Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

Erik stood before the pillar, his hand hovering just above its surface. He could feel the faint hum of power radiating from the ancient stone, its Daedric script glowing faintly beneath the snow-dusted runes. The wind howled through the peaks of the mountain, biting at his skin, but his attention remained solely on Ja'zirr, who watched him with eager anticipation.

The Khajiit's golden eyes gleamed, the flicker of triumph barely concealed behind his sharp smile. Ja'zirr believed the trap was set, that Erik would touch the pillar and seal his own fate. It was all too predictable—the way Ja'zirr's words dripped with false reverence, the subtle tension in his posture as he awaited the inevitable moment.

But Erik wasn't as naive as Ja'zirr assumed.

He could see through the charade—the subtle shifts in the Khajiit's expression, the way his tail flicked impatiently behind him, the faint twitch in his whiskers that betrayed his hidden malice.

Erik had tens of centuries worth of experience alongside his knowledge from playing the game. He knew exactly how the ritual of sacrifice was meant to be started and that Boethiah's devotees were all the same in the end—treacherous, scheming, and entirely too confident in their own deceptions.

"Touch the pillar," Ja'zirr purred, his voice sweet as poisoned honey. "Offer your devotion to Boethiah, and let her power flow through you."

Erik smiled faintly, the corners of his lips curling just enough to give the appearance of trust. "You're right..." he said, his voice smooth. "Boethiah demands more than just words. True devotion must be shown through action. But tell me... how exactly does it work?"

Ja'zirr's ears perked up slightly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion for a brief moment before he quickly masked it with a smug grin. "Ah, a wise question, yes. The pillar... it binds those who are worthy. Only those who offer their trust and their life to Boethiah are rewarded. But fear not—this one knows the way. All you must do is place your hand upon the stone."

Erik nodded, pretending to consider the words. "It sounds... complicated. But before I commit myself entirely, I want to be sure I understand. I mean, you've done this before, haven't you, Ja'zirr?"

The Khajiit's grin faltered, just slightly, but he recovered quickly. "Of course, of course. This one has guided many to Boethiah's blessing."

Erik feigned a look of admiration, leaning in just a little. "Then show me how it's done. You've guided me well, Ja'zirr, and it would be an honor to learn from someone so experienced."

Ja'zirr hesitated, his eyes narrowing again as if searching for any sign of deceit. But Erik's expression was perfect—open, trusting, exactly what the Khajiit expected. After all, Ja'zirr was convinced Erik had no idea what lay in store for him.

Finally, Ja'zirr chuckled, his confidence returning. "Ah, this one sees. You wish to learn by example, yes? Very well." He stepped closer to the pillar, placing his hand on the ancient stone as he channeled his mana into it. "See? It is simple. You must trust in Boethiah's will, as this one does."

Erik's smile grew just a fraction, though his eyes remained cold. "Thank you, Ja'zirr," he said, his voice low and almost reverent. "Now... trust in Boethiah as I trust in you."

As soon as the words left Erik's lips, the pillar began to glow with a fierce, unnatural light. Ja'zirr's eyes widened in shock as the power surged through him, his body freezing in place. His mouth opened to speak, but no words came out—his limbs locked by the force of the magic binding him to the pillar.

For a brief moment, confusion flashed across the Khajiit's face. He hadn't expected this—he had thought Erik would be the one ensnared, not him. But the truth had been hidden from Ja'zirr all along.

Erik stood before the pillar, aware of the delicate balance between the two conditions necessary to activate its dark power. The first: the one touching the pillar had to be fully intent on sacrificing the other. The second: the victim had to trust, without reservation, that they would not be harmed by the other party.

In this situation, Erik held the absolute advantage. He knew full well that Ja'zirr, the Khajiit, intended to sacrifice him. But the Khajiit, too confident in his own cleverness, remained blissfully unaware that Erik had already seen through the ruse. Ja'zirr's overconfidence had sealed his fate.

Nearby, Geri, the demonic Corgi, had been observing silently but now let out an excited growl. The air was thick with anticipation as Erik reached for his sword, and Geri's eyes gleamed with eager energy, his tail wagging furiously. He could sense what was coming.

Ja'zirr, on the other hand, stood frozen—unable to speak, unable to move—his once-sharp eyes now filled with desperation and mounting panic. He silently pleaded with Erik, his golden eyes widening in imploring terror, but it was far too late.

Erik's expression remained cold, devoid of pity.

Without hesitation, Erik drove the tip of his double-edged sword straight into the Khajiit's heart. Ja'zirr's body jerked as the blade pierced his chest, but he could do nothing to resist. Erik stepped back, watching with detached interest as the Khajiit's vitality began to drain into the pillar, leaving him nothing more than a withering husk.

