Lich for Hire

It really wasn't Ambrose's fault for going back on his word. As a lich, he had to commit the occasional act of evil to stay true to his nature. Otherwise, with paladins kneeling and bowing to him all day, what kind of undead would he be? What would his fellow undead think?

For most undead, perfectly reading the memories of an extracted soul was nearly impossible.

Souls were fragile. The clash between control and resistance would damage any soul. That was why most undead were dull-witted and slow: fragmented souls meant fragmented minds.

Only those who willingly became undead could retain most of their reason.

But Ambrose was different. His ability to fabricate souls meant he could forcibly construct one from scratch. After years of research, his understanding of souls far surpassed that of ordinary mages.

The goblin's soul was drawn out and unraveled into threads in his hands. Its memories clung to those strands, nothing omitted.

"Let's see… hunting, eating, sleeping, eating, eating, eating… Are you nothing but a stomach? Ah, that poor bard… Wait, not even the tree hollow was spared…"

He sifted through the goblin's memories one strand at a time. Most of it was meaningless repetition: eating, sleeping, filth. The rest was revolting beyond measure.

One by one, the soul-threads snapped and dissolved into starlight. After skipping the useless portions, Ambrose finally found what he needed. Unfortunately, the information left him troubled.