Cang stands, his flesh a withered grey. He seems somehow taller, and though he still doesn’t reach the height of his companions, the vicious purple fangs filling his mouth help the illusion. “You have done me a wonderful favour,” he says, in the sophisticated voice of the lich.
The tools and materials in the smithy begin to quake and tremble, filling the small room with a rattling din.
“Well that wasn’t our intention,” Shyan says. She gestures for Fassn and Abia to get behind her. “Cang, why don’t you just come and relax, hm? We’ll brew you a nice cup of cha.”
“Oh, I’m far beyond your niceties now,” Cang says. His eyes glow purple to match his teeth.
Under her breath, Shyan says to Abia, “Isn’t there something you can do?”
Abia shrugs, her eyes wide.
From outside, they hear the crackle of lightning.