The First Lich

‘In the darkest of nights, a painter sat alone in his workshop. He looked upon his unfinished work with only regret. He was old now – weak and feeble. He had sacrificed everything for his masterpiece, but the ferryman called him now. He was too weak to continue, he had failed to assure his legacy. He wept, as his eyes closed, for none would remember him.

A shadow flew through the workshop as the elderly painter died.

It soon opened its eyes and stood – its brush already moving. The thing that was once elderly was unhindered by the decrepit body. The painter moved with his soul. This was to be his masterpiece – his immortal legacy. The painter moved with conviction for he had only been given one night.

As dawn came, he dropped his brush, and was awed by his own work. Standing tall before the painter was a landscape so real that it pulled at the soul. Rolling hills gave way to mountains, soft clouds floated above a small pond. From within the pond a blue swan flew, as if to greet the viewer. The longer one looked – the more enraptured you’d become.

The painter’s strength faded, he fell more than sat, back unto his chair. He smiled, content, knowing his immortality was assured. As he left, he knew he would return, for his soul – his legacy – was all within his painting.’