Quiet, solitary even, a stoic gaze stitched onto his face, eyes as bland as aged stone. He hardly blinks, gaze unwavering as though he is looking past you - through you. A breathing corpse, hollow lungs and cold flesh hanging on ancient bones mended from their mangled state in the grave, dubbed Clay. He's hollow, or so they say, a blank mind which mulls along in his head, far more dead than alive, a miserable emotionless creature. To some he is fear, those grey eyes haunting their minds at night, his yellowed fangs tearing into their subconscious. A zombie, a corpse, clay - alive. He thinks, he moves, he feels. It's all slow and loud, lights hovering within bodies and behind eyes, he can see it all. Essential to his keeper, a scratchy voice worn by soil and worms rumbles from his throat to greet the bone-adorned female as she approaches, smiling.