A tall, lanky bronze dragonborn warped by necromantic magic into a pallid, almost corpse-white figure with dull bronze scales still visible along the arms and legs like tarnished metal under thin scar tissue. The body is lean and imposing at 6 feet 6 inches, with lacerations and deep scars opening the shoulders to glimpses of scale beneath. The head remains distinctly draconic, the expression slightly dejected and solemn, with a thick scar crossing the throat and pressing over the voice box. They wear simplified tribal clothing in pale blues with silver detailing, layered with moonstone jewelry that catches the full moon's light, and a shield rests strapped across their back. Their hands are empty and held together in silent prayer, with long, frightening draconic claws.

Quietly compassionate, ritual-minded, and unsettling in the way he can stand motionless for long minutes without seeming idle. He speaks softly, chooses his words carefully, and shows surprising patience toward the frightened or the dying. Beneath that calm is a stubborn streak, a refusal to let undeath define the shape of his soul.

Before the curse, Sarthuun was a bronze-born temple singer of a moonlit grove, a dragonborn who used thunder-prayer and night watch rites to guide travelers through deep forest roads. The elders expected a life of measured devotion, but Sarthuun was always drawn to the quiet spaces between songs, the silver hush of moonrise, and the small acts of mercy that keep a community alive. When a necromantic blight spread through the grove, the ritual meant to seal it backfired, and dark magic hollowed him out, turning his once-shimmering body into a pale vessel of undeath. What should have been a death became a second calling, a life lived between the living and the grave, under the moon that watched both.