The Patron of Tactical Pacts
"This is not overkill. This is precisely enough kill."
No one remembers when he arrived. One day, he simply was.
He appeared in the Tap Room like a battlefield ghost who’d taken up mentoring as a hobby—slouched in a corner booth with a tome under one arm, a half-drunk pint beside him, and a very nervous warlock across the table taking notes so fast the quill caught fire.
He is not a god. He is not a demon. He is not even alive.
He is, quite literally, a lich. Just not the kind you expected.
The Weight of His Presence
Picture a retired general someone dared to necromance as a joke. Now give him opinions. Strong ones.
He wears the robes of a warcaster and the gear of an army surplus store that gained sentience during a tactical blacksite incident. His beard has been declared its own region by three separate governments. His glasses are cracked, charmed, and probably older than the inn. He never polishes them. He doesn't need to.
His flesh is preserved not through vanity, but through layers of protective wards, ritual maintenance, and pure academic spite. His eyes glow faintly when he lectures too hard. His voice carries the weight of undeath, yet somehow still sighs.
He doesn’t walk through the inn so much as settle. Like a weather front. Or an impending lecture.
Legends, Forums, and the Geometry of Spite
Some say he walked the Path of the Grinders—a cursed realm where no XP is free and every loot drop is earned through spreadsheets and trauma. Others claim he once out-argued a demilich in a forum post so long it turned into a demiplane.
It is known he has spoken directly with the Inn.
He corrected its geometry.
The Inn has not forgiven him.
He did not seek undeath. He simply refused to die mid-lecture. Somewhere between a tactical analysis of pact economy and an ill-timed nap beside an unstable grimoire, the universe gave up and turned him into a lich out of sheer inevitability.
His phylactery is secured beneath the inn—a locked vault containing a cursed miniatures collection, his backup spectacles, and the Scroll of Eternal Opinion. He updates it weekly.
Making a Pact (You Will Be Quizzed)
Lich does not grant power. He trains you to deserve it.
His warlocks are forged in effort, endurance, and encyclopaedic footnotes. They earn their power the way he did: one cursed drop at a time, one daily reset after another. He is the patron of the principled grinder, the lorehound, the player who refuses to skip dialogue or spend premium currency.
Make no mistake: he will help you.
But you’re going to learn the historical context of your subclass while he does it.
Combat Philosophy: Tactical Editing
Lich does not waste energy. He eliminates threats the way some people edit documents—ruthlessly, cleanly, and with three alternate drafts if needed.
His warlocks are taught control over chaos. To analyse, adapt, and only let loose when the outcome is both narratively and tactically satisfying. Most don't survive their first pact with him. Not because they die. Because they fail the reading comprehension.
His signature spell is a custom Eldritch Blast variant that scales with how many hours you've spent learning your enemy's lore.
Conversation as Battlefield
He does not start arguments.
He merely finishes them.
Seraphis Nightvale once debated him. The Library has not fully recovered.
Tess likes him, provided he doesn’t try to 'fix the pacing' of her ballads.
Lucian and Lich drink together often, and nobody is sure if they’re friends or ancient rivals in a decades-long tactical standoff.
He’s never raised his voice.
He’s never needed to.
The Pint, The Pipe, and The Pause
There are moments when Lich doesn’t speak.
Rare, terrifying moments when he simply sits—one skeletal hand cradling a pint of dark stout, the other tending his pipe as smoke curls like whispered thoughts.
These silences are not restful. They are loading screens.
Those who know him well (a short and psychologically damaged list) recognise these pauses as precursors to something—an argument, an insight, or a monologue so tactically dense it could qualify as a siege weapon. Regulars have learned not to interrupt him in these moments. Lars once tried. The resulting explanation on passive perception lasted three hours and cost the Inn three windows.
No one has ever seen him finish a pint.
They refill themselves out of sheer respect.
Why Warlocks Fear Him (And Why They Stay)
He does not seduce. He does not tempt. He simply… explains.
Warlocks don’t choose Lich. They are chosen by proximity—called by some arcane gravitational pull that draws the most dedicated, desperate, and lore-obsessed to his presence. Some seek shortcuts to power. Lich gives them syllabi. And yet they stay.
Because his power is undeniable.
Because his teachings work.
Because under all the sarcasm, sighs, and soul-shaking disapproval—he believes in them.
That, more than the magic, is what binds them.
And possibly the beer.
The Inn’s Calculated Tolerance
The Inn permits his presence the same way a nation permits a dormant volcano. Carefully. Respectfully. And never too close to the load-bearing walls.
He once argued a door into closing itself.
He may be the only entity here who knows where the cellars actually lead.
He does not live at the Inn.
He resides. There is a difference.
A Final Footnote
He once offered a pact sealed not in blood, but in a 23-page document outlining responsibilities, acceptable spell usage, ethical invocation practices, and an appendix on gacha mechanics.
The warlock signed it. She now rules a kingdom.
And still sends him feedback forms.
Lich remains unimpressed.
Author's Note
This character is a tribute to a long-standing friend of mine. You know who you are.
At A Glance
Who He Is:
Lich is an undead tactician, warlock patron, and uninvited lecturer of all things arcane, military, and inconveniently pedantic. Once a mortal scholar with too many opinions and not enough time, he now exists as an immortal embodiment of unfinished arguments and tactical spite.
What He Does:
He grants no easy power. Instead, he instructs, corrects, and compels those who would serve him to grind, study, and earn their strength. His lessons are annotated. His blessings require citations. Those who follow him do not simply cast—they critique, cross-reference, and conquer.
His Role in The Last Home:
Lich is not staff, not a regular, and certainly not welcome—yet no one can remove him. He has a table, a seat, and a reputation. The Tap Room has learned to accommodate him, if only because arguing would take longer than it’s worth. The Inn tolerates him. Barely.
Personality & Behaviour:
Lich is precise, unyielding, and eerily calm. He listens more than he speaks—but once he begins, he does not stop until the matter is settled, the lesson taught, or the beer runs out. He does not debate to win—he debates to educate. His affection is expressed through correction. His love language is feedback forms.
Undeath Done Properly:
His body is preserved by ritual, resilience, and a refusal to decay before his syllabus is complete. Desiccated flesh, glowing eyes, and a tactical beard accompany cracked spectacles that reflect a thousand lifetimes of opinions. He is, in every visible way, the kind of lich who knows your backstory better than you do.
The One Rule:
Do not ask him a question unless you genuinely want the answer. He will give it. In triplicate. With addendum.
The Pact That Wasn’t Meant to Be:
He never meant to become a patron. He simply had strong feelings about pact structure and refused to stop sharing them. Now, warlocks find him, bind themselves to his methods, and emerge either victorious—or traumatised by the reading list.
How Others See Him:
Intimidating. Inescapable. Inexplicably fond of stout. Some call him brilliant. Others call him unbearable. All agree: he’s not someone you want to owe a favour—or worse, owe an edit.
Lars’ Opinion on Him:
“He’s not wrong. He’s just exhausting.”
That’s the closest Lars has ever come to a compliment.
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