A sinister chuckle escaped Lich's desiccated throat, a sound like dry leaves rustling in a crypt. He lifted his staff, the skull at its head leering in malicious delight. Ominous energy, a sickly green that pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, crackled around the staff's tip before erupting in a wave of dark magic. The air shimmered, and reality itself warped as the Lich wove his dark will.
With a deafening crack, the cavern floor groaned in protest. Jagged fissures snaked across the obsidian, glowing with an unnatural green light. From these fissures, a tide of undeath surged forth. Hundreds of skeletal warriors, their once-proud armor now rusted and pitted, materialized with hollow clangs and rattling chains. These weren't the mindless hordes Maria had faced before. Gleaming runes, etched upon their armor by the Lich's dark arts, pulsed with an unholy light, imbuing them with a semblance of coordinated movement and increased aggression.
