Chapter 0 - Origin (No Sex)

Introductory Chapter, Sex After!

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A twirling dwarven ax landed square in Olo's chest, quickly rending his thin leather armor and sinking into his chest cavity. Blood erupted from the fresh gash and slipped past the young man's lips in a violent torrent. The young man crashed into the grassy terrain below, struggling even to think as sheer pain fried his senses.

As horrible as the spectacle was, the squire's comrades quickly pressed forward, lost in their frantic battles. 

Olo, a young man from the peaceful heartlands of Uthandor, had been slain on his first day of combat. He had lived a humble life as a farmer's son, worked the fields from a young age, and had never felt the tender warmth of a woman, or tasted cold ale for the first time. 

He would die alone here, with little glory to his name and no heir to carry his legacy, in a war that few understood. It was a grim fate that many such as himself had faced, unknown fodder in a realm of might and magic.

Olo took a final glimpse at the smoky sky, watching as a hail of arrows and magic missiles whizzed above. A sunbaked battlefield, filled with the splintered shields and armor of his people, would be the last thing he'd see.

...For one hundred years. 

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Crooked, skeletal fingers wildly dug to the surface, clawing through wet soil to the world above, a mound of bones and armor shifting through worms and dirt. 

The reanimated corpse had snapped into consciousness from eternal darkness, a spark of undead life jostling its long rested body; the process was immensely painful.

"Aah, Yes!" A young man, pale and feeble, shakingly adjusted his round spectacles. He was a pathetic creature, yet magic wisped from his fingertips into the ground below; it was dark magic.

He'd never casted a necromancy spell, as the Council of Spheres had strictly forbidden it. Yet it mattered not, as he was now an exile, an exile who would exact his revenge!

"Rise my minion!" He excitedly squeaked while jumping up and down in his ragged black robes. Yes, this was the first of many, as fallen soldiers of the past littered ancient battlefields such as this. Soon he'd march on the capital and show them his realized power!

The fledgling necromancer had all the material he needed for his dark deeds, or so he thought.

The skeleton's lower jaw loosely dangled as it rose, eye sockets flickering with dim cyan light. The armor it once wore had decayed into the earth over the years; bones only covered in the scraps that remained. 

"M-My minion of the abyss, you now serve--"

"AAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!" The skeleton screamed in a high pitched explosion of sound. Frantically jerking about as it settled into existence once more, if it had muscles or skin, the creature would've made all manner of pained expressions. 

"What? I thought--" The necromancer was confused, reanimated skeletons were supposed to be obedient drones. He was interrupted once more. 

"AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH! BY THE GODS, HELP ME!" Olo wretched in agony, the pain of having his organs and flesh ripped away washed over him in an instant. A century of rot taking its toll on a spirit that once was flesh and blood. Crumbling ruins surrounded him, accompanied by moss-covered piles of stone rubble. 

The fields were barren, more of a muddy mire than anything else, and a strange pipsqueak was fuming in front of him. 

The fledgling necromancer had ultimately failed, breaking the old and cardinal rule of the dark art, binding a soul before resurrecting a vessel. 

Frustrated, the neurotic magician was becoming increasingly flustered by the display. "Hey! I'm t-talking to you! You serve me now. I c-command you!" 

His attempt to silence the outburst was pathetic, only serving to frighten the confused and recently reanimated skeleton. 

Olo had never trusted magicians, and given his current state, this one had sent him into full panic mode. "For Uthandor!" He let out a chattering croak before kicking the robed stranger in the groin. 

The strange man fell to his knees, whimpering pathetically as the bony toes had bruised his testicles. 

"Take that, you... you..." He hesitated for a moment, "Who the hell are you!?"

Gasping, the nameless mage replied, "I w-was an initiate of The C-council..." 

Council?

The skeleton frantically searched about, fearful of an ambush. "Who is The Council?"

The mage had forgotten, he'd resurrected a skeleton from nearly a century's prior. A lot had happened in that time and much of it not long after the vessel's death.

"Ucalanath, The Red Terror, recreated the world in his image. Urging in a golden age of prosperity, uniting those with arcane ability as the dominant people. The Council of Spheres oversees this new paradigm--" 

He had little time to give a history lesson. The necromancer had no clue who this skeleton was, and had to find a way to bind him immediately. 

It was a frightening reveal, as Olo had served the forces of Uthandor in their campaign against the dragon. He wasn't well versed in politics of his time but knew that he had to rise to the occasion against the Red Terror. 

They'd lost. 

The necromancer rose to his feet, "N-Now, let me whisper a single incantation, and I'll return you to the grave. We must be swift, though, lest you become attached to your vessel once again."

"No." Olo shook his skull in disapproval. He was still in shock from the violent revival, but a strange curiosity was growing from within. 

He wanted to live. 

Shocked by the defiance, the necromancer began to recite anyways. He'd simply have to try again with another vessel. 

Olo didn't care and spurred by an unexpected burst of courage, cold-cocked the necromancer in the jaw; rickety joints popped and cracked as his fist made an impact. 

A weak man, the annoying mage slumped to the ground unconscious, knocked out by a goddamn skeleton. 

"Milk drinker." Olo didn't technically have a throat, yet it felt like gravel was in it as he spoke. Every part of his bony figure ached, and he stretched the twisted limbs as he collected himself, noting the shattered ribcage where his chest once was. 

Yes, he'd died here, violently, but now awoken to a different world.

A chilly wind blew across the area, but Olo didn't feel it. He couldn't feel very much at all. Nonetheless, he thought that it was quite strange for a naked skeleton to just wander about the land. 

In truth, what did he know? Much had changed since his demise. 

The skeleton quickly stripped his unconscious redeemer? I think that would be the term?

"Thanks for the clothes." He paused, "and for, ya know, bringing me back to life." They would do well enough, for now, as shabby as they were. 

Before beginning his long, aimless trek, Olo attempted to give the miserable lad a farewell head pat. What a poor sod. He didn't know whether to thank or curse the bastard for bringing him back. Olo felt much like himself, yet unnatural energy flowed through him; what would Ma and Pa think? He was conflicted and had a lot of questions on his brainless mind. 

As the resurrected squire's bony fingers made contact with the mage's forehead, he felt an unnamable and unexpected surge of power course through his cracked body; cyan eyes lit up with intensity. 

Blinding light engulfed the two. 

Olo felt the weakling's mana flow through his corpse, giving him access to the few spells that the initiate had come to know, but such remarkable and unfounded ability was not without a drawback. 

Lost in the amazement of the event, Olo failed to notice that he was draining the necromancer's life force, and without paying attention, he'd killed his captor. 

When the light died down, Olo noticed and muttered, "Oh, shit..."

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