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.
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. As the soul of one so aggrieved leaves its body upon death, it is drawn into the realm of the dead along with so many thousand others. But while the hordes of deceased drift deeper into the dark, the revenant’s soul rebels. The outrage of what it suffered in life turns it against the flow of the others, and hatred drives it back the way it came. Ripping and tearing, it forces its way through the dead, every step won by utter brutality.
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. Yet even before written word, when history was passed down through oral tradition, there were tales of blood-drinking shapeshifters, monsters that wore the form of men as easily as the form of beasts. Across time, men warred against vampires with varying success, striking by day when their powers were weakened, and hiding within fortifications or magical wards by night. But with the rise of Deadhaus, these battles shifted in favor of the vampires, and the war became a massacre.
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. For the act of cannibalism is an invitation to a ravenous spirit that covets the flesh. It is known by many names to many peoples, but its purpose is always the same, to inhabit the flesh so that it may consume.
Each cannibalistic meal widens the door for this spirit, allowing more of it to pass into the host, twisting its body as it does. The bones of the host are warped and elongated; jaws widen and jagged teeth burst forth, shredding the lips and knocking the original teeth free to be swallowed in insatiable hunger. The spine is curved so that the host must crawl instead of walk, and claws puncture the toes and fingertips, as suited for digging as for rending flesh and bone. The more human flesh is consumed, the more the host is reshaped, until it begins to crave this meal above all others. Its hair falls out in clumps. Its eyes, sunken and yellowed, open to the dark. Its nose can detect the scent of flesh, even buried deep underground, and still the hunger grows, maddening, all-consuming, until the host knows little else.