The silent figure of a newly arisen undead shambled forth, a small pendant on a chain held in a clutched fist. He marches onward, the pain wracking his body doubling with every step. His skin was raw and red, his eyes sunken and tired, yet his mouth was stretched wide, somewhere between a genuine smile, and a pained grimace. Three arrows stick out of his back, recent injuries, that stifle his movement ever more. 

He stumbled forward toward the coiled sword stabbed into the ground. It was cold, unlit, unkindled. Still, comfort could be found in ash. He stopped in front of it, and reached out. Fire sprung to life on the small sword impaled mound, and the figure fell to his knees in front of the flame. He fell over, and curled up, shuddering.