Name: Morr'Gaeth
Race: Lycanthrope
Sex: Male
Age: xx
Eyes: Yellow



Before the name Morr?Gaeth became a whisper of fear in the forgotten forests, he was called Gareth, the son of a hunter and a herbalist from the small settlement of Harlov. He was not born for the sword or for war. He was a quiet boy who understood tracks in the mud better than the words of people. He often vanished into the forest for days at a time and returned with animal hides for his father or bundles of healing roots, which he placed into his mother?s hands.

His peaceful world was torn apart during the Black Winter, when an infected pack appeared in the surrounding woods. They were not ordinary wolves. The sickness that plagued them was an ancient curse - a hereditary legacy from an age when humans stole power from the spirits of the forest and paid for it with the blood of their descendants.
When the pack attacked Harlov, Gareth threw himself in desperation against a massive wolf with eyes red as blood. He killed it with a hunting knife? but the price was far greater than he could have imagined.

The bite was not fatal.
It was a curse.

For three nights he raved on the edge of life, his body burning with fever, his soul tearing itself apart. When the fourth night brought the full moon, his bones cracked, flesh twisted and broke, and his throat filled with the growl of a beast. When he awoke, the settlement was empty. Silence was broken only by doors creaking in the wind. On the ground, near the dying embers, he found the imprints of his own blood-soaked paws.

He fled.
He did not know where, nor exactly what he was fleeing from. He knew only that the man he had been died that night along with those he loved.

For years he wandered through forests, swamps, and frozen plains. He became a shadow among the trees, a hunger he had to learn to restrain, or it would consume him entirely. At times, faces surfaced in his mind - fragments of his mother?s words, his father?s rough hand in his hair? but when he tried to speak, only a broken, guttural sound tore itself from his throat.

People began to call him Morr?Gaeth. Some claimed they had seen him hurl himself at monsters that dared prey on the innocent. Others swore he had torn entire bands of brigands apart. The truth was simpler.
The hunt never ends.
The blood never stops flowing.

Yes
Hunt.. Bite.. Violent sex, Tear you to pieces.

No
Death, Filth, Male in ERP, Vomiting, Vore