Around the altar, Geri began to run in circles, barking excitedly as if celebrating the grim spectacle. His frenzied barks echoed off the cold stone walls of the shrine, adding a strange and almost joyous contrast to the macabre scene. Erik couldn't help but chuckle softly at the sight.

"Boethiah teaches treachery," he muttered under his breath, "but it's something that resides in the hearts of every man, mer, and beast alike. If you're guarded enough, not even Boethra can ensnare you in his schemes."

The Khajiit's body finally disintegrated into dust, dissipating in the cold mountain air, and a deep, booming voice echoed within Erik's mind. "I thought only the oldest of the Khajiiti would remember that name after the Riddle'Thar reformed the cat-men's religion."

Erik's head lifted toward the towering statue of Boethiah. The eyes, once dormant, now glowed a deep, menacing red, their gaze piercing through him.

A faint smile tugged at his lips as he bowed his head in acknowledgment. "I greet Boethra, Warrior of the East and West..."

As he straightened, Erik couldn't help but muse silently to himself. 'Most wouldn't have known of Boethra, the ancient Khajiiti aspect of Boethiah, but I am not like most.'

In his long life, the old necromancer had spent centuries studying the Daedric Princes, their aspects, and their lore. His vast knowledge of the Daedra was born from hard-earned experience, especially after a particularly costly bargain with Clavicus Vile.

Erik's understanding of Daedric trickery far surpassed even that of many who called themselves devotees of the Daedra—and certainly that of the Vigilants of Stendarr, who prided themselves on purging Daedric worship from Tamriel.

He didn't recognize Boethra at first. However, Khajiit had long since stopped worshipping Boethiah long ago. What's more, Ja'zirr matched Boethra's lore almost perfectly, his sharp tongue, and the way he looked and carried himself, all pieces of a puzzle that eventually fell into place.

A simple trick like this, even if performed by Boethra herself, wouldn't be enough to deceive him.

But Erik knew this was merely a test. If Boethiah had truly desired to ensnare him, she wouldn't have revealed her hand so easily. There would have been layers to the deception, deeper twists he might not have noticed until it was far too late.

As the glow in the statue's eyes intensified, Erik stood his ground, his smile unwavering. He had passed the test. Now, it was time to see what Boethiah—or Boethra—had planned for him next.

A deep, resonant voice echoed in the air, vibrating with an unsettling amusement. "You've not failed to amuse me," Boethiah's voice purred. "You've proven both the might of your arm and the sharpness of your tongue. So, tell me, mortal, what is it you desire?"

Erik didn't hesitate. His voice was calm, direct. "The Ebony Mail."

For a brief moment, silence hung in the air before Boethiah chuckled, a sound rich with mirth. "Not my favor or blessing, but merely an artifact?" There was a teasing edge to her words, as though she found his request quaint.

Erik raised an eyebrow at that, his tone dry. "If Lady Boethiah is feeling particularly generous, I'd appreciate knowing why I was tested so."

Boethiah's laugh lingered in the air, soft yet dangerous. "Amusement," she replied simply. "I wanted to see if watching you up close would be worth my time. An outrealmer like you should be more interesting than most of the dreary souls wandering this world. If you had proven boring, we would not be having this conversation."

Erik's frown deepened, his mind catching on the word she used. "Outrealmer?" he repeated, his voice sharp with surprise.

Boethiah's voice curled with amusement, savoring the moment. "Ah, did you think it would go unnoticed?" she taunted. "None of the Daedra would fail to sense a foreign soul—one torn from its proper place and forcefully thrown into this realm. You landed in Mundus like a crack of thunder, mortal. Even the Aedra, weak as they are, sensed your arrival." She chuckled again, her voice echoing off the stone. "Though unlike us, they are powerless to interfere in Tamriel's affairs."

Erik sighed, the weight of her revelation settling on him like a heavy cloak. He had suspected that something like this might happen, but hearing it confirmed by one of the Daedric Princes themselves was another matter.

"I suppose I should have expected as much," he muttered, his eyes drifting to the sacrificial altar. He paused for a moment, glancing back up at the statue. "So, this was all prepared for me, then? What if I decided I had better things to do with my time?"

Boethiah's response was swift, and tinged with indifference. "Then the warriors gathered here would have been sent to hunt you down."

Erik let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Efficient..."

"Naturally." Boethiah's voice carried a tone that implied such tactics were obvious. "I do not tolerate such insolence. But since you've come willingly, I didn't need to exert myself."

There was a pause, and then her voice took on a more contemplative edge. "You must know, outrealmer, I'm not the only one interested in your sudden appearance, and as such, I must be the first to have my curiosity quenched."

Erik's brow furrowed. "The other Daedric Princes are interested in me too?"

"Oh, yes," Boethiah continued, