The Lich Rises
“You call me unclean,” the lich’s voice rasped hollowly in its skull, mingling with the piano music. It played beautifully. “And yet I sit before you, a craft of my own handiwork, using herbs, crystals, and magic plucked from the earth to the destruction and disadvantage of nothing.
“And you stand in armor of bent steel, brass, leather,” the lich did not need to look up to see its adversary. One of the advantages of undeath is, many times, senses disconnected from a body.
“How much pollution went from forge to sky? From tannery to armor maker? You call me unclean and you stand caked in the filth of industry.”
The lich stopped finished its song, turned around, and slowly stood.