Post by Forte on Jun 10, 2010 9:37:08 GMT -5
Name: Morgan Parr
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Height: 6' 2"
Physical Description:
Morgan is tall and sallow, with a sunken, waxy look about his face. His eyes, a shocking light brown like caramels, are framed by dark rings, his hair long, jet black, and greasy. He has a prominent roman nose, hooked and crooked where it has been broken. Beneath his right eye is a whitish scar, long healed but forever marring his appearance. He's quite tall and imposing, something about the way the shadows fall across his face suggests his troubled mind. The eyes are more or less dead, dulled by years of alcoholism and cruelty, although occasionally a spark, like a long-forgotten flame, lights in them. Though gaunt by nature, he has a bit of a beer belly, his pale skin makes him look sickly. His teeth are crooked, having never been corrected by braces, and the canines are pointed and sharp.
Morgan does not appear to be extremely strong or muscular, but he is plenty tough and knows how to fight. More often than not, one of his eyes is blacked or his nose bloodied from his latest scuffle. His dress is fairly average, jeans and a ratty t-shirt most of the time, and in this way he is unremarkable. In another life he might have been handsome, fetching, even, but as it were he is as repulsive in appearance as he is in nature. His air is that of a brooding storm, always on edge and ready to snap. He has the annoying habit of tapping with his long fingers, a show of the internal anxiety that his face hides so well. His voice is highly unpleasant, simpering and insidious.
Personality:
He is not the sort of person that you want to associate with, to tell the truth. A consummate drunkard, he is harsh with human as well as horse, and, when in a temper, quite unreasonable and likely to lash out at anyone or anything that he finds displeasing. He's a harsh man, perhaps heartless, showing little of the tenderer emotions. He is cruel to animals, especially horses, with whom he uses archaic training techniques, tying them to posts without food for days, whipping them for disobedience and holding their heads with harsh bits, refusing them retribution. He seems to enjoy this, in fact, and to take pleasure from making these creatures no more than servants. He justifies his actions, and has known no other way or training a horse. He is, he says, the sum of his parentage, his history, and his experience, which, for him, tethers him to a way of behavior.
He's quite intelligent when he is not thrown off kilter by alcohol or rage, and in another life could have been an engaging, pleasant individual. As it is, he detests human company, dislikes being approached or yelled at by the sort of irate protesters that tend to raise around abuse, and is himself of a short temper and a nasty one, at that. He is quick to violence, even though not, perhaps, of his own nature liking to damage person or beast. He has simply learned no other way to solve his problems then to beat those who have risen his anger. He is more ignorant than stupid, blind to his own condition, blind to the fact that he does not have to be the way that he is, that he could rise above his circumstance to become a better individual.
In truth, although he does not know it, he is still the trembling child, hiding from the harsh hand and voice of his father, hiding from the other children who tease him so in his dress of rags. He is petrified, afraid of being caught, of being beaten and bloody again. He is afraid that he will never be accepted, or perhaps that he will be. Like all tyrants, he has a great fear of those who are below him, who he has crushed. He is scared of every horse he has ever handled, and shows his fear with even greater pain, with whip and spur and bit and every other nasty thing. He is scared of every other person that he has ever met, scared of their pity or their rage, and responds by sinking ever deeper into the grave that he is digging for himself.
History:
The first thing he well remembers is being laid flat in the snow with blood streaming from his nose, shivering with the cold. He remembers how the other boys used to tease him, used to bully him. He was small for his age, early in life, and his family's social status was lower than that of most of the surrounding families. He was born, and lived, mostly on the streets or in the shelter, dragged from hell to hell at the heels of a devastated mother, an alcoholic father who was more oft to beat then comfort. He does not recall kindness, or sympathy, only the simpering of the woman who raised him and the hand of the father who came and went like the tide. In time he was thrown head-first into the foster system, and if life had been hard up to that point it got even harder as he was handed from person to person in an endless cycle.
