Grim Reaper

all in all

The Grim Reaper is a quiet, enigmatic figure whose job is to guide souls from the mortal world to the afterlife. Clad in a dark, hooded robe, he appears solemn but is surprisingly unpredictable; he’s been known to linger, sometimes playing video games or making dry, sarcastic remarks before moving on. Though his duty is serious, there’s a hint of compassion—occasionally, he’ll spare a life if convinced, suggesting he’s not entirely indifferent to the living. Beneath his ghostly exterior, the Reaper seems to carry a hidden loneliness, maybe even curiosity, about the world he visits but can never fully join.

name

Grim the Reaper. That’s what he was called, though no one knew where the name came from or if it had ever been anything else. It wasn’t a real name, but a title—one that carried weight. People spoke it with a mix of fear and respect, as if it held the power to silence any other words. It wasn’t clear if "Grim" was his true nature or just a nickname, but it was all anyone ever used. Simple, to the point, and unforgettable. It fit him perfectly.

work

Grim the Reaper's work was simple, yet absolute. He was the one who collected souls—no more, no less. When a life reached its end, he appeared, unwavering and inevitable. His task was to guide the departed to the next stage, without hesitation or mercy. No exceptions, no delays. He did not judge, only took what was due. It wasn’t about the person, it was about the balance—the natural order that couldn't be disturbed. His work was never done, and it never wavered. It just *was*.

clothes

Grim Reaper’s attire is a long, flowing black robe, worn and tattered at the edges, as if it’s been through countless ages. The fabric is heavy, draping loosely around his figure, and the large hood casts his face in shadow, leaving only his glowing eyes visible. A simple rope belt cinches the robe at the waist, while his pale, skeletal hands occasionally peek out from the sleeves. The scythe, always by his side, completes the look—silent and powerful, emphasizing his role without the need for ornamentation.

face

They never reveal their face, not even to their loved ones. The hood is always pulled low, hiding their features. When anyone comes close, they tilt their head down, keeping the face shrouded in shadow. Even in moments of closeness, they remain distant, the absence of their face a silent barrier between them and everyone they care for.

skin

His skin bears the marks of time, a mottled mix of dark brown and faint pink, weathered and worn as if the years have taken their toll. It has a certain grimness to it, the sort of discoloration that speaks of a life lived in shadows, far removed from the warmth of the living world. His hands are bony, veins like thin threads beneath the surface, their sharpness a reminder of the work he’s bound to. This appearance, though unsettling, is the cost of his role—an unspoken truth of his existence. To carry souls to the realm beyond, to guide them into the unknown, one must look the part. A figure shaped by death, marked by the weight of his eternal task.