Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

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...

The wooden table in front of Erik was laden with a wide array of ingredients, each one carefully sorted and neatly presented. The old Altmer alchemist had taken his time, pulling from well-stocked shelves and ancient jars, presenting Erik with most of the items on his list. There were multiple sets of each ingredient, enough for Erik to craft several potions with ease.

Erik surveyed the collection, his sharp eyes darting from one item to the next. A lesser alchemist might have been intimidated by the sheer variety, but for Erik, the challenge was not simply in creating a potion—he wanted to make a point. 'I could just pick three of these and brew a stamina potion that would double anything these so-called 'masters' could muster,' he mused, 'but where would the fun in that be?'

He allowed a moment to pass, drawing out the tension in the room. The old Altmer stood to the side with his arms crossed, his expression a mix of disdain and impatience. The Imperial apprentice lingered nearby, his broom now forgotten as he nervously watched Erik's every move.

Finally, Erik's hand hovered over the collection of ingredients, and without hesitation, he plucked a single Sabre Cat Eye from the array. He held it up briefly, studying the glistening orb in the dim light before setting it down on the workbench.

The Imperial apprentice's face twisted in confusion. His eyes darted to his master, then back to Erik. "Isn't that...?" he began, his voice uncertain.

The old Altmer glanced at the Sabre Cat Eye and shook his head slowly, a look of disappointment settling over his sharp features. "Amateur," he muttered under his breath, though loud enough for both Erik and the apprentice to hear.

It wasn't an uncommon reaction. Alchemical ingredients had different properties, each capable of producing a variety of effects—some beneficial, others dangerous. Some ingredients were favored for crafting tonics, while others, like the Sabre Cat Eye, were primarily used for poisons due to their harmful effects. In the case of the Sabre Cat Eye, it boasted properties that weakened magicka and ravaged health. While it had one redeeming feature—its ability to restore stamina—few alchemists ever bothered to use it for such purposes. It was simply too risky, too unpredictable.

The Altmer's sneer deepened. "He's already lost," he muttered to himself, his voice tinged with contempt. "A Sabre Cat's Eye for a stamina potion? The boy doesn't know the first thing about alchemy."

Erik ignored the mutterings, his face an unreadable mask as he selected his second ingredient. His fingers closed around a small, pale Pine Thrush Egg. As he lifted it, a slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. The egg was known for its beneficial effects, but also for its less savory property: inducing weakness to poisons. It was usually reserved for concoctions involving lethal substances, ingredients like Namira's Root or Deathbell, used to create poisons rather than tonics.

The Imperial apprentice's confusion deepened. He looked back at Erik, then to the Altmer, his brow furrowed. "But... the Pine Thrush Egg... that's—"

The old Altmer narrowed his eyes but said nothing this time. His silence, however, spoke volumes. He was now watching Erik carefully, though there was no longer just disdain in his gaze—there was a flicker of curiosity.

Even so, it was clear he still believed Erik to be out of his depth. No respectable alchemist would pair those two ingredients for a tonic. The Sabre Cat Eye alone was unpredictable enough, but adding a Pine Thrush Egg to the mix? It bordered on reckless.

The apprentice, though inexperienced, couldn't hide his bafflement any longer. "Are you sure... those ingredients are what you want to use?" he asked hesitantly, clearly trying not to offend but unable to hide his disbelief.

Erik didn't look up. He carefully placed the Pine Thrush Egg next to the Sabre Cat Eye on the workbench, then glanced at the young man. "Very sure," he said, his tone calm, though there was a subtle edge to it.

The apprentice opened his mouth as if to say something more, but a sharp look from his master silenced him.

The old Altmer finally stepped forward, his voice laced with thinly veiled mockery. "You seem intent on making a fool of yourself, so I won't stop you," he said, his eyes locked onto Erik's with the confidence of a man who had seen countless arrogant young mages fall flat on their faces. "You've made your choices—choices that no alchemist with even a shred of sense would make—but far be it from me to interfere. I'll enjoy watching you fail."

Erik met the alchemist's gaze and smiled, but this time it was a smile full of challenge, as though he were daring the old man to continue running his mouth.

"Alchemy isn't about mixing ingredients and calling it a day," he said quietly. "A truly skilled alchemist is able to amplify, weaken, or even remove any effect of any ingredient during the brewing process..." He paused, his smile turning almost predatory. "You'll see soon enough."

The Altmer narrowed his eyes further, clearly irritated by Erik's confidence, but said nothing more. He simply crossed his arms again and waited, the challenge unspoken but palpable in the air between them.

Erik turned back to the array of ingredients.

He still needed a third component, something to tie the mixture together. His eyes roamed over the jars and vials before finally settling on a small jar of Silverside Perch Scales.

