A Lich's Lament

((CLOSED TO METAL DRAGO))

A 21 year old Max Dirks sat on a log in a forest arena within the Citadel. Adorned in his trademark attire, a pristine white jumpsuit and a pressed black trench coat, the criminal looked very out of place amongst the flora and fauna of the woods. It was fitting, as this younger, renewed Dirks was a man out of time. The lively woods were an appropriate venue for today's encounter. Dirks sought an old friend, or at least his shell. The warrior Scorpius devoted his life to the spider god, N'jal, and when Lorenor betrayed him, he became an undead lich.

Dirks had no means to contact Scorpius. Instead, he borrowed the magic of the monks to create this arena. Here, the aura of the living was overwhelming. Anyone with sensitivity to life, or a craving to devour it, would certainly feel its pull. Once life in this area was consumed, it would make its diner incredibly powerful; however, in contrast it would also make them crave more of it. Dirks had no such craving, but Scorpius', he hoped, would be impossible to satiate.

Strong life energy radiated out from the forest, almost sickeningly sweet in its purity. Drago couldn't help but grin a little, as his teeth peeked through a hole in his cheek. Such an obvious trap would draw in only the most foolish of undead. Then again, considering his proximity to the area, it seemed likely it was meant for him. The dracolich stepped lightly through the forest, though his cursed steps drained the life force of the surrounding flora and left behind blackened plant matter in its wake.

It wasn't long before he came across who he suspected to be the one who had tempted him here. He frowned and let out a low growl as he said, "Dirks... This is your doing?" He hadn't seen the man in years, since long before he had become an adherrant of the Cult of N'Jal. It was almost amusing that he would be led here now, by this man. A hand hovered above one of the three swords that accompanied the draconic being as he waited for the answer.