With an unearthly roar, the ragged pile of skin and bones, clad in a tattered shirt and pants, rose from the pile of bones and remains in the crypt. Blindly feeling around for any indication as to who or what it may be, it found something - a battered, rusty dagger. Holding it up, the creature examined it. While in poor condition, the weapon was still wickedly sharp and, more to the point, capable of inflicting terrible harm. He grinned a wicked grin that reveled rows of disjointed, broken teeth. This was who he was. This was what he was. This dagger was a symbol of the entirety of his being.