He learned to be hard, learned to be cold, and learned to fight, to cause pain. However, his cowardly nature led him to take his frustration at his situation, at his fair-weather "parents" out on smaller, weaker creatures. The family dog, the stray cat. When he could he took seeming delight in hitting squirrels and birds with a bebe gun for no apparent reason. He was, he reckoned, simply the victim of his circumstance, the monster that was born out of neglect and hard-handedness, the sum of his parts. His adolescence was marked by violence, by shouting and raging, by being tossed like a hot potato from family to family, school to school. Perhaps someone could have softened him, could have set him right, but he never really stayed in one place long enough for anyone to get close to him. He became the monster that they all expected him to become.
Despite the fact that he was fairly intelligent, he dropped out of high school at the age of 16, after getting a girl pregnant, and did not return. His education had been so splintered in the first place that no one really thought he would be able to finish or rise above in any case. Subsequently, he took up alcohol and ran away from "home", at the time a fairly large family who had taken him in for their own advancement and did their best simply to keep him alive. His disappearance was noticed, but not recognized or given too much though. Too many people in his circumstances had done the same thing, and he supposed that his "families" would be better off without him in any case. He lived on the streets for a few years, taking what work he could find but in constant turmoil and being fired from job after job for drunkenness. Eventually, he found himself groom for a rather large stable, one that used archaic methods...
Finally, he found something that he enjoyed, which was subjugating beasts to his will, "training" them with the whip and the spur, making them lifeless and dull, puppets of their masters. He quickly rose from being a lowly groom to being at the right hand of the riding master, a cruel and despicable man if ever there was one. He learned all the ways of breaking down a poor beast's spirit, the use of cruel bits, starvation, anything to relegate a horse to the lowest possible level, to make it obey out of fear and out of hopelessness. The rest is history. The old riding master died, leaving his practice to his new favorite, who continued it before modern ideas put them out of business. Now, he has moved to a less conspicuous location, taking with him a sizable chunk of money and, of course, a warning for all dumb beasts.
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Height: 6' 2"
Physical Description:
Morgan is tall and sallow, with a sunken, waxy look about his face. His eyes, a shocking light brown like caramels, are framed by dark rings, his hair long, jet black, and greasy. He has a prominent roman nose, hooked and crooked where it has been broken. Beneath his right eye is a whitish scar, long healed but forever marring his appearance. He's quite tall and imposing, something about the way the shadows fall across his face suggests his troubled mind. The eyes are more or less dead, dulled by years of alcoholism and cruelty, although occasionally a spark, like a long-forgotten flame, lights in them. Though gaunt by nature, he has a bit of a beer belly, his pale skin makes him look sickly. His teeth are crooked, having never been corrected by braces, and the canines are pointed and sharp.
Morgan does not appear to be extremely strong or muscular, but he is plenty tough and knows how to fight. More often than not, one of his eyes is blacked or his nose bloodied from his latest scuffle. His dress is fairly average, jeans and a ratty t-shirt most of the time, and in this way he is unremarkable. In another life he might have been handsome, fetching, even, but as it were he is as repulsive in appearance as he is in nature. His air is that of a brooding storm, always on edge and ready to snap. He has the annoying habit of tapping with his long fingers, a show of the internal anxiety that his face hides so well. His voice is highly unpleasant, simpering and insidious.
Personality:
He is not the sort of person that you want to associate with, to tell the truth. A consummate drunkard, he is harsh with human as well as horse, and, when in a temper, quite unreasonable and likely to lash out at anyone or anything that he finds displeasing. He's a harsh man, perhaps heartless, showing little of the tenderer emotions. He is cruel to animals, especially horses, with whom he uses archaic training techniques, tying them to posts without food for days, whipping them for disobedience and holding their heads with harsh bits, refusing them retribution. He seems to enjoy this, in fact, and to take pleasure from making these creatures no more than servants. He justifies his actions, and has known no other way or training a horse. He is, he says, the sum of his parentage, his history, and his experience, which, for him, tethers him to a way of behavior.
