Frederick looked at the,,, "Lich" in front of him, before scowling at her. He could see bits of decay on her face, but she looked nothing like the Liches he had seen on the battlefield. They neither looked nor felt like the being in front of him. Furrowing his brow further, the young half-elf shuddered at the memory of the fallen wizards. There had been a group of five, summoning storms of ice and lightning, decimating the Order's forces before they had been put down. They had been skeletal figures, withered skin spread taut over their frames, and wispy strands of bone white hair wreathed their crowns. Their eyes varied, but were all cool, icy blue to deep plu, their teeth gnarled and sharp peeking through condescending seers. Their auras were maddening, gaping maws of chaotic energy, pools of eldritch power that screeched and wailed in discordant melody.

[color=aba000]"You look like no Lich I have seen,"[/color] the half-elf replied, [color=aba000]"Liches are beings who willingly gave their names to Demons, trading their deaths and souls for the longevity and power of fiends. They erase their names from Sheanos' records, leaving the cycle of death and rebirth. They are powerful magic users, capable of conjuring storms of eldritch elements large enough to cover battlefields. When I said that you were missing something, I don't mean compassion. It is the flame, the warmth that differentiates life and death, the flame that joins Boelai's Braziers as he fashions new lives in his workshop."[/color]