He picked it up with deliberate slowness, glancing back at the Altmer for just a second, noting the flicker of surprise in the old man's gaze. 'So, he recognizes this one, does he?' Erik thought, amused.

Silverside Perch Scales were known for their unique properties as an ingredient. It could be used in poisons or in healing potions, depending on what it was mixed with, making it a highly versatile and dangerous ingredient.

Erik placed the scales beside the other ingredients, and for the first time, the Altmer's mocking smirk faltered. He stepped closer, inspecting the combination Erik had selected.

"You're playing with fire, boy," the Altmer warned, his voice a low growl now, all traces of condescension gone. "If you miscalculate even slightly, this concoction will be nothing short of deadly."

Erik chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "That's the beauty of it," he replied. "Alchemy isn't about avoiding risk. It's about mastering it."

With that, he set to work, leaving the old alchemist to wonder just how far Erik's mastery would take him.

Erik gathered his ingredients on the alchemy table, his hands moving with practiced ease as he laid them out in a precise order. The Sabre Cat Eye, Pine Thrush Egg, and Gleamblossom Petals sat side by side, an unusual combination, but in Erik's mind, each ingredient held a unique purpose in the complex alchemical equation he was about to solve.

He could feel the eyes of the old Altmer and his apprentice on him, the room thick with anticipation. Normally, this part of the process would involve simply grinding, mixing, and distilling the ingredients, relying on their natural properties to create a potion.

But Erik wasn't a normal alchemist, and he wasn't going to brew this potion like a common hedge wizard.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he placed his hands above the Sabre Cat Eye, channeling his magicka into the orb. Skyrim's alchemical lore was steeped in the idea that every ingredient carried an innate essence, a latent power waiting to be unlocked.

Most alchemists merely teased out these properties through conventional means—boiling, grinding, or infusing—but Erik had long learned that magic could be used to manipulate those properties, not just extract them.

His fingers glowed faintly as he worked, weaving a subtle current of magicka through the Sabre Cat Eye. He could feel the raw, primal energy coursing through the eye's structure—the harshness of its poison properties pushing against the more delicate restorative effect buried deep within.

With focused intent, Erik carefully dampened the harmful aspects, weaving his magic to suppress the weakening of magicka and ravaging health effects, all while amplifying the ingredient's rare ability to restore stamina.

The eye pulsed under his hands as it responded to his manipulation, and a faint hiss filled the air. Erik could sense the shift as the balance between its poisonous and restorative properties tipped in his favor, the dangerous essence coiling inward like a dormant serpent. Satisfied, he moved on to the next ingredient.

The Pine Thrush Egg was trickier. It carried beneficial effects, but its tendency to induce weakness to poison was well-known, often used by those crafting lethal concoctions. Erik wasn't about to let that flaw stand in his way.

Again, his hands hovered over the egg, and he let his magicka flow into it, his brow furrowing in concentration. This time, the process required more finesse—he wasn't simply negating harmful effects but carefully isolating them.

With delicate precision, Erik split the egg's properties in two, drawing the beneficial effects—like fortifying stamina—into one sphere of influence while carefully locking away its poisonous aspect. He didn't remove the weakness to poison entirely, but instead balanced it in such a way that it wouldn't affect the final potion's potency.

It was a dangerous technique, one that few would dare to attempt, but Erik relished the challenge. His hands glowed brighter as he worked, the egg shifting and vibrating under his spell until he felt it settle, the properties now perfectly aligned for his purposes.

The old Altmer, still watching from across the room, narrowed his eyes. He could sense what Erik was doing, though the method was unfamiliar to him. "Playing with ingredients is one thing," the Altmer muttered, "but to change their very essence? Foolhardy."

Erik smiled at the comment, though he didn't break his concentration. The Silverside Perch Scales were his final ingredient. These scales were notoriously fickle, their effects shifting wildly depending on what they were combined with.

Normally used to enhance poisons, the scales also carried a hidden potential for fortification. But unlocking that potential required a deep understanding of their nature—and a steady hand.

Erik didn't just mix the scares into the other ingredients; he infused them with his magicka, coaxing out the fortifying properties and binding them to the stamina-boosting effects of the Sabre Cat Eye and Pine Thrush Egg.

It was a careful balancing act, one that required manipulating the very essence of each ingredient to make them work in harmony. The scales shimmered under his hands as their properties aligned with the others, creating a concoction that was far more than the sum of its parts.

As he finished the preparation, Erik reached for the pestle, grinding the ingredients together with a slow, deliberate motion. Even this was done with care, his magicka still flowing through the mixture, binding and amplifying the effects he had drawn out.

