Once every week or so, I get a message like this from the cloistered high-society of the nigromancers. It’s embarrassing.
I will tell you the same thing now as I’ve told you every other time. I’m not like you; I didn’t build a black library using daddy’s money and raise the bodies donated to me by wealthy benefactors. I didn’t have the gold to construct a vaned tower to harness the stygian currents of magic. I learned my sorcery on the streets, in the necropolis. Down there, it’s kill or be killed, raise or be raised. I’m proud of my roots, and you dusty old fuckers will never know what that means.
Fig 1. Pictured above, the skellington who asked this question. Not pictured, inferior necromancer master.
Do I advertise my liche status for the “respect and adoration” of “pathetic followers?” Absolutely, having a hearty band of followers means never having to ask where the next corpse is coming from. It alleviates so much of the strain of the modern necromancer’s unlife. You’d know all of this if you were living in the same worlds as the rest of us.
Given your reference to your “master,” I take it you’re writing on behalf of some other thaumaturge. Sounds like a powerful necromancer indeed if he’s hiding behind one of his own minions… Look, if you want to throw in with a real liche, just give me a shout and we’ll work something out. I don’t offer any pay, and I may dispell the magics that hold you together at a whim, but at least you’d be in better company.
I’m not afraid of any confrontation with your existing master, we’ll disenchant his phylactery and banish the soul that animates his husk to the netherplane where it belongs.
As to the insinuation that my “kind will get what’s coming to us…” Liche please, I didn’t choose the liche unlife, the liche unlife chose me. This isn’t a limp, it’s my crypt walk.