A being villagers are calling a lich is stalking the deserts where the weave between worlds wears thin. Yet it is more like a living ceramic doll, the bones baked inside the clay. It withers crops, summons alien horrors, and steals the souls of the old, the sick, and children during the long nights leaving them comatose.
Wraithvine finds hirself frustrated trying to deal with this bizarre threat, but a gruff mercenary wielding a cursed sword who was tracking the lich may be the only way to kill it for good. -- Deathsead419
You could call this place a desert in the middle of nowhere. Certainly, nothing grew there. Nothing rotted either. It was both lifeless and deathless. A lingering scar from one of the most intense phases of the Xenophobia wars. Its existence was one of the many reasons that the gods retreated to the Plane of Boons.
You could also call this place a blasted moor in the middle of everywhere. This was what happened when superior powers opened a rift in realities. Once in a great while, a hero emerges who can do something to at least tone it down a bit.
Once in a greater while, something comes through from something else.
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