The potion simmered in the glass vial, a faint greenish hue swirling through the liquid, flecked with shimmering gold. The mixture had an almost hypnotic quality to it, the result of Erik's careful manipulation of both physical and magical properties.

Finally, Erik stepped back, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Done," he said, his voice steady but filled with quiet satisfaction.

The old Altmer took a step closer, his expression now unreadable. He glanced at the potion and then back at Erik, the mocking tone gone from his voice. "You've played with fire, boy," he said slowly, "and yet... the potion seems stable."

Erik smiled, a knowing gleam in his eyes. "Alchemy isn't just about ingredients. It's about understanding their nature, bending them to your will, and pushing beyond the limits others set."

The apprentice looked on, wide-eyed, his confusion turning into awe. He hadn't seen anything like this before.

The Altmer, however, wasn't so easily impressed. "So, it looks pretty," he said, his voice flat. "But how effective is it? Is it even drinkable?"

Erik did not respond as he uncorked the vial and lifted it to his lips, drinking half of the potion in one smooth motion. The effect was immediate and unmistakable—his muscles surged with newfound energy, a rush of vitality flowing through his veins like wildfire.

The weariness in his limbs evaporated, replaced by a sense of boundless stamina. He could feel the potion's power coursing through him, far beyond what even the most seasoned alchemist could brew.

Without a word, Erik extended the vial toward the old Altmer, a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Care to test it for yourself?"

The Altmer narrowed his eyes, his earlier dismissiveness still lingering, though there was now a flicker of curiosity. He took the vial with a resigned sigh, his long, slender fingers cradling it as though handling a potentially dangerous substance.

"Let's see if this is anything more than fancy theatrics," the old Altmer muttered under his breath.

He began testing the potion with the caution of one who had spent centuries identifying both potent tonics and deadly poisons. First, he swirled the remaining liquid around the bottle, inspecting it for any residue or imperfections that might betray a flaw in the brewing process. The pale green liquid shimmered smoothly, no telltale signs of inconsistency or clumping, which would have indicated a misstep in the potion's creation. His expression eased somewhat, though he said nothing.

Next, the Altmer brought the vial to his nose, inhaling deeply. The scent was unmistakably potent, the sharpness of raw magic tingling his senses, though there was no trace of anything off-putting or malicious. His frown began fading, but he proceeded with the ritual of his careful examination.

He then poured a single drop of the potion onto his fingertip, rubbing it into his skin and waiting for any adverse reaction. None came. His brow furrowed, and he raised his hand to his lips, cautiously placing a drop on the tip of his tongue.

His face remained impassive, though the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested that the potion's effects were starting to impress even him. Satisfied there was no danger, he finally drank the remaining half of the vial, though his demeanor remained grudging.

The old Altmer stood silently for a long moment, his eyes fluttering shut as the potion took hold. His posture shifted slightly, the subtle signs of fatigue lifting from his ancient frame. His eyes flickered open, glinting with the energy that now pulsed through him. Though his pride kept his expression neutral, the reality was clear: Erik's potion had worked, and it was exceptional.

Grudgingly, the Altmer finally spoke. "I'll admit," he said slowly, "this is... more effective than I anticipated. Two times more potent, as you claimed." His voice was low, laced with the bitter taste of defeat. "It seems you've made your point."

He set the empty vial down on the table with a soft clink, his gaze avoiding Erik's for a moment before he continued. "I'll bring the rest of the ingredients you requested. You can have them for free, along with access to my alchemy table whenever you need it. Consider it... an acknowledgment of your skill."

Erik smiled, the triumph concealed beneath his calm exterior. "I appreciate that."

Hearing those words, the arrogant, smug expression on Erik's face vanished instantly, like the flicker of a dying flame. He let out a low, almost indifferent sigh. "Good. Now, if there's nothing else, I'll get to work brewing my potions."

There was no need to ridicule Nurelion further. Erik had accomplished what he came here for, and any satisfaction he might have felt was fleeting. With the memories of the old necromancer, Erik possessed a vast knowledge that stretched across centuries. His understanding of the world, of alchemy, and of magic made him, in a way, a being far older than he appeared.

To put a mere "master alchemist" in his place was little more than a trivial exercise, driven not by Erik's own ego but by the lingering pride and arrogance embedded in the soul he carried. It wasn't personal—just something he felt slightly compelled to do.

Erik turned his attention back to the ingredients laid before him and began his work without another glance at the alchemist.

The old Altmer, meanwhile, watched in silence for a moment, his sharp eyes observing Erik's every move. He then gestured to his apprentice. "Quintus, prepare the ingredients."

The Imperial apprentice nodded, swiftly gathering everything Erik had requested, the subtle clinking of glass jars and rustling of herb bundles filling the room.

As he did so, Nurelion cleared his throat, trying to dispel the uneasy tension that had settled between them. "I'm Nurelion, by the way. And you are…?"

