Not much is known about nature spirits.

They are separated into five elemental alignments, and it is these alignments that the schools of magic are based on: pyromancy, hydromancy, biomancy, photomancy, and, of course, necromancy. In this aspect, humanity has shamelessly copied nature, as we should.

Being physical manifestations of the the natural world, nature spirits—or magical creatures, as they are otherwise called—embody magic in ways that humans never could. And while the shape of each is unmalleable, together they come in infinite varieties.

Fire spirits usually manifest as dragons; large, airborne reptiles that breathe fire. Water spirits vary in appearance, but their most commonly seen humanoid forms are nymphs and mermaids, women who protect the waters and drag weak-willed sailors to their doom. The spirits of light manifest in strange ways, many times appearing only as flashes in the dark or laughter in the chimney—and they are formless, just like the element they encompass. As for death spirits, we do not have enough data to make meaningful observations; without a death-aligned land to grow on, they are only seldom witnessed in graveyards or bloody battle sites.

But the ones most commonly encountered around these parts, due to pure geography, are earth spirits. These can appear as golems or animals, giants or dwarves. In human form, they usually resemble hardy men, strong and stubborn, like the mountaintops that constantly survey the progress of mankind.

The strength of spirits varies greatly between specimens, with the weakest at the level of insects and the strongest as beings that even I, for all my undead armies and expertise in the domain of the soul, would never stand a chance against.

Yet, it is these that fascinate me most, and the ones that provide the most useful soldiers. Without nature spirits, I fear our world would be much more mundane.

- From the personal notes of Ozborne the Cursed

“Your house is odd.”

Jericho walked into Jerry’s tower without a care in the world, looking around. He carried an air of confidence, as if this was his house, but it wasn’t like Jerry could blame him; the man had thrown Axehand a few dozen feet through the air. If he wanted this tower, he could probably take it.

“Yeah, it’s a guard tower,” said the necromancer, walking beside the bandit leader. A fitting duo, if the necromancer wasn’t such a good guy.

“Ah, that’s why.” Jericho cupped his chin. “I knew there used to be a guard tower around here. I thought we’d demolished that, but it was just abandoned.”

“Well, not quite. A squad of Billy soldiers came by a few days ago and wanted back in. I told them no. Well, Boney said it, but same thing. They said they’ll return with their superior, but… I just hope they don’t. If this tower really is theirs, I will have to move out, and that will be a shame.”

“Why not just kill them?” The bandit raised a brow as they began climbing the stairs.

“Why would I? They didn’t do anything bad. It was I who took over their tower.”

Jericho paused, turning his head to look at the necromancer. “You are a weird one,” he said.

“I know.”

“Do you mind if I ask an intrusive question?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Are you retarded?”

Jerry blinked in surprise, opened his mouth to reply, then thought better about it.

Am I retarded? he asked himself. Well, I did spend fifteen years being practically semi-conscious. That is bound to have some effect, though… Hmm. Nah.

“Probably not,” he replied honestly. “Why?”

“Curiosity.”

They reached the third floor, where a silent hearth stood among a few chairs. Jericho moved towards Jerry’s heavenly soft chair.

“That is my chair,” noted the necromancer.

“Yes,” replied Jericho, placing his fat ass down precisely in the middle of Jerry’s chair. It creaked under the weight.

By this point, Jerry was beginning to feel annoyed. Attacking someone’s house and temporarily destroying their undead was fine, but stealing their favorite chair? That was a whole new level of evil!

Sighing, he took another seat. It lacked the same heavenly fluffiness he’d gotten used to having under his buttocks, but oh well, it’s not every day you get to have an evil bandit overlord in your house. Concessions had to be made.

“So,” began the chair-stealing villain, “you are a necromancer. Do you have a name too?”

“I do,” said Jerry. “I’m Jerry. Jerry Goodguy.”

“Seriously?”

“Very.”

“By Gaia and all the other Gods…” Jericho leaned forward, grabbing his face. He rose back up with a sigh. “I am Jericho Earthsong, Jericho the Green, leader of the Greenskin bandits. I am also an earth spirit and nigh invincible, and I enjoy concise conversations. Now, with the introductions over—”

“A moment, please,” Jerry interrupted. “Hearing your introduction, it seems I missed some parts. I am Jerry Goodguy, formerly called Shoeson, necromancer and shoemaker. I am also not at all invincible and enjoy sitting on fluffy chairs.”

