A ceaseless tempest thunders, high winds whirl and pelt beads of rain upon the already soak-darkened jagged rocks, all splintering like horrid spines from the landscape. Grey clouds blanket the sky, flashes of blueish light in the gloomy sprawl signaling the soon arrival of another distant rumble of thunder. A boney hand of pale sapphire energy spirals down from the sky, behind the ghastly silhouette of the lich, his glowing eyes crackling with a similar static. Thin strands of silver hair flow on end in the harsh gales, under a jagged crown hued a similar, yet tarnished silver. a reminder of both power and age, placed upon the flaking, near mummified head of the Ceaseless Tempest himself, Vandroth Nathyrr.

"HAAAAAAAARK!!!" His raspy, inhuman voice booms as always in a shriek. At no one in particular. Just to sound cool, really. With his arms raised as if in offerance to the deathly sky, he presents his horrific majesty. Tethers of arcane lightning sending to the ground off all his form, a thin frame, one not but sinew, bone and skin, likely twice as withered as his garb. Which, speaking of, is a finery whose skirt is perhaps intentionally too long, so as to hide his somewhat embarrassing, five-foot-ten stature under a cloth that makes him appear much taller when hovering in air. A more properly imposing height for a lich.