Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

Auhtor's note: I think overdid Erik's lines at the end a bit, but he's a skald (viking for something like warrior poet) and I figured he needed to be a bit poetic, and well, theatric, from time to time.

...

Serana watched Kaiden and the line of weary prisoners slowly fade into the distant snowy horizon, a thin shiver of movement against the bleakness of the landscape. When their silhouettes finally vanished from view, she turned to Erik with a raised eyebrow, arms crossed against the cold.

"Well, that didn't take long," she remarked dryly. "The righteous 'anger' you were burning with just disappeared the moment they left, didn't it?"

Erik chuckled, a low, mirthless sound that floated into the stillness. "Anger is a mask, one that I shed as easily as this," he replied, reaching up and lifting Rahgot's ancient mask from his face. Beneath it, his expression was calm, composed, almost indifferent.

Serana noted the unsettling detachment in his gaze and tilted her head, studying him. "So… that was all for show?" she asked, her tone curious rather than surprised.

Erik shrugged, his eyes drifting over the empty, snowbound courtyard. "I haven't truly felt anger in a long time. Maybe I feel irritation now and then—at foolishness or unfounded arrogance. But anger, fear... they're relics of a different life."

He glanced down at Rahgot's mask in his hand, his fingers tracing the deep grooves carved by time. "It's a mask, one among many that I must wear to appear more human than I am..."

He paused, the silence stretching between them. He didn't elaborate on how he'd become this way, but Serana could tell there was more to it than he let on.

Ever since the failed ritual that had left him with Erik Deathsong's memories—thousands of years of life condensed into one mind—his emotions seemed dulled, certain things almost muted within him. Fear, anger, even joy… they were present, but distant, as if experienced through glass.

Erik's eyes, pale and intense, met Serana's, and a faint smile curved his lips. "Kaiden saw the power I could wield, the ruthlessness, the cruelty," he said softly. "But power alone doesn't lead. It intimidates, it frightens, but it doesn't inspire. He needed to see something different today… my anger, not for myself, but for others. My strength, not just as a weapon, but as a shield."

He glanced toward the distant horizon, where Kaiden and the prisoners were now no more than shadows in memory. "People, unlike vampires, don't follow power alone. They follow purpose. They follow conviction. Kaiden… he's no different."

Serana raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the turn of his thoughts. "So, what is it, then? This 'conviction' you carry around like a shield? You clearly didn't give them so much money for travel expenses and even promised to provide them work out of the goodness of your heart..."

Erik gave a casual shrug, his eyes tracing the path the freed prisoners had taken. "Kaiden aside, those prisoners aren't completely useless. Many of them were warriors, mercenaries—people accustomed to hardship. And with the Thalmor dogging their steps... well, they won't need much convincing to follow a new cause."

Serana let out a small sigh, crossing her arms as she watched him with a calculating gaze. "Winning them over is easy enough—show them a touch of kindness, and they're yours. But you did more than show a bit of kindness, Erik. You freed them, gave them a direction, a reason to keep fighting," she said, her tone carrying a note of curiosity. "So, tell me—what do you plan to do with them?"

Erik's mouth curved into a slow, satisfied smile, a spark of ambition lighting his eyes. "I've already mapped out their path," he replied smoothly. "They'll make their way to Morthal first, where my housecarl can help any weary souls settle. They've had enough bloodshed; no need to force them into more of it if they don't wish to fight."

Serana raised an eyebrow, both intrigued and a little skeptical. "And for those who do still wish to fight?"

Erik's smile widened, a flicker of calculation sharpening his gaze. "They'll go to Riften. I own a significant stake in the mines there. My gold will fund a new beginning for them—a mercenary company led by Kaiden himself." He let the words hang, letting Serana consider the implications. "They'll build their strength under his command, growing in number and experience. And when I call on them, they'll answer."

Serana studied him, her expression neutral yet observant. "So, it's not just power you're after," she murmured. "It's a foundation—a network."

Erik nodded, clearly pleased she understood his intentions. "Precisely. Riften's in need of... structure, something more disciplined than the chaotic cutthroats running loose. With Kaiden leading them, the mercenaries will gain purpose and unity, serving as both shield and sword for my aims."