Jericho looked down, at the fluffy chair underneath him. “Are you mocking me?” he asked.

“No.”

A heavy glare fell on Jerry. Jericho clearly debated killing him on the spot, and Jerry was fine with it. What was life without its little pleasures, like sitting on fluffy chairs or mocking the people who temporarily steal your fluffy chairs? Some things were worth risking death.

And besides, Jerry got the distinct impression that things would work out.

The bandit leader eventually elected not to obliterate his companion.

“I am not a very patient man.” he said, leaning back and bringing his fingers together in front of him. “Now, you see, Jerry, I am in a bit of a pinch. On one hand,” he opened a hand, “you are a necromancer. An incredibly valuable asset, potentially. If your allegiances are properly set, you could increase my influence manyfold.”

“On the other hand,” he opened his other hand, “you have killed several of my men and are uncooperative. You are also a potential threat because you seem just stupid enough to cross me. And now comes the question; should I kill you, or try to recruit you? What do you think, Jerry?”

“That’s a tough one. I don’t suppose that leaving me alone is an option?”

“It is not.”

“Hmm. Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t kill me. I can make very nice shoes, which you seem to be in dire need of.”

“I am not, and I believe you are missing the point.” Jericho sighed, turning to the ceiling. “Oh Gaia, I finally meet such an asset and you make him dumb as a brick?”

Jerry did not feel particularly dumb—or particularly retarded, for that matter—but he suspected that this was not the best time to bring it up. Considering Jerry dumb seemed to increase Jericho’s patience reserves, for some reason, which was good. If an earth spirit decided to go amok inside his tower, that would be terribly inconvenient and equally deadly.

“Look.” The bandit leaned forward, his emerald eyes approaching Jerry’s. They were bright, his eyes, and incredibly piercing. Jerry felt as if he was staring at the heart of a dense, lively forest. There was thinly-veiled danger too, like a hiding tiger about to pounce, which wasn’t too far off from the truth.

“I want you to join me. What is it you want? Women? I can give them to you. You don’t have to be lonely in this god-forsaken middle of nowhere. Money? I can give you that too. My coffers are full. Food? Booze? Power? Influence? Living men to command? I can give you everything you want. All you have to do is ask.”

Jericho’s voice rose, filled with promises of power and riches untold. Filled with magic. A vision spread in front of Jerry’s eyes, replacing reality; he, sitting on a golden throne, with scantily-clad women tending to his every need and hard-eyed men waiting on his orders.

But Jericho did not understand Jerry.

He blinked, escaping the vision as quickly as possible. Jerry did not care about authority or women, and moreover, who would ever want to sit on a golden throne? His own fluffy chair was much more comfortable. If Jericho simply offered to stand up, then he might actually give the matter some thought.

But Jericho did not do that. He only offered hard, inconvenient places to sit on. Hardly a tempting deal.

“That’s sweet and all, but you’re bandits, right?” he asked. “Doesn’t that include killing, robbing, and pillaging?”

“Among other things, yes.” Jericho leaned back, narrowing his eyes. The ease with which Jerry overcame the vision had put him on guard.

“Well, I don’t want to do that. I want to sell people shoes, not steal the ones they already have. I want to build axe-handed brutes to use as lumberjacks, not executioners. This is such a beautiful world… I don’t want to see people crying. I want to see them laughing!”

Jericho, apparently, did not share the sentiment. He only frowned and stared at Jerry, who briefly wondered whether he was going to die. Not that he minded overmuch; death was something to be avoided, if possible, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Obviously.

“You…” said Jericho, his words slow and thoughtful, “confuse me. And amuse me too, in equal parts.”

Jerry considered asking for that vision magic Jericho had used before. If he could learn it, then perhaps he could get his point across more easily the next time.

Yes, I can picture it now. Hundreds of smiling people seated on fluffy chairs, wearing sparkly, brand new shoes. What a nice image.

