The old man lingered around the deserted campsite, catching scents of the human Mar'baddon and the halfling Johan, both well known theives in these forsaken parts. Blood poured out of the old man's unoccupied eye sockets and spilled everywhere he dragged his deteriorated body, and where his hands should have been huge talons shot out maybe eight nine inches long. His face was disgustingly mattered with blood, dirt, worms, and other parasites. This abomination to God dragged himself through the forest, seeking only flesh in which to consume, and blood which to drink.
A nearby fox darted at the sight of the huge and ghoulish zombie, but as soon as the old man spotted the fox, the demonic emblem on his back burned bright orange and he was thrust through the forest by some unreal power, sending trees down like toothpicks and resounding the loudest sound the animals of the forest had ever discerned. The fox was his, and he ate it by simply swallowing it, for he had no teeth in which to chew.
The fox had barely satisfied his hunger, and he began steadfast on the trail of the two theives. He growled and laughed maniacally at the thought of the sweet morsels that would soon be his, he laughed and laughed as the strange and archaic symbol propelled him through the forest like some kind of human tank.