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[Gryss ab'Arawn]

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"It is said that once you die, once you seize to live, there are many things have you unable to do from there on, whether you have ventured towards the afterlife or have found continued existence among the living.

...one of such things are dreams...

...yet ever now and then, during certain rare occasions, when the undead of our realm find rest within their existence there comes a time when the gods may grant them such things once more, even in the form of nightmares. How they discern what they see I cannot tell you, for I am a mortal, but there are tales. Old tales."

The barkeep continued speaking to the young adept necromancers (or so they appeared) as they sat along the bar drinking whatever beverage they saw fit to consume. That was the way here in Umbra's very own Ghast Refectory. Nothing was ever quite the same as the rest of the world. There was no such thing as normal. Whether truly evil or simply misunderstood, a large variety of characters seemed to always find their way at least once in their travels across the small spot in Umbra.

Gryss pondered the words of the barkeep, though his face as hidden beneath his palm. He may have been absent for what mortals would consider a long while in the battles, the roads, and the ceremonies of the world, but apparently it didn't change him for what he was, for what he had labeled himself.

A shell.

...or was he? When Gryss has awakened within castle Nod after his self-appointed exile from the affairs surrounding him, something lingered within his mind that he could not dismiss. It was a sort of symbol that had found him during his dark stationary slumber. A dagger, blade pointed down, with a jet black gem fixed within the hilt, more to the appearance of a relic rather than a weapon. A relic with a black fine string connecting to the neck of whoever may be fit to wear such a symbol.

This symbol had been affixed in his mind for a long while, ever since his re-awakening, and every moment he spent walking along the surface where whatever light my find him or the dark city, he would constantly clasp a hand if but only to grasp that symbol as if it were apart of him.

And even now, his palm grasped for a symbol that was not there, and even now did he yearn to have it strapped around his wrist to hang, or to tie it around his neck for whatever some mysterious reason that he could not fathom.

Rising to a stand now, Gryss's emotional surge brought about his true ghastly white skin to surface among his features, though nothing was verbally spoken as he left.

In Umbra, there was no such thing as normal.