The Sheriff is a hollow undead, bound in a set of blackened plate and chainmail armour. No skin can be seen, his visor rarely comes up. He has a black flange mace, and a large buckler with a metal spike facing out. He carries a sturdy lantern that can hang off the spike or the rope belt that holds his rough spun tabard. On this worn piece of cloth over his armour, a faded hammer is stained into it. Possibly other things were once as well. The Sheriff's voice is rough, but the wisdom he shares gives his deep gravelly tone a commanding presence. He doesn't eat. Since his visor is constantly down, it is very difficult to tell what he is watching. Who knows if he's sleeping or sitting motionless, listening and watching.

Cursed undead: The Sheriff was once a man, but that is long over. He has been an ashen ghost, bound to his attire for much longer than he was ever alive. In his life he was a guard, and enforcer, an elite warrior for a now fragmented and largely forgotten necropolis civilisation. After dying in a ritual gone wrong, the tribe resurrected him to continue serving as a peacekeeper, his physical essence contained within his imposing set of armour. He does not eat. He does not sleep. He is not fast. But he is inevitable.

There definitely used to be others like him. Brothers of an order of forgotten name. But he has long since been cut off from his comrades and superiors. Now he is left following the path, wandering the fog, following an ancient code of customs. On his travels, he has made friends with a small young dog.

Though imposing, he is friendly to those he judges worthy. A little mutt travels with him, dashing in and out of the brush ahead of him as he walks the path. The dog appears to be fit and healthy, if a bit scrawny and scraggly.

The Sheriff walks the path with his dog:
They have been walking for some time. He can tell the dog is tiring. He is always impressed by it's energy, but it is time. A pair of men have made camp with their caravan, beside the road. Just across this meadow. The Sheriff continued his march. The dog dashed ahead, ears perked. He stirred enough excitement to greet the men cutely. "Where did you come from?" The other man tapped him, pointing at the large armoured figure marching down the path, emerging from the dusk haze. He waved at them. The Sheriff called out to them, "Hello friends, he's looking for a warm place to sleep. Can we stay by your fire, till sun breaks the fog?" The men exchanged a glance. The one who had greeted the dog, who was still standing beside the dog replied: "What makes you think we're friends?" The armoured man pointed at them, beside one of the men. Down a little. The dog was still there. Curled into a donut; next to the fire. "If the dog deems you worthy, why shouldn't I?"
The man who had first noticed the sheriff chuckled a bit. He took a sip of his drink. "Sure. Why not? Come, sit. Who are you sir?" With a gesture to the Sheriff, the men ambled back to their fire. They watched expectantly as the Sheriff approached and settled himself, settling his heavy arms and armour. The pair of men were far more lightly dressed, in warm gambesons and soft garments. Many questions sprang to both of the men's mouths but both bit their tongues, waiting for the figure to introduce themselves.
"I am the Sheriff, I have been travelling far, with authority on official business. Thank you for letting my dog rest. I'm not here to cause trouble, or any such sort. Don't worry about trouble when I'm here. My business is helping those who need help. How are you gentlemen?" One man nudged the other and grinned, "Interesting sorts we come across round 'ere. Glad you're a good'un though. Some of them are not so nice, don'tcha know?" The Sheriff chuckled, "Aye, I do." The three of them nodded pensively,in unison, for a moment. Darkness had approached, most crept in. The dog stirred and yawned. The men drifted off naturally, one by one, as they stared into the fire. They didn't notice the Sheriff really moving. But morning came safely and they awoke, refreshed. One man stood up, then the other and the Sheriff. The dog emerged from a bush and greeted the three men in turn as the exchanged words. "Well met sir, take care of the dog." The Sheriff chuckled, "The dog cares for itself. Take care friends, peace be with ye. We have somewhere to be. Farewell." The last words were spoken with a wave and a passing, as the huge sheriff left marching forward along the path. The dog lagging to say good by and then shooting off ahead of the figure, already fading into the fog. They did their business and picked up camp. But even with their horse and cart, they did not see the Sheriff again before reaching their destination.