Darkness shrouds all, a chilling embrace that chills even my ancient soul. Millennia have flitted since I last felt kindness. Now, only the icy winds of oblivion whisper through these void halls. My strength, once fearsome, feels as brittle as the bones of a newborn.
Echoes of a time before this endless torment afflict me. A fleeting glimpse of joy, a spark of life. Now, only hopelessness remains. This woe, this being I'm trapped within - it is my doom. And yet, even in the depths of this abyss, a flicker of will refuses to be extinguished.
Perhaps there is still a way for escape. A sliver of hope that I can break this chains. Until then, I remain…The Lich.
Murmurs from the Grave
The obscure tomes lay scattered upon the damp stone table, their gilded pages whispering secrets of a {power{ unimaginable. A faint vibration hung in the air, heavy with the burden of decay. The scent of rot filled the chamber, a suffocating reminder of the {journey{ embarked upon. This was no mere study; this was a violation into the heart of the netherworld.
Endless Curse, Unceasing Night
A veil of gloom descends upon the realm, a shroud woven from demonic secrets and fueled by twisted magic. The sun, once a beacon of life, is now but a distant memory, its light forever stolen. Shadows writhe and dance, groaning tales of anguish in hisses both sinister and unheard. The curse, a legacy of hatred, binds the land in an ironclad grip, draining all peace. Within this abyss of darkness, beasts roam free, their eyes glowing with a hunger that knows no bounds.
The few remaining souls survive in a perpetual night, their spirits fractured. They are the last embers of hope flickering against the encroaching cold. Will they be able to overcome the curse and return the light, or will this lich am land forever remain lost in an eternal night?
Tethered to the osseous Throne
Upon reaching the destination, a/an/the chill pierced through him/her/them, a precursor to the horrors awaiting/to come/unfolding before their/his/her eyes. The throne/An ancient seat/A monstrous chair loomed before him/her/them, its bones/structure/form grotesquely intertwined with/by/around a sickly, pulsating energy. Bound/Tethered/Fixed to this abomination/cursed object/instrument of power was a figure of unimaginable decay/horror/evil, its eyes/gaze/vision burning with malevolent/ancient/forbidden intent. Its whispers/Cries/Moans echoed through the chamber, proclaiming/boasting/demanding power/destruction/dominion.
In Shadows He Waits
A chill creeps down your spine as you step into the darkened room. The air is thick with mystery, and every creak of the floorboards sends a shiver through your being. You can almost feel his gaze upon you, though there is no sign of life save for the dancing candlelight.
He watches, hidden in the shadows. Your every move is observed, your breath held captive by the terror that seizes your heart. You are not alone in this place. He is here, waiting for his opportunity.
A King Undying
He reigned for ages, his knowledge a beacon in times of turmoil. Legends were woven about him, whispers of his unyielding spirit that echoed through the kingdoms. Some said he held a powerful artifact, others supposed he had struck a pact with forces beyond worldly comprehension. Be it the truth, King Alastor remained, an unyielding presence on the throne, a testament to the persistent nature of power.