Pride is an eccentric thing. On the one hand it can be the progenitor of evil, the root of sin, and yet conversely it can also be the only thing that keeps a warrior going forward against seemingly insurmountable odds.
The necromancer Virmeal was once advisor and friend to the Nedic high king Durac. Yet when the tempest of the Ra Gada began crashing against the walls of Skyreach, he betrayed him. Before the high king’s council he promised to raise an undead army to repel the invasion, yet instead he slaughtered all, and enslaved their corpses with his necromantic powers. This heinous act alone assured he ascended/descended into lichdom. Without the leadership of their king or council, the Nedes of Skyreach were doomed. Legend has it that it was Durac offering the hand of his daughter to another that provoked the High Elf’s betrayal. But it wasn’t a broken heart that sparked the High Elf’s treachory, rather it was wounded pride.
The necromancer Virmeal, bristling with prejudice and vitriol, motivated solely by pride and arrogance is convinced in his ability to overcome this mortal before him with his necrotic magics, runes and crystals. But when he had thrown the best of his worst at me and I was still standing, his faith in himself wavered, and he began to summon wave upon wicked wave of apparitions to his aid. If I were forced to face the necromancer and two or three ghosts I might have swallowed my pride and retreated. Yet as I stood alone affronting an oncoming horde, my pride had me stand my ground against seemingly insurmountable odds. Pride is eccentric like that.