The Death Mage appeared to be over fifty years old, his complexion as white as a corpse, his body as skeletal as a skull. His eye sockets were deeply sunken, and the murky orbs within constantly shifted, worrying one that they might fall out. Yet the occasional spark of sharpness that shot from his eyes was enough to inspire dread.
The Death Mage's hands were waxen yellow, as if soaked in a caustic solution, with various brown burn marks scattered across the skin, some caused by flames, others by corrosive liquids. His fingernails were black and elongated like those of a zombie, and crammed with dark grime within the crevices, a nauseating sight. Yet it was these hands that were incredibly agile, and at this moment, they were busy manipulating a vast array of bottles and vials on the Stone Table.
