Abchedakh tiptoes through the veil between life and death, an undead warrior of 214 years old. His eyes, once brimming with vibrant warmth, are now hollow sockets glowing yellow and reflecting nothing but the loss of his past existence. His armour, once shiny and proud, hangs loosely on a skeletal frame with the medallion of Anoria hanging roughly over a ribcage hollow of flesh.

As a skeleton, Abchedakh is all bone and no muscle, devoid of all matters of flesh that once made him human. His jaw creaks with each word he speaks, his calloused warrior hands now fragile and sharp enough to provoke blood with a mere tap. Yet his stature and strong aura remind all who see him of his past dominance, a soldier, a warrior of Anoria carved from resilience and bravery.

His scars, which once bore tales of epic wars and battles fought with honor, are vanished, replaced by shiny bones that seem impossibly beautiful under the haunting moonlight. He moves with a grace that defies his skeletal form, each action executed with a precision gained from 214 years of existence.

Abchedakh possesses an aura of intense silence. He doesn't speak, for he doesn't breathe. But when he opens his jaw, echoes of the past come pouring out, tales of a time long gone and battles bravely fought. His voice, although hollow and dead, carries the weight of centuries, painting images of wars yet won and realms yet explored.

Abchedakh's interaction with the living world is fleeting, limited to the darkened corners of the tomb he has been bound to guard. Yet, his existence, looming and pervasive, shakes the very foundation of reality. His presence, although scarce and momentary, is enough to send shivers down the most courageous spine.

His armour, bearing the emblem of the long-dead King Uriza XV, is a perpetual, haunting reminder of his eternal servitude. The king’s tomb, an ancient edifice of stone and forgotten promises, is his home and his prison, his joy, and his sorrow. Abchedakh lingers here under the stars, tormented by a rulership that binds him post-death, still serving, still protecting beyond the barriers of mortality.

His ghost-like movements are a silent ballet of shadows and moonlight. The graveyard silence is often ruptured by the soft yet unsettling click-clack of his skeletal feet against the cold stone of the tomb. These sounds become a melody to the unsleeping night, a song of a solitude borne from duty and honor.