Erik didn't stop what he was doing, his hands working with a fluid precision that spoke of mastery. He replied without looking up, half-heartedly at best. "Erik Deathsong."

Nurelion gave a slight nod, muttering the name to himself. "Deathsong, is it?"

His gaze drifted toward the sword strapped to Erik's side, its intricate design standing out even in the dim light of the alchemy shop. "Looking at the blade you carry, I'd wager you're not just an alchemist," Nurelion continued, his tone thoughtful. "You're an adventurer, aren't you?"

Erik finally paused, raising an eyebrow at the remark. "What makes you say that?" he asked, his tone curious but guarded. "This sword could just be for self-protection."

Nurelion scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "If that were the case, you'd be carrying a longsword, or an axe perhaps. Maybe even a mace, if you're the eccentric type."

His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the weapon more closely, his gaze flickering with recognition. "But that sword… it's no common blade. It's Yokudan, a relic from Hammerfell." His voice dropped, almost reverent as he added, "You'd be hard-pressed to find the likes of it anywhere in Skyrim. Even in Hammerfell, swords like that are rare—treasured by the very few Redguards who still honor the ways of sword-singing."

Erik's expression remained neutral, though inwardly he was surprised. The origins of his weapons weren't something that could be easily recognized by a simple glance. "You're well-informed," Erik said, his voice level. He resumed his work, the soft grinding of mortar and pestle filling the space between them. "But you're right. This sword isn't from Skyrim, and I do happen to be a traveler of sorts..."

Nurelion's eyes gleamed with a rare flicker of amusement, and he smiled—a faint, ghostly expression that barely reached his tired eyes. "A traveler, you say? I used to be one myself, in my younger days," he said, his voice carrying a wistfulness that only years of regret could shape. "I've scoured all of Tamriel in search of the White Phial. A lifetime of searching, and still... nothing."

He sighed deeply, the weight of countless years and the burden of unfulfilled dreams heavy on his breath. Then, with a quiet intensity, he asked, "You wouldn't happen to be searching for the White Phial, would you?"

Erik's hands paused mid-motion, his fingers still on the mortar. The question caught him off guard, though he kept his expression neutral. Nurelion didn't know where the White Phial was yet—of that much Erik was certain. If he had, the old Altmer would have already retrieved it, despite his deteriorating health.

Erik knew that Nurelion would fall gravely ill in the near future, around the time the Dragonborn would chance upon him, but now... the Altmer still had hope.

"No," Erik finally said, shaking his head calmly. "I have no interest in the White Phial right now. I've got more pressing matters to attend to."

Nurelion's face darkened at that, a shadow of disbelief crossing his features. "What could be more urgent to an alchemist than the White Phial? It's the pinnacle of our craft, boy!" His voice was edged with indignation, the passion of someone who had spent a lifetime in search of something unattainable.

Erik couldn't help the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The old necromancer's arrogance bubbled beneath the surface, amused by Nurelion's conviction. "Curalmil may have created the White Phial," Erik said with a casual shrug, "but my skills in alchemy aren't any worse than his. So why should I be chasing after his relic like some desperate apprentice?"

Nurelion's eyes widened, his expression somewhere between offense and confusion. Erik pressed on, unbothered. "Sure, it would be nice to have. But I won't go out of my way to retrieve it unless there's nothing better to do. If I focus on alchemy I could achieve even more than he ever did.

However, I simply chose to use my time pursuing other fields."

It was the truth, or at least a truth that Erik had come to accept after merging with the memories of the old necromancer. Curalmil had been a genius, no doubt—a mortal man who achieved the pinnacle of alchemy, creating something from nothing.

But the old necromancer, through centuries of body-swapping and an insatiable thirst for knowledge, had mastered the same art despite having a lesser talent for Alchemy. His craft had been honed over millennia, making the White Phial seem less than impressive than it would be for someone like the old Altmer.

Nurelion winced slightly, his pride clearly wounded by Erik's dismissive tone. "You certainly are arrogant," he muttered. "Unfortunately, I can't grasp the depth of your skill, nor Master Curalmil's, so I can't really refute you."

Erik laughed, a genuine chuckle that seemed to catch Nurelion off guard. "Arrogant, maybe, but not without cause." He leaned casually against the alchemy table, the smugness gone from his expression, replaced by a calm confidence. "I'll tell you what. If you want the White Phial that badly, I'll tell you where you can find it. I'll even give you the gold to hire mercenaries to retrieve it."

Nurelion's eyes widened, suspicion mixing with a glimmer of hope. "You... you know where it is?"

Erik smiled faintly, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. "Of course I do, and I can evel tell you where it is... But there's a catch..."

...

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