The Tip.It Times

Issue 10399gp

Servants of Death

Written by and edited by Tip.It

Slimy filth clung to the perilous vines surrounding the swamp. A bone-chilling wind shrieked out of the hollow trees that were scattered throughout the marsh. Bones of the less fortunate were generously deposited around the battlefield. Somewhere dauntingly near, a large wolf howled into the night. A necromancer stood and muttered to his companions, “It is time.” His fellow necromancers and their skeletal minions spread out in silence, trekking through the murky waters in a futile attempt to organise their numbers. Roots grabbed at their feet, one necromancer falling prey to the devouring swamp and disappearing beneath the surface as his summoned minion screeched into oblivion.

Without warning, the swamp erupted into chaos as wolves tore ferociously through the necromancers’ last pitiful sanctuary. Bear-like monsters jumped out from behind trees, slashing all imposing vines into ribbons with their razor-sharp claws. The largest werewolf took the lead, eyes locked with his first victim. No foreign threat could best him in his element.

For a split second, mage and monster glared at each other, staff and claws raised. They roared in unison, creating a brief ironic harmony before the beast charged at his foe. The necromancer stood his ground, whitened knuckles clutching his staff, and dived to the side just as the werewolf flew past. Within an instant the abomination was back, enraged by his denied kill. He raised an arm for the final strike as a dull throbbing erupted on his head, and he fell senseless to the ground.

A grinning skeleton stood in the beast’s place, bony arms creaking under the weight of the massive battleaxe it held aloft. The necromancer stood shaking from his brush with death, suddenly grateful for all the time he spent bent over ancient tomes in crypts. He stumbled over to the werewolf’s motionless figure and stabbed the beast through the heart with his silver-pronged staff.

Turning to face his comrades, he moaned in despair as he beheld the outcome of the skirmish. Necromancers lay groaning all over the ground, and he watched in horror as the savage beasts of the swamp fell upon the last survivor, tearing him to pieces. The carnivores abruptly became aware of their spectator and dutifully began the death march...

When the sun finally illuminated the scene, there remained no evidence of any manner of conflict. Another battalion of Zamorakians lost to the merciless Mort Myre swamp.

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Tags: Fiction

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