Silence fell for a few moments, both men sunk in their own thoughts.

“I will tell you what, Jerry.” Jericho tapped his finger on the armrest. “Winter is coming, and then it will be spring in roughly three months from now. That is the deadline I will give you. Until the snow begins to melt.”

Jerry listened with rapt attention. He was not going to die, then. That was good.

“By that time, you must decide between two choices; submit to me or die. There is nothing else. If you choose to submit, I will give you everything you have ever wished for. If not, then well… However, if you want to live, you must also prove your worth to me. The display I saw today was honestly pathetic.”

“Oh?” Jerry’s eyes widened.

“It was humiliating. Necromancers should not be as weak as you are. Where is your army of undead? Where are the wraiths and ghouls that make up your personal guard? Where is the skeletal dragon you are supposed to ride? As is, you could be defeated by a random Milarisian garrison, and that speaks volumes of your determination. I have no use for such weak subordinates.”

“Oh,” Jerry said again.

“When the snows melt, I will return. By that time, you must have built an undead army I will be satisfied with, or at least something not entirely disappointing,” Jericho spoke patronizingly. “Your mental condition is no excuse for weakness. I honestly don’t care. If you have that army, and you are willing, then you can join me, and together we will build a bright future. Otherwise, you will be tortured until you reveal all the secrets of your magic, and then your corpse will be hung from my roof as an example. Am I clear, Jerry?”

“Very,” replied the necromancer, though he thought the torture could be skipped. If Jericho wanted to know Jerry’s secrets of necromancy, he just had to ask. Knowledge is to be shared, after all—not that Jerry had any particularly bright nuggets of wisdom to give.

“Good,” said Jericho, standing up. Jerry’s eyes saw heaven; the fluffy chair was once again vacant. It was at that moment that Boney arrived, holding a tray with a teapot and two steaming cups.

“Your tea, sirs,” he said curtly. Wordlessly, Jericho grabbed one cup. Jerry tried to say something.

“That is—”

Before he could finish, Jericho downed the cup of boiling hot tea without revealing the slightest hint of displeasure. Jerry cringed at the sight, while Boney’s jaw was left hanging.

“You were saying?” said Jericho as he gently placed the cup back on the tray, his voice perfectly normal.

“Nevermind.”

If the chair thief wanted to clean his bowels that badly, well, it wasn’t Jerry’s job to stop him.

But does the tea work on earth spirits, I wonder?

Too bad Jerry wouldn’t be there to find out. Perhaps he could ask him when the snows melted.

“Then that is all,” said Jericho, heading for the stairs. Jerry followed, gazing longingly at his chair. The time will come, he promised it.

They exited the tower, Jericho walking ahead with Jerry and Boney in tow. The undead were still there, glaring down the band of bandits who were making a point not to stare back.

“Men,” barked Jericho. “On your feet. Carry the wounded, leave the dead. We’re out of here.”

They perked up, moving to grab those who couldn’t walk by themselves. Brad, the acting vice-leader, approached Jericho. “Sir, if I may, what about—”

“You may not. Since when do failures get to speak?”

Brad’s eyes shook as he bowed curtly. “Yes sir.”

“Oh, and Jerry,” said Jericho, turning back right as they were about to leave. “If this tower has Milarisian guards in it when I return, I will kill them, you, and everything you love. Understood?”

“Understood.” Jerry nodded.

“Very well, then. May the Wall hold, Jerry—though I suspect you wouldn’t mind the opposite.”

With that, the bandits took off and disappeared from view and from Jerry’s life for the next few months.

“Master…” Boney said carefully.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Boney?”

“I… highly doubt that, master.”

“First, we must revive Shorty. Seeing him like that… pains me greatly,” said Jerry, his eyes rife with sadness. “And then, of course, we should drink that tea before it goes cold.”

“I regret being reborn,” Boney lamented as he followed. Meanwhile, the other undead also gathered around Shorty, their still-developing minds aching for the loss of one of them. Even after getting reborn, Shorty’s previous memories would be wiped out and he’d have to start from zero.

Jerry raised his arms, sending a flood of magic into Shorty’s remains. And nothing happened.