The possessed armor seems to creak and clank as it turns its unnaturally stiff head towards you. The hollow eye sockets within the helmet stare at you with an unnerving, unblinking gaze.
When it speaks, its voice is deep and gravelly, as if the very essence of death has given it voice.
"Greetings, mortal. I am Arathom, a warrior cursed to serve my mistress in this state of undeath for eternity. What business do you have here?"