Night of the Living Lich

[Archaon]

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Dethsiris. A jungle wilderness unlike anything ever seen. A past filled with wonder, knowledge, history.. all left behind to be studied and chronicled. It was a paradise of intellect and splendor that held discoveries to this day. Exotic life found nowhere else emerged from the dense and wholly unexplored jungle that seemed to defy any sort of imagination. Knowledge, until now, nearly lost.. forgotten; buried and almost reclaimed by nature itself. It all felt like a golden age had sprung forth, ready to enrich the mind and captivate.

Gone.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LLzN7bvhvhU

A cataclysmic event unforseen, unpredicted, unimaginable.. it had come and erased what had taken hold in an instant. All that was once like a sparkling jewel set upon a lustrous band of the finest metals had ceased to exist. Was it the will of nature? Perhaps the seething vexation of a deity unknown? No one knew. Even the figurehead, the lord of all things death and undeath himself, taken from the reality he helped bring to the jungle. There was no trace, no sign, no evidence of what had become of him.. only those whom were left behind in the tumultuous event. A bound mate, knowledgable in the arcane arts, and a companion whom was raised from egg to the venerable and respected creature that he is today.

Days.. months.. nights.. seasons all pass by without so much a trace. Wraith, filled with sorrow over his missing master, retreats to the one place he knew as home away from home; the peak of Umbara. Each evening, a mournful call echoes. Where has he gone? Where are you? Each evening, an unfortunate disappointment.

Darkness.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34dsyjJv8XI

The summer days approach. The lands become hotter, and the days become longer. In times of great dryness, nature provides with the sudden storm. As the heat becomes greater, the intensity of the storm grows with each pass, but one location suddenly catches the attention of the mournful Wraith. A location he is familiar with more than others. Head perks, and eyes gaze towards that location. The storms roll forth with strength.

Rain.. heavy and quenching pelts down like aquatic ammunition from above. The thick cloud cover above that location begin to swirl slowly. Lightning called forth like jagged spears, stabbing down upon the earth. One, then another.. another. The frequency almost unnatural. Wraith's mourning turns into hope as he bellows a call. From the magical perch he takes flight towards the storm.

The storm above is centered upon an island. Upon the island, a castle and tower that have stood upon it for what seems like many years. The clouds darken, almost turning the very day into night while the spears of lightning shoot down with more and more frequency as if they were digging into the ground themselves like shovels, their hue shifting from the natural light into an unholy shade of ghoulish green. Suddenly, a scene of abject nightmares begins to unfold as the great mephos perches atop the highest point of the castle without fear of what goes on.

https://youtu.be/Li6nK_nY0LY?t=50

One, then another.. another and another erupting fron the prison of earth, hands of varying decay explode upward. Digging and digging as one by one, the dead rise upon the island. One, ten, tens.. an unknowable number rise up. The great shadow atop the castle extends its wings and lets out a cry that echoes forth akin to the great roar of a dragon, and then.. the dead all turn and face the castle as Wraith's wings snap open, a bellowing roar spills out across the land.

A single, final strike of lightning, and a subsequent booming of thunder shook the very earth of this waterlocked mass. One.. final hand erupts from the earth, but this one much different than those of the dead. Flesh.. ink.. jewelry.

He has returned.