Note location: In the Catacombs; in Gaze; on altars to the Doorway; within the Archives Number available: Several Conditions to receive from Iskierka: Most likely to award to Arcane Scholars and those with Doorway's patronage
I never had much traffic with the Archlich beyond what all the Unearthed did: His necromancers were responsible for my creation. He may have put a hand in directly--I never asked--and ensured the success of his experiment. His prototype. How many did they make like me? Did they even know what they did to us? Why would they tell us if they did?
He is named the Father of Necromancy and in truth, he has earned it. He is named the Archlich, the first of those mortal necromancers who learned to put their souls elsewhere. He eschewed the traditional needle in the egg in the hare in etcetera for something easier to catch and harder to kill: a glacier in Kirminai. So long as it's intact, he can't--strictly--die, so getting rid of him is already a pretty puzzle. This is without considering his stitched-together menagerie and the doting azhdarch guards given him by the Prince of Frost.
I never had much traffic with him. But anyone with eyes (ha) could see the way he was around his Fext, our Prince of Locusts. They were friends as much as allies, her torments more teasing than torture when it came to him; his biting wit with only fangs enough to sting her to wiser action. He loved her, and she--perhaps; I am a romantic, after all--him.
He watched that woman wither away into the Prince as she walked the path his hands pushed her onto--his hands among dozens, but impelling her still. He watched his friend, sister of his heart, consumed.
How does it feel, o Archlich, to see your masterwork devour itself and your dear ones with it?
TARGET | Kirsi, Archlich - 1A
Number available: Several
Conditions to receive from Iskierka: Most likely to award to Arcane Scholars and those with Doorway's patronage
I never had much traffic with the Archlich beyond what all the Unearthed did: His necromancers were responsible for my creation. He may have put a hand in directly--I never asked--and ensured the success of his experiment.
His prototype. How many did they make like me? Did they even know what they did to us? Why would they tell us if they did?He is named the Father of Necromancy and in truth, he has earned it. He is named the Archlich, the first of those mortal necromancers who learned to put their souls elsewhere. He eschewed the traditional needle in the egg in the hare in etcetera for something easier to catch and harder to kill: a glacier in Kirminai. So long as it's intact, he can't--strictly--die, so getting rid of him is already a pretty puzzle. This is without considering his stitched-together menagerie and the doting azhdarch guards given him by the Prince of Frost.
I never had much traffic with him. But anyone with eyes (ha) could see the way he was around his Fext, our Prince of Locusts. They were friends as much as allies, her torments more teasing than torture when it came to him; his biting wit with only fangs enough to sting her to wiser action. He loved her, and she--perhaps; I am a romantic, after all--him.
He watched that woman wither away into the Prince as she walked the path his hands pushed her onto--his hands among dozens, but impelling her still. He watched his friend, sister of his heart, consumed.
How does it feel, o Archlich, to see your masterwork devour itself and your dear ones with it?