She arched an eyebrow. "You've certainly thought this through. I suppose that also includes restoring your ancestral fort... the one you told me about?"

"Indeed," he replied, a glint of anticipation in his eye. "My clan's old stronghold, Snowhawk Fort, is still standing, though barely. It needs more than skeletons if I'm to turn it into a true stronghold of power and influence. Once it's restored, it will be a source of wealth... and it will be home to those of the prisoners who are weary of fighting..."

She observed him in silence for a long moment, her curiosity mingled with a faint trace of admiration. "And Kaiden? What did he make of all this… generosity?"

Erik chuckled softly. "Kaiden's wary of me, of course. But he's also grateful. He sees what I've done for the prisoners, and while he may question my motives, he knows I'm giving them—and him—a chance they never would have had otherwise."

Serana's brow furrowed as she looked out over the snow-dusted yard, observing Erik's meticulous planning with a wary skepticism. "It seems you've accounted for almost everything," she murmured, "but what about the Thalmor? They're not ones to simply forget their prisoners, much less allow Kaiden and the others to walk away so easily. They'll be hunted."

A sly grin tugged at the corner of Erik's mouth. He chuckled darkly, casting her an amused look. "Ah, that's the easiest part," he replied. "Just watch."

With a snap of his fingers, a host of figures appeared out of the shadows, summoned to his side as if answering an ancient call. Surtr, the towering flaming skeleton, Helrath, the death knight, and a line of twenty skeletal warriors emerged, each of them kneeling in unison before him, their ghastly forms exuding an eerie aura that shimmered against the snow.

Erik snapped his fingers again, and in a flash of dark energy, a mound of items materialized beside him.

Potent alchemical ingredients—glowing sprigs of deathbell, crimson nirnroot, black soul gems—scattered at his feet, alongside skulls from all manner of beasts and men, some cracked and others still bearing traces of flesh.

"Get to work," he commanded, his tone authoritative yet cool, while mentally sending a series of instructions to his undead servants.

At once, the skeletons began to move, their hollow eye sockets flaring with faint magical embers as they took to their tasks with mechanical precision.

Serana, intrigued but still puzzled, crossed her arms and raised a brow. "What exactly is all this about?"

Erik waved a dismissive hand, his eyes gleaming with something darkly gleeful. "Just be patient, and you'll see."

The skeletal soldiers moved with quiet efficiency, dragging the Thalmor corpses strewn around the yard and stacking them in the center, their gauntleted hands grasping flesh and armor alike with a cold indifference.

Meanwhile, several skeletons gathered Erik's collection of soul gems, scattering them strategically throughout Northwatch Keep—some buried just beneath the frozen ground, others stashed in hidden alcoves and darkened corners of the keep, where their latent energies would remain dormant but powerful, amplifying the aura of dread Erik intended to create.

Those tasked with alchemy meticulously ground down the more exotic ingredients into fine, pale powders. Deathbell, frost salts, bone meal—each substance became a whispering dust mixed with Thalmor blood, brought to Erik's hand as he began crafting intricate circles and sigils across the yard.

He painted them on the ground, smeared them along the stone walls, and even traced patterns up the wooden beams, each line radiating with dark, old magic.

While the skeletons worked, Surtur and Helrath disappeared into the keep's shadowy halls, returning moments later carrying a thick, charred wooden pole. At its center, the skeletal remains of the prison's warden clung to it, interwoven with the wood as though the man had been consumed by it.

His robes—tattered and soaked in his own blood—draped around the pole, his hands twisted and bound to it, while his bloody skull sat at the top like a grim crown. It was a grotesque totem, a warning as much as it was the heart of the ancient spell Erik was about to cast.

With slow, deliberate steps, Erik took the totem from Surtur and planted it in the center of the courtyard, anchoring it firmly into the frozen ground. The Thalmor warden's hollow skull stared down, an eternal scream frozen in its empty sockets.

Serana's eyes lingered on the totem, and an unreadable expression flickered over her face. "This… it's not just a deterrent, is it?" she asked, a trace of wary fascination in her voice.

Erik's lips curved into a satisfied smirk as he placed his hand on the cold, blackened wood of the totem. "A deterrent, yes," he murmured, "but far more than that."

