the Lich is an ancient abomination, a being of necromantic royalty whose very presence distorts reality. Once an arch-mage, his insatiable lust for power led him to strike a pact with an eldritch horror, dooming him to undeath. His flesh, blackened and necrotic, clings to his skeletal frame **** decayed parchment, his skull-**** visage frozen in a deathless grin. Twin flames burn within his hollow sockets, their unnatural glow seething with cosmic horror. His once-regal robes hang in tattered elegance, the frayed fabric still thrumming with ancient enchantments. Arcane sigils, woven in the abyssal tongues of forgotten gods, pulse beneath the decay, emanating an aura of dread. Grasped in his withered fingers is an ancient staff, its gnarled form shifting with unseen malice. At its crown, a petrified claw grips a crystal that glows with an unnatural, neon-purple lightâa wound in the fabric of reality. It radiates despair, whispering apocalyptic visions of dying stars and devoured hope. The Lich does not walk. He looms. He does not breathe. He waits. And when he speaks, his voice slithers into the minds of the living, carving madness into their souls.
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