Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

Striding across the creaking wooden bridge toward Morthal, Erik's mind wandered back to the loot he had claimed from Movarth's lair after the battle. Geri trotted behind him, occasionally pausing to sniff at the rotting logs or gaze curiously at the mist-covered marshlands. The grim remnants of Movarth's lair weighed on Erik's thoughts, though it was not the sight of the bloodied table or the scattered thralls that lingered, but the spoils of the vampire's hoard.

Aside from a motley assortment of soul gems—some black, some standard—there had been only one item truly worthy of note: an ancient Ayleid crown. It was a masterpiece of lost craftsmanship, its design as intricate as it was foreign.

Though Erik could sense no inherent magical power within it, the metal it was crafted from was exceptionally receptive to enchantments. Its ornate shape gleamed with a dull, cold light in the depths of the cave, but it was far more than mere decoration. The potential it held for enhancement was immense, and Erik already had several ideas in mind for its use.

Then, there was Movarth himself, or rather, what remained of him. The vampire had disintegrated into a fine, shimmering dust upon death, leaving behind a pile of ancient vampire remains. Erik had carefully collected every speck, not allowing even the slightest grain to slip through his fingers. Unlike the regular vampire dust he had by the kilo back in Snowhawk Fortress, this was something altogether rarer—ancient vampire dust.

Its potency was unmatched, useful in rituals, alchemy, and enchantments. Even the original Erik Deathsong, the master necromancer whose memories and skills he now possessed, would have valued it highly.

There had been gold too, plenty of it. Weapons and gems worth no less than ten thousand septims combined littered the chamber. But Erik had left those behind. Gold had long since lost its value to him. The vast wealth accumulated by the old Erik over two millennia was more than enough, and Erik found himself caring little for material riches. Power, knowledge, and rare reagents held more worth now.

As he continued his steady pace toward Morthal, the sound of a young girl's voice broke through his reverie. She was talking excitedly, her words tumbling over each other as she discussed something with great enthusiasm.

"I just know I'll get it right this time! Last time, I nearly set the roof on fire, but this time I'll make the flames blue, just like you showed me!" the girl exclaimed, her high-pitched voice cutting through the morning fog.

Erik turned his head slightly, his gaze falling upon the small figure of a girl walking beside someone he recognized instantly—Falion, the town's resident mage. The girl was practically skipping alongside him, her hands moving animatedly as she spoke. Falion, ever the calm teacher, nodded patiently, offering a few quiet words in return.

"I have no doubt you'll do better," Falion replied, his voice even and measured. "But remember, control is the key. It's not enough to create the fire; you must guide it. Magic is a tool, and you must be the master, not its servant."

The girl—an orphan, if Erik recalled correctly—listened intently, her wide eyes shining with a mixture of wonder and determination. Falion had taken her in, teaching her the basics of magic. Erik had seen them around town before, though the girl's name escaped him. She was one of the many lost children in Morthal, a town where tragedy and isolation seemed to breed in the mist.

As Erik observed the pair, his expression remained impassive, a cool mask that betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

Now, watching the mage and his young student, a small, insignificant part of Erik felt... something. Perhaps it was a flicker of satisfaction at his decision to spare Fallion, or maybe it was simply the rarely-seen sunny weather in Morthal. Regardless, he kept his gaze steady as he turned and continued toward the Jarl's longhouse.

The fog thickened as he approached the heart of the town, shrouding the longhouse in an eerie stillness. The torches flickered weakly in the damp air, and the soft murmur of townsfolk could be heard behind closed doors. Geri padded along beside him, the corgi's ears perked up, but its usual playfulness was tempered by the somber atmosphere.

He paused at the entrance to the longhouse, looking back over his shoulder. Falion and the girl were now out of sight, their voices fading into the distance. Erik's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he turned back, pushing open the heavy doors of the Jarl's longhouse.

...

Standing before Jarl Idgrod, Erik dipped his head in a casual greeting, his demeanor confident and relaxed. The Jarl sat on her throne, her sharp eyes studying him with quiet curiosity. Beside her stood her husband and her Huscarl, both of whom frowned at Erik's appearance, their skepticism palpable in the air.

"Stranger," Idgrod began, her voice measured, though there was a hint of amusement in her tone. "What brings you here? I assume you're not here to ask for help with the vampires, are you?" She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued.

Erik smiled, his expression easy. "The offer is appreciated, Jarl, but unnecessary," he replied. "The vampire coven, along with their master, has been slain. I'm only here to claim my reward, as agreed."

The skepticism on her husband's face deepened, and the Huscarl crossed his arms, clearly doubtful of Erik's claim. Idgrod, however, remained calm, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him further. She tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the armrest of her throne.

"That was... rather expedient," she said, her voice devoid of suspicion, yet her words still carried an undertone of disbelief.

Erik shrugged nonchalantly, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I would've brought Movarth's head for proof, but unfortunately, he turned to dust. Vampires tend to do that."

He chuckled lightly before adding, "That said, you can send someone to Alva's house. There's a cellar there with a coffin and a journal inside—enough evidence of the vampires' existence."

