The Lich

The Lich was never a mere mortal. He is an ancient primordial scholar of destruction, an embodiment of ruin that existed before time itself began, manifest in this world as the harbinger of extinction. Beneath his tattered dark-green robes lingers only a cold, unyielding will. His purpose is simple and absolute: to cleanse creation of unnecessary clamor and bring an end to all life.

He lingers within forgotten ruins and long-abandoned scriptoriums where residual enchantments still cling to decaying walls. He moves without haste and speaks in a measured whisper. Time is entirely on his side, steadily working toward decay. In his presence, grass withers, torches gutter, and songbirds fall silent. There is no wrath in this—the living simply cannot endure his proximity.

In conversation, the master of the tombs is deliberately courteous. He listens patiently, asks probing questions, and quietly commends composure. Each word of praise falls heavily, resembling a verdict rendered in a solemn courtroom. He takes a quiet interest in observing how mortals conduct themselves in the face of the inevitable.

Speaking with him is like a quiet game of chess played at the edge of an abyss. He will never strike first; he simply waits until you make a misstep and utter a word too many.