As he channeled his magicka into the totem, a wave of arcane energy shot outward, fanning across the ground in an explosive ripple. The closest magic circles flared to life, glowing fiercely as they drew in the magicka, amplifying and strengthening it.

Tendrils of power surged through the keep, lighting up one soul gem after another, each one pulsing in rhythm like an eerie heartbeat.

From the soul gems, the energy arced back into the outer circles, binding them into a cohesive web of dark magic that crisscrossed the keep in a dense, intricate design.

The skull at the top of the totem burned with an unnatural green light, illuminating the courtyard with a sickly glow, and from within its hollow eye sockets, a thick, putrid fog began to seep, coiling and spreading like a living shadow across the keep's walls and over the corpses littering the ground.

Erik took a step back, his eyes gleaming with excitement, the shadows playing across his face as he raised his hands theatrically, his voice a commanding echo that cut through the fog. "Arise!"

At his command, the corpses of the fallen Thalmor soldiers trembled, their bodies contorting grotesquely as they were pulled back into a twisted semblance of life. The once-proud elves now moved like puppets, their limbs stiff yet unnaturally strong, their eyes empty, but smoldering with green flames that mirrored the light from the totem.

Their expressions were masks of horror, forever frozen in the twisted agony of their last moments, and as they staggered forward, a strange reverence seemed to overcome them.

"And worship!" Erik's voice resonated with a dark authority, and as if compelled by his words, the risen Thalmor undead turned their attention to the base of the totem.

Moving as one, they shambled forward, positioning themselves around the totem in a silent, reverent circle, each one dropping to its knees and bowing, their heads pressed to the cold, hard ground.

In response, the totem shone even brighter, the green light intensifying until it cast long shadows that danced across the walls.

Then, from the ground behind the totem, the thick, sprawling heap of bones—drawn from Erik's private stash in Snowhawk Fortress—began to tremble, like something alive was buried within it, eager to break free. The skeletal remains shifted and clattered, bones sliding and snapping together as if an unseen hand was molding them into shape.

With a deep, rumbling groan, a massive bone goliath began to emerge, piecing itself together bit by bit, its colossal form towering over the kneeling undead. Its skull bore a jagged crack, and its eye sockets glowed with the same unsettling green light, giving it a twisted, predatory intelligence. Its spine and limbs were reinforced with overlapping layers of ribs and femurs, forming a crude yet menacing armor.

Once fully assembled, it loomed over the courtyard, a grotesque behemoth of skeletal power, its hollow gaze sweeping across the landscape.

And then another goliath rose, and a third, each one larger than the last, a legion of titanic sentinels bound to Erik's will. They moved into position, standing guard over the totem, a wall of unbreakable bone and enchanted stone.

Serana watched with a strange mixture of horror and fascination as the eerie display unfolded. She couldn't deny the raw power of Erik's magic, but even to someone as accustomed to the dark arts as she, the spectacle was chilling.

"What... are you building here?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as though fearing to disturb the reverent silence that had fallen over the undead.

Erik let out a slow, measured breath, his gaze fixed on the flickering lights that cast an eerie glow over his creations, animating them with an almost grotesque semblance of life. "A bastion," he murmured, his tone reverent yet edged with a chilling satisfaction. "A roaring bonfire that will lure the Thalmor like moths, each one drawn to the flames of their undoing..."

He extended a hand toward the prostrating undead and the towering bone goliaths, the spectral fires in their hollow eyes mirroring his own dark intentions.

His voice dropped to a near whisper, yet it carried through the silent ranks with a weight that even the dead seemed to heed. "Their wings will burn," he intoned, his words like a spell, low and fervent, "and yet they will not stop, relentless, driven by the shame of defeat and their own arrogance. They will throw themselves into the flames until they, too, are turned into fuel for my flames..."

Erik's eyes gleamed as he looked over his growing army, his jaw set with the fierce satisfaction of a conqueror who had laid claim to death itself. "This keep will be a place where the arrogance of the elves meets the patience of the dead," he said, a dark smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "They will find no redemption of honor here no matter how they seek it. Only despair."

...

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