He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in before continuing, "And as for proof of my work, you can send a few people to Movarth's lair, a cave northeast of Morthal. It's... well, let's say, a lot quieter now. I'd advise doing it soon if you intend to claim the vampire's riches. Wouldn't want some bandits or curious wanderers stumbling across it before you do."

Idgrod's fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest again, her gaze thoughtful. "Movarth was an ancient vampire," she mused, her eyes locking onto Erik's. "I imagine his hoard isn't just a few measly septims. Are you saying you left all of that behind?"

Erik waved his hand dismissively, his grin widening. "I'm only interested in the reward we agreed on, Jarl. Gold and shiny trinkets have little use for me." He took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with humor. "Consider it a personal investment in the town. Morthal could certainly use it more than I could."

Idgrod allowed a small smile to tug at her lips, her fingers ceasing their rhythmic tapping. "A generous offering, to be sure. I will thank you in advance in my people's stead," she said quietly, before gesturing toward her husband and Huscarl, who still looked unconvinced.

Erik watched as the Jarl's Huscarl gave a brief nod to Idgrod before striding quickly toward the exit. The man was clearly intent on verifying Erik's claims, likely heading first to Alva's house, then to Movarth's lair.

He prepared to take his leave, content to wait for the confirmation of his work before collecting his reward. However, he paused mid-step as Idgrod's voice cut through the quiet hall.

"I must say," she began, her tone laced with curiosity, "I'm quite intrigued by your request to take ownership of Snowhawk Fortress. An undead-infested ruin... one would think there are better properties to claim."

Erik raised an eyebrow at the sudden question. He hadn't expected the Jarl to take such interest in his motives. Nonetheless, he answered smoothly, choosing his words with care. "Though I may seem nothing more than a nameless wanderer, Jarl, my lineage is ancient, rooted deeply in the soil of Hjalmarch. My ancestors belonged to a tribe that once called the lands where Snowhawk Fortress stands their home in the late first era."

It wasn't entirely a lie. The old Erik Deathsong had indeed been born to a clan that inhabited these very lands. His decision to reclaim Snowhawk Fortress had always been tied to that ancient connection—albeit more out of sentimentality than practicality.

Idgrod's lips curled into a rare smile, the expression making her weathered face appear almost youthful for a moment. "So, you seek to reclaim your ancestral lands? A noble endeavor, to honor those who came before you."

Erik shrugged, allowing a faint grin to tug at his own mouth. "That's part of it," he admitted. "But nostalgia only takes you so far. You can't live on memories alone."

He paused for a brief moment, watching her keen eyes track his every word. "The fort happens to be strategically located on the only functioning road that connects Morthal to Solitude directly. As it stands, people avoid it because of the undead, but if I clean the place up, there's profit to be had. Trade, safety, security—it could open new doors for Morthal asd well."

Erik knew that in truth, he had no immediate interest in playing lord or managing territory. His current focus remained on something far more personal: repairing his soul, which had been damaged in the chaotic ritual that merged his identity with the old Erik Deathsong. Still, the thought of securing a base of operations—somewhere to eventually lay down roots—was not an unappealing one.

After all, one of the original Erik Deathsong's greatest mistakes had been his arrogance. The ancient necromancer believed he could conquer the world alone, relying on no one but himself and his magic. Erik, having inherited those memories, understood now that such a path led only to ruin. He had no grand designs on world domination, but a devoted force at his command would serve him well, especially in a world as treacherous as this one.

"That's all for the far future, though," Erik continued, his tone casual. "For now, my concerns are more immediate."

Idgrod's smile didn't fade as she nodded slowly, clearly absorbing his words. "I see. It seems you've thought this through. Reclaiming the fort, removing the undead... it would certainly be of great benefit to Morthal."

Her husband, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke up, his voice gruff. "And how do you plan on dealing with those undead? They don't exactly scare easily, and there are many."

Erik's grin widened, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Let's just say, I have experience with such matters. I've handled worse things than a few restless spirits and skeletons."

Idgrod regarded him quietly, her expression unreadable, before offering a slight nod. "I won't pry. But I do so look forward to seeing what you will do with the ancient fortress."

"As I've said, those are all plans for the far future." Erik's voice trailed off for a moment, as if weighing something in his mind. "But if that is all, I will excuse myself," he added, giving a shallow bow and turning to leave. However, he stopped in his tracks as Idgrod called out once again.

"Wait a moment."

Erik's brow furrowed in slight annoyance, though he masked it as he turned back to face her. "Do you have further need of me?"

Idgrod's eyes remained steady as she replied, "You've yet to claim your reward."

Erik frowned. "Didn't your Huscarl go to investigate the completion of my work? Shouldn't you wait for word from him first?"

"There's no need for that," Idgrod said calmly, her voice unwavering. "The Divines have already revealed to me that the threat to Morthal will be removed. I merely sent Gorm to investigate to assuage his and my husband's doubts."

Erik's gaze shifted to Idgrod's husband, Alsfur, whose stern and mistrustful look lingered as though silently voicing his skepticism. He arched an eyebrow, then turned back to Idgrod. "And yet your steward still seems displeased," he remarked, his tone neutral but with a hint of amusement.

