. He'd hit the ring dizzy. Vision blurring. Sound muffled and his balance shot. By the time the fight started, the kid would lay into him mercilessly. A well-aimed blow to an inebriated man's temple could kill him. Most knew that. This crew didn't seem to care. They didn't stop to check on him as he sputtered like a drowning fish on the mat. They cheered and rallied around their new champion like a frenzy of piranha. Monty was shuffled out of the way like a dead weight and he lay there for many minutes simply dying. No one would know. No one would stop to wonder. And when they found him, cold and stiffening with rigor mortis? They'd toss him in a dumpster a couple of blocks away and let him rot.

His second life was even shorter than the first. He had so much hatred fueling him, he went on a vengeful killing spree. He seemed absolutely unstoppable too, until his recklessness landed him in the arms of a furious Cuban father, now lacking a son. A prized, beautiful son that was his oldest and his favorite. The mourning man laid waste to Mot slowly. Tortured him for weeks. Beat and maimed him. Raped and dismembered him. All in ways that were enough to be devastatingly painful but not enough to be fatal. And finally, after nothing was left but an empty husk of the man who had stolen his son from him, the Cuban slaughtered Mot. Slit his throat and gutted him. Leaving him writhing in a bed of his own blood before discretely disposing of the body. Surprisingly, it would never turn up again.

Rising anew as a wraith, Mot's social skills or lackthereof scored him a job that most others wouldn't tolerate and that was fine with him. He'd been betrayed while alive and would take no chances in his second life. He still had far too much hate to let go of.

Moth's design is © to orengel .
Moth's character is © to myself.