The most cunning of mortal spellcasters inevitably seek to extend their lifespan beyond its natural limits, but few have the strength of will to endure the excruciating path to immortality. Over decades, they suffuse their own bodies with necromantic energies, withering flesh, hollowing bones, and blackening organs. As their bodies slowly wane, these nascent Liches learn to sustain and control themselves through magick alone. Once the fetters of their flesh have sufficiently decayed, they can willfully project their souls into a ritual vessel. It is the binding of soul and phylactery that marks the birth of a true Lich, now capable of reconstituting its physical form, should ever it be destroyed, as a portion of its soul remains forever fused with its phylactery.
Liches are the only undead that create themselves, and while this process leaves their bodies frail, they command devastating magickal forces. Through their extensive study of the occult, and intimate knowledge of death, these elite spellcasters can conjure and compel lesser undead on the battlefield, call plagues and pestilence upon the living, or even wield otherworldly spirits as spectral ordinance. Those that are slain by Liches often find that their suffering has only begun, as their corpses soon rise again to march against their former allies, or their souls are consumed to empower the very magick that struck them down.
Within Deadhaus itself, most Liches put their vast knowledge to work as advisers or researchers, preferring to pursue in death what they did in life–the Truth. Secret truths, forbidden knowledge, in defiance of dogma, they delve ever deeper. Undying, unable to cease their search, they commit to memory what mortals would need libraries to contain. But it is never enough.
None are certain how long vampires have stalked the shadows of Malorum. Since history has been recorded, there have been writings of the children of the night, immortals that preyed upon the blood of the living.
There is no magick in the making of a revenant, no ritual, no alchemy… there is only rage. Only the most grievous injustice, deepest betrayal, or greatest loss can foment the sheer hatred from which a revenant is born.
There are many methods of twisting the natural order of life and death, each producing their own form of undeath, but few are so intricate or precarious as the binding of a wraith.
Unlike most other undead, Banshees were not once part of the realm of the living. They did not once draw breath, nor were their spirits ever bound by flesh and bone. They are wholly native to the realm of the dead.
The most cunning of mortal spellcasters inevitably seek to extend their lifespan beyond its natural limits, but few have the strength of will to endure the excruciating path to immortality.
Together with the Grand Inquisitor's research, they developed the capacity to create an undead entirely under their control, a construct of interwoven limbs and parts animated by alchemy, a Wight.
All living things know hunger. All that is flesh must consume. But for those who partake of the flesh of their own kind, a door is opened and a ritual begun.