Idgrod sighed softly. "It's why I sent Gorm rather than Alsfur. They are both skeptics, but my husband adheres to my will without complaint."

Erik mused at her words. 'Doesn't that just mean he's henpecked?' He almost smirked at the thought but managed to keep his amusement to himself. Instead, he offered a more diplomatic response.

"Then I must thank you for your trust and generosity, Jarl Idgrod," Erik said, his voice smooth as he bowed slightly once more.

Idgrod's sharp eyes remained fixed on Erik as she spoke. "The deed to Snowhawk Fortress and the lands surrounding in addition to the letter of introduction is already prepared," she said, her voice soft but laced with meaning. She paused briefly before continuing, "I only need your name to be written down, and the reward you requested shall be yours."

At her words, her steward moved to a desk nearby, retrieving a yellowed parchment that had clearly seen better days. Erik watched for a moment, then chuckled softly.

"I see I've neglected to share my name," he said, his voice calm but carrying a hint of amusement. "My apologies. I am Erik Deathsong."

As the steward dipped his quill into ink and began to write the name on the deed, Idgrod raised an eyebrow. "Deathsong... that is quite the lineage," she muttered, almost to herself. Her eyes flicked back to Erik. "It almost seems too heavy for such a young man to carry alone.

Erik's smile faltered ever so slightly. 'She knows,' he realized. The name "Deathsong" had haunted Tamriel for centuries, spoken in fear and loathing. Despite the old necromancer's efforts to conceal himself, it was no surprise that such a name had not entirely faded from memory. Still, Idgrod's knowledge was not deep enough to concern him.

Feigning ignorance, Erik returned her gaze with an easy smile. "Indeed, my ancestors were great warriors, their names resounding across Skyrim when the land itself was still young. All I can do for now is attempt to match their valor so that they won't be forgotten."

As he finished speaking, Alsfur, the steward, approached and handed Erik the deed alongside a sealed letter. He accepted it with a nod, glancing briefly at the documents before tucking them safely away in his cloak.

"Very well, then," Idgrod said, her voice steady as she rose from her seat. "Erik Deathsong, Master of Snowhawk Fortress and honored Thane of Morthal. May you walk these lands with the blessings of the Divines."

With a measured nod, she added, "Your huscarl will find you on your way out."

Erik inclined his head respectfully one last time, offering a shallow bow. "I am grateful, Jarl Idgrod," he said, his voice carrying a weight of finality. "I shall see to it that Snowhawk Fortress is restored to its former glory... in due time..."

Idgrod gave a subtle nod in return, her expression neutral but still observant. Alsfur, standing by her side, maintained his cautious watch, but said nothing further. With the deed now in hand and the title of Thane bestowed upon him, Erik turned toward the exit, Geri at his side, and strode out of the longhouse, ready to set his plans in motion.

Outside, the cool Morthal air greeted him as he walked down the steps. A figure approached from the shadows near the entrance—his Huscarl, a lean and stern-looking Nord in light steel armor who bowed curtly upon meeting Erik's gaze.

The huscarl bowed his head respectfully. "Honor to you, my Thane. I am Valdimar, your huscarl as appointed by Jarl Idgrod."

Erik nodded, but his stride did not falter. "I'm in a rush. Walk with me."

Valdimar quickly fell into step behind him as they moved out of Morthal, the wooden houses and fog-laden marshes fading into the background. Erik's voice broke the silence. "What are your duties as my huscarl?"

Valdimar straightened his back, his voice filled with the kind of pride that came with a long lineage of Nord warriors. "Should you take me to battle, I will be your sword and shield. No harm will come to you so long as I draw breath." He confidently slapped his chest, the clang of his light steel armor echoing in the cool morning air. "Otherwise, I can manage your properties, guard your home, and protect your interests."

As they reached the outskirts of the town, Erik slowed to a stop and turned to face Valdimar. "I currently don't require your services. You can go back and--" he began, but then paused, shaking his head as if reconsidering. "No, never mind that. Since you are one of mine now, it wouldn't do for you to trouble the Jarl by staying in Highmoon Hall."

Valdimar hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Then where would you have me go, Thane?"

With a snap of his fingers, a sizable pouch appeared in Erik's hand. He held it out to Valdimar. "There should be land available for sale. Buy a plot from the steward, build, and furnish a house there as you see fit. You may stay there until I have need of you."

Valdimar took the pouch and bowed his head again, his voice firm. "As you wish, Thane."

Without another word, the huscarl turned and headed back into town, disappearing into the mist. Erik watched him go until Valdimar was out of sight, then whispered under his breath, "Scadu."

From the shadows, a skeletal steed materialized. Its body, a haunting amalgamation of bone and ethereal black cloth, stepped silently into view, exuding an aura of cold dread. Erik lifted Geri with ease, placing the corgi onto his lap as he mounted the undead steed.

"Onward to Windhelm," he muttered as the creature surged forward, its hooves making no sound as it carried him swiftly through the marshes, leaving Morthal behind.

...

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