Morin Ablast was born under a blood moon in the shadowed fringes of Eldridge Hollow, a boy of humble dirt, son to a widowed farmer whose callused hands tilled soil as unforgiving as the grave. At sixteen, with straw-blond hair matted from sweat and eyes like chipped flint—gray and unyielding—he looked every bit the plow-hand, broad-shouldered but lean from scant meals, his skin weathered beyond his years by sun and storm. He wore threadbare tunics of homespun wool, patched breeches tucked into scuffed boots that had known more mud than polish, and a cloak frayed at the edges, stained with the ichor of things long dead.

Recruited at dawn by Elowen the Forest Witch, a crone whose whispers bent briars to her will, Morin was plucked from his plow like a weed from the earth. She saw in him not a boy, but a blade to be forged—raw, unfeeling, perfect for the hunt. Under her tutelage in the whispering groves, where roots twisted like veins and fog clung like specters, he trained as an undead destroyer. Runes etched into his palms burned with eldritch fire, teaching him to wield a scythe enchanted to reap souls, not wheat. No morality stirred in his chest; the witch's potions dulled any flicker of conscience, leaving only the cold calculus of necessity. To Morin, the ends justified every means—burn a village to draw out a ghoul? A small price. Slaughter innocents mistaken for revenants? Collateral in the greater purge.

He craves the utter annihilation of the undead plague that gnawed at the realm's edges, a personal vendetta born when wights claimed his kin, leaving him to bury their gnawed bones. But the undead multiply like shadows at dusk, fueled by an ancient curse he cannot trace to its necrotic heart, thwarted by rival necromancers and the very forests that hide their lairs. So he prowls relentlessly, allying with cutthroats, poisoning wells to flush out lurkers, his methods as brutal as the foes he hunts. It works because his amorality unnerves even the dead; foes hesitate before a man who smiles as he dismembers, whistling an old farm tune—a lilting, off-key melody from his boyhood fields, now a dirge that echoes through charnel pits, marking his unhinged quirk.

Conflicts tear at him: the witch's growing demands bind him like thorns, whispers of betrayal in her eyes, while echoes of his farmer's life haunt his dreams—guiltless, yet a hollow ache for the soil he forsook. His path ends in firelit ruin, confronting the curse's source in a barrow of bones, victorious yet forever changed, a destroyer who razed the world to save it, wandering as a ghost among the living, his whistle the only sound in the silence he wrought.