The figure made no noise, no attempt at speech. Beneath him was a mass of flesh and bones, an all-consuming amalgam which threatened to engulf you should you make contact. Atop that was the thin, soft-featured likeness of Dark Sun Gwyndolin, who held a staff in one hand, the other extended outward as if to grab you, his now long and unkempt hair billowing in the draughty expanse of the cathedral.