Issue # 11 December 2011
Angela Hinkle
DIE! (continued)

Who
knows
what lurks
in wait there,
using symbols of
a deceased wizarding master?
As their mounts approach, skeletal hands shred the dank earth
reaching from their sleep for the brave heroes' steeds, hungry to feed on the cold, black panic.

Blunt weapons are ripped from sheaths specially designed and skulls shatter, scattering shrapnel.
Moving through a crumbling stone portal, barely standing,
zombie hordes shamble forth slowly.
The priest advances,
symbol out,
turning.
Ashes.
Dust.

A
chill
creeps up
their young spines,
signaling the wraiths
ready to steal their very souls.
Crimson beacons burn bright from the shadows of their forms,
their deadly lights extinguished by elven-enchanted blades glowing faintly in the gloom.

Entering the master's chambers, the adventurers find the lich, rotting and corrupt
fingering the young damsel's cheeks with human-like lust,
his intelligence as present
as ever inside
his rotted
withered
flesh
suit.

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