He's quite intelligent when he is not thrown off kilter by alcohol or rage, and in another life could have been an engaging, pleasant individual. As it is, he detests human company, dislikes being approached or yelled at by the sort of irate protesters that tend to raise around abuse, and is himself of a short temper and a nasty one, at that. He is quick to violence, even though not, perhaps, of his own nature liking to damage person or beast. He has simply learned no other way to solve his problems then to beat those who have risen his anger. He is more ignorant than stupid, blind to his own condition, blind to the fact that he does not have to be the way that he is, that he could rise above his circumstance to become a better individual.
In truth, although he does not know it, he is still the trembling child, hiding from the harsh hand and voice of his father, hiding from the other children who tease him so in his dress of rags. He is petrified, afraid of being caught, of being beaten and bloody again. He is afraid that he will never be accepted, or perhaps that he will be. Like all tyrants, he has a great fear of those who are below him, who he has crushed. He is scared of every horse he has ever handled, and shows his fear with even greater pain, with whip and spur and bit and every other nasty thing. He is scared of every other person that he has ever met, scared of their pity or their rage, and responds by sinking ever deeper into the grave that he is digging for himself.
History:
The first thing he well remembers is being laid flat in the snow with blood streaming from his nose, shivering with the cold. He remembers how the other boys used to tease him, used to bully him. He was small for his age, early in life, and his family's social status was lower than that of most of the surrounding families. He was born, and lived, mostly on the streets or in the shelter, dragged from hell to hell at the heels of a devastated mother, an alcoholic father who was more oft to beat then comfort. He does not recall kindness, or sympathy, only the simpering of the woman who raised him and the hand of the father who came and went like the tide. In time he was thrown head-first into the foster system, and if life had been hard up to that point it got even harder as he was handed from person to person in an endless cycle.
He learned to be hard, learned to be cold, and learned to fight, to cause pain. However, his cowardly nature led him to take his frustration at his situation, at his fair-weather "parents" out on smaller, weaker creatures. The family dog, the stray cat. When he could he took seeming delight in hitting squirrels and birds with a bebe gun for no apparent reason. He was, he reckoned, simply the victim of his circumstance, the monster that was born out of neglect and hard-handedness, the sum of his parts. His adolescence was marked by violence, by shouting and raging, by being tossed like a hot potato from family to family, school to school. Perhaps someone could have softened him, could have set him right, but he never really stayed in one place long enough for anyone to get close to him. He became the monster that they all expected him to become.
Despite the fact that he was fairly intelligent, he dropped out of high school at the age of 16, after getting a girl pregnant, and did not return. His education had been so splintered in the first place that no one really thought he would be able to finish or rise above in any case. Subsequently, he took up alcohol and ran away from "home", at the time a fairly large family who had taken him in for their own advancement and did their best simply to keep him alive. His disappearance was noticed, but not recognized or given too much though. Too many people in his circumstances had done the same thing, and he supposed that his "families" would be better off without him in any case. He lived on the streets for a few years, taking what work he could find but in constant turmoil and being fired from job after job for drunkenness. Eventually, he found himself groom for a rather large stable, one that used archaic methods...
Finally, he found something that he enjoyed, which was subjugating beasts to his will, "training" them with the whip and the spur, making them lifeless and dull, puppets of their masters. He quickly rose from being a lowly groom to being at the right hand of the riding master, a cruel and despicable man if ever there was one. He learned all the ways of breaking down a poor beast's spirit, the use of cruel bits, starvation, anything to relegate a horse to the lowest possible level, to make it obey out of fear and out of hopelessness. The rest is history. The old riding master died, leaving his practice to his new favorite, who continued it before modern ideas put them out of business. Now, he has moved to a less conspicuous location, taking with him a sizable chunk of money and, of course, a warning for all dumb beasts.