Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

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...

Erik strolled out of Windhelm, the frigid air biting at his skin, though he barely felt it. The crunch of snow beneath his boots was a familiar sound by now. Windhelm's great stone bridge stretched out before him, its ancient architecture rugged against the morning mist that hung over the icy river below.

Geri trotted behind him, the corgi's fur matted with snowflakes, his eyes wide and full of curiosity as he sniffed at everything in sight.

Erik's mind drifted to his earlier conversation with Nurelion. It had been an easy bargain, really—nothing overly complex or deceitful. He had simply told the old Altmer about the White Phial's location, a piece of knowledge that had come from playing the game. In truth, he hardly needed the Phial, but the prospect of claiming it—without lifting a finger—appealed to him.

As for the gold, he had provided Nurelion with 2,500 septims, a small fortune for most, though mere pocket change for someone like him. Naturally, Nurelion hadn't needed the money, but Erik had insisted, using it as a way to assert his ownership over the Phial.

That was the real motive behind his "generosity." In exchange for Nurelion doing all the work— brewing the alchemical mixture needed to acess the tomb and sending mercenaries to retrieve the artifact from its resting place—Erik would return at a later date to claim it once the old elf had time to study it.

He knew well enough how obsessive Nurelion was about the White Phial, how the old Altmer had spent decades chasing its legend. Erik had used that obsession to his advantage.

Nurelion was blinded by his thirst for knowledge, and in that blindness, Erik knew the alchemist would do all the heavy lifting to retrieve the damaged artifact. As far as Nurelion was concerned, the Phial was priceless—a once-in-a-lifetime discovery that would cement his place in the annals of alchemical history.

He was already old, and beyond studying it, the Phial would hold little value to him. And if Nurelion were to try and renege on the deal? Run off with the Phial to claim it for himself?

Erik smirked at the thought. He didn't care. The Phial would be a convenient trinket, yes, but not essential to his plans. All it would do is save him the effort of brewing stamina potions—and given the sheer volume of potions he consumed daily, from stamina and magicka restoratives to cold resistance elixirs, that convenience was hardly worth a fight.

In other words, he was simply throwing his net into a river. If a fish was caught, then he'd have an extra dish for his dinner, if not, he still had other things to eat.

He reached the end of the bridge and paused, his eyes drifting toward the horizon. A distant snowy peak loomed in the distance, its jagged outline cutting through the pale sky. Erik's expression turned thoughtful as he gazed at the mountain.

'That place…'

He recognized it. A spark of memory flickered through his mind—a quest, something buried in the game's lore. Boethiah's Calling. It would be triggered by either reading the right book or by visiting that very mountain he now stared at. The thought of Boethiah, the Daedric Prince of deceit and treachery, made him pause.

The old necromancer had dealt with Daedra more times than he cared to count. Molag Bal, Clavicus Vile, even Hircine—he had struck bargains with them all, gaining power, knowledge, and cursed trinkets in exchange for services that were often far more costly than they first appeared.

The first two, especially, were notorious for their treachery. Still, the old necromancer had decided to retaliate and Both Daedric Princes had to his act of defiance. The two were instrumental in his eventual downfall centuries ago, their followers among the many who had besieged his stronghold in the end.

Even now, Erik could feel the echo of those betrayals lingering in his soul, a faint scar of those ill-fated pacts. Molag Bal had tried to twist him into a pawn of domination, while Clavicus Vile had tempted him with promises of ultimate power, only to renege as soon as the price had been paid.

The fact that Erik had survived either ordeal, let alone both, was a testament to his cunning. But there were lessons to be learned from that—never again would he walk blindly into a Daedric trap.

Still, despite his deep knowledge of conjuration and his study of the Daedric Princes, there were a few he had deliberately kept his distance from. First and foremost was Sheogorath, the Mad God.

No sane necromancer—or anyone, for that matter—would willingly strike a bargain with Sheogorath unless they had no other choice. The Prince of Madness was dangerously unpredictable, his whims and reality often indistinguishable.

Erik had no tolerance for such chaos. The memories of those who had once allied themselves with the Mad God lingered still—poor souls, their minds shattered beyond repair.

Then there was Namira, Daedric Prince of decay and repulsion. She was too vile, too extreme, even by Erik's standards. The thought of dealing with the Lady of Rot made his skin crawl.

Finally, there were Nocturnal and Boethiah, both shrouded in mystery and deception. Nocturnal's allure lay in her silence, her ability to manipulate events without being seen.

Boethiah, however, was more direct in her treachery, but her schemes were no less subtle. There was precious little information about her true goals, and that was precisely what made her so dangerous.

In the first place, it wasn't known whether she schemed to achieve a certain purpose, or if she schemed for the sake of scheming alone. It was her domain, after all.

Erik hadn't intended to meddle with Boethiah or her cult. He had enough worries, and adding a Daedric Prince of betrayal to that list seemed... unwise. But now, standing on Windhelm's bridge with the distant peak of her shrine in his sights, he couldn't help but feel tempted.

There was power to be gained from Boethiah, a relic that could serve him well. The Ebony Mail—armor imbued with her dark magic— would grant immense protection while poisoning the enemies of its wearer. It was a prize too valuable to dismiss lightly.

Erik sighed, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. The part of him that had been Erik Deathsong urged caution. Boethiah's gifts always came with strings attached, strings that could tighten into a noose if he wasn't careful. Yet another part of him, the part that craved power and control, found it hard to resist the lure.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to take a look at the very least... I'm not even sure if it's possible to get the Ebony Mail right now..." he muttered under his breath. His mind made up—for now—he whispered a name into the cold air, a name that carried with it a dark magic of its own. "Scadu."

From the shadows, the figure of his undead steed materialized, its form ghostly and silent at first, before solidifying into the imposing black skeletal horse covered in black cloth. Scadu's hollow eyes glowed faintly, and its breath came out in dark wisps of mist.

Geri, his demonic corgi companion, trotted over and gave a low, excited bark. Erik scooped the small yet powerful creature into his arms, its fur warm and almost comforting against the icy wind. Mounting Scadu with Geri nestled at his side, Erik took the reins.

"To the peak," he whispered, his eyes narrowing on the distant shrine.

...

The mountain loomed tall before Erik, a silent sentinel shrouded in snow and fog. At the foot of its jagged path, a lone figure waited, leaning casually against a boulder. Geri padded behind Erik, the demonic corgi's usual jauntiness gone, replaced by an alertness that set its dark eyes narrow. Erik, however, paid little mind to Geri's unease as he approached the figure—a Khajiit with sharp, golden eyes and a grin that seemed more like a snarl.

The Khajiit's fur was a mottled mix of silver and black, sleek and polished, almost like armor. His clothing—a loose-fitting set of robes mixed with leather straps—suggested a traveler, but there was something about him that made Erik wary. The Khajiit stood up straight, greeting Erik with a sweeping bow, though the look in his eyes spoke of anything but subservience.

"This one is called Ja'zirr," the Khajiit purred, his voice smooth but laced with mockery. "A humble servant of Lord Boethiah, yes. You are expected, traveler. The ritual begins soon, and Ja'zirr shall guide you to the shrine. If you can keep up, of course."

Erik raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He wasn't expecting to be greeted, much less by a Khajiit claiming to serve Boethiah. His memories of Boethiah's cult didn't mention any guides, let alone sharp-tongued ones, but he wasn't about to reveal his thoughts. For now, he would follow the charade, curious to see where it led.

Geri growled low, clearly displeased, but Erik silenced the creature with a glance. "Lead the way then," he said, his voice calm and detached.

Ja'zirr's grin widened. "Ah, a man of few words. Good. Boethiah has no patience for fools who waste her time with idle chatter. Follow, follow, this one knows the way."

The Khajiit turned with an easy grace, his tail flicking behind him as he began to climb the narrow path up the mountain. Erik followed, keeping a measured pace, his mind already calculating the possible traps that awaited him. Geri remained close behind, though its occasional glances toward Ja'zirr showed the animal's lingering distrust.

The path twisted and turned, growing steeper with each step. Sharp rocks jutted out from the snow-covered ground, and the wind howled louder the higher they climbed. Ja'zirr moved quickly, his footing never faltering despite the treacherous terrain.

Every so often, he would glance back at Erik, a glint of mischief in his eyes, as if daring him to stumble.

At one point, Ja'zirr's voice rang out, barely audible over the wind. "Careful here, traveler. The path narrows, and the ice is slick. One wrong step, and you'll be feeding the crows below."

Erik's lips twitched into a faint smile. He could sense the trap the Khajiit was trying to set—there was no slick ice, only an illusion meant to disorient him. Instead of reacting, Erik kept his pace steady, his boots crunching through the snow with surety.

He passed the supposed hazard without so much as a second glance, all while the Khajiit looked on, his grin faltering for the briefest of moments before he resumed his carefree demeanor.

"Ah, you are nimble. Boethiah must be watching you closely," Ja'zirr commented, his voice dripping with false praise.

Erik merely nodded, his expression impassive. He had seen through the Khajiit's trick without letting on, and he wasn't surprised by the deception. After all, this was Boethiah's domain, a realm of treachery and lies. It was only fitting that her supposed servant would try to play games. What amused Erik most was how little Ja'zirr knew about who he was dealing with.

They continued upward, the landscape growing more desolate and ominous as they climbed. The air was thin, and the wind had a bite to it that even Erik, with his centuries of experience braving the harshest climates, could feel. Finally, they reached a plateau, and there, beneath the looming statue of Boethiah, was the shrine.

An open area lay before them, ringed by a crude wooden fence. A fighting ring, Erik noted, with several armed cultists already gathered around it.

They stood in silence, their eyes gleaming with barely restrained bloodlust. At the center of the ring, a makeshift platform had been erected, its dark wood stained with old blood. The sight of it brought a sense of familiarity to Erik, though it was strange—it differed from what he remembered of Boethiah's rituals.

Ja'zirr stopped at the edge of the plateau, turning to face Erik with a sly smile. "Here we are, traveler. Boethiah's sacred ground, where only the strong and the cunning are worthy of her favor. But you already knew that, yes?"

Erik looked around, his eyes scanning the cultists who gathered near the ring. They were all heavily armed, some with blades glinting in the pale light, others with crude axes and maces. Each of them seemed poised, eager for violence.

Ja'zirr stepped closer, his golden eyes narrowing as he spoke, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Lord Boethiah cares only for those who care for themselves, yes? Only those whose lives are marked by deeds worthy of her notice. To gain her blessing, you must prove yourself—not just with your blade, but with your tongue as well. Lethal skill, in all forms, is the only path to her blessing."

He gestured toward the ring, where the cultists were already gathering, waiting for the signal to begin. "You, traveler, must enter the ring and slay every other warrior there. Only one can emerge victorious, only one will receive Boethiah's favor."

Erik remained silent, his gaze fixed on the ring. This was not how the ritual had played out in his memories of the quest, not immediately anyway. The dragon-born would have to sacrifice someone who trusted him before even getting the chance to participate in the ritual.

Boethiah's Calling had never been about mindless slaughter. Something felt off, but he didn't voice his thoughts. Instead, he merely nodded, as if accepting the challenge.

Ja'zirr's grin returned, satisfied. "Good. You understand. Now, prepare yourself." He walked away passing by a few of the gathered participants, whispering in the ears of several warriors, his words too quiet to catch.

The Khajiit made sure not to linger too long near those whose ears he whispered in, nor let out any sign of his schemese, but Erik immediately noticed the way the warriors' eyes shifted, the way they glanced at him, and the way their grips tightened around their weapons.

...

The cultists moved into position, their weapons gleaming in the cold light as they surrounded the ring. Ten in total, but five of them had already decided to focus on Erik. Their eyes gleamed with malice, hungry for violence, and the tension in the air thickened, stifling the biting wind.

Erik gripped the hilt of his sword—a double-edged straight blade that had seen countless battles across the centuries. He hadn't relied on it much since he left Snowhawk Fortress, choosing to let Scadu, Helrath, and Surtr do the heavy lifting. But now, without using magic or summoned undead to rely on, he felt the familiar weight of the blade in his hands. He too wanted to test his own mettle.

The first cultist, a brutish Nord wielding a war axe, charged forward with a roar. Erik sidestepped the wild swing, his movements precise and fluid. With a flick of his wrist, his sword slashed across the man's chest, cutting through fur, leather, and flesh as if they were paper. The Nord staggered back, clutching at the wound as blood poured from him, and fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

There was no time to rest. The second and third cultists came at him simultaneously—one with a spiked mace, the other with a curved dagger. Erik parried the mace with ease, the force of the impact reverberating up his arm, but he didn't falter. He spun on his heel, his sword slicing cleanly through the dagger-wielder's throat in a single, brutal motion. Blood sprayed across the snow, staining it red.

The mace-wielder roared and swung again, but Erik was already moving. He ducked under the swing, closed the distance between them, and drove his sword through the man's gut. The cultist gasped, his eyes wide with shock as Erik twisted the blade before yanking it free. The body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

The last two cultists in the group of five hesitated, realizing their advantage had crumbled in mere moments. One of them, an Imperial woman wielding a short sword, glanced at her companion, unsure. Erik gave her no chance to decide. He lunged forward, his blade a blur of silver as it cleaved through the air.

The woman barely managed to raise her sword to block, but Erik's strength was overwhelming. Her defense faltered, and Erik drove his sword into her chest, the tip of the blade bursting out from her back.

The final cultist—a Redguard man armed with twin scimitars—let out a cry of rage and desperation, attacking with reckless abandon. Erik met his fury with calm efficiency, dodging and parrying with measured precision. The Redguard's attacks grew sloppier with each failed strike, his frustration mounting.

With a swift, brutal swing, Erik disarmed him, one scimitar flying from his hand, and with the next stroke, he severed the man's head cleanly from his shoulders.

The remaining five cultists watched in silence, their earlier confidence eroded by the brutal efficiency with which Erik dispatched their comrades. But they made no move to attack him. Instead, they lunged at one another.

Soon enough, a victor among them emerged. Ulitmately, he fell as quickly as he rose. Erik wiped the blood from his sword on one of the fallen bodies and stepped out of the ring, his breath calm, his expression unreadable.

Ja'zirr, who had been watching from the sidelines, stepped forward with a slow clap. "Ah, such beautiful carnage," he purred, his voice dripping with admiration, though there was an edge to it, as if he had expected something different. "You have earned your audience with Lord Boethiah, indeed. Few survive such a trial, let alone with such... finesse."

Erik slid his sword back into its sheath, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the Khajiit. "Lead the way," he said simply.

Ja'zirr's grin returned, though it was sharper now, as if there were daggers hidden behind his teeth. He led Erik up the final stretch of the mountain, the path narrowing as it ascended to the peak. They soon arrived at a small plateau where the statue of Boethiah towered above them, casting a long shadow over the snow-covered ground.

The statue was that of a Dunmer woman, hooded and coiled in serpents. In one hand, she held a greatsword, raised high as though in triumph. Her eyes, though carved from stone, seemed to look down upon those who stood before her with cold disdain.

Ja'zirr approached the statue with reverence, though his sharp tongue remained. "Behold, Lord Boethiah, in all her glory," he said, bowing low before the figure. "She watches, always. Though it seems, perhaps, that her gaze has yet to fall upon you, traveler. But fear not, Ja'zirr knows how to call for her attention."

The Khajiit reached into his robes and produced a small ceremonial dagger. Without hesitation, he slashed his palm open and let the blood drip onto the ground before the statue. His golden eyes flickered with something—anticipation, perhaps, or something darker. "Blood for the Lady of Treachery. A humble offering to stir her from her silence."

But the statue remained dormant, its stone eyes unblinking, its stance unchanged. The wind howled through the peak, but there was no other sign of Boethiah's presence.

Ja'zirr's expression faltered for the first time, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Strange... It appears Lord Boethiah has not yet deemed to grant you her blessing." He straightened, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "But fear not, traveler. This one knows another way to capture her attention. Boethiah does not ignore true devotion."

Ja'zirr gestured to a small pillar at the foot of the statue, surrounded by ancient, weathered writing in Daedric script. The pillar was plain, save for the strange glow that seemed to emanate from its surface.

"Touch the pillar," Ja'zirr instructed, his voice low and coaxing. "Offer your respects to Boethiah. Touch the pillar, and this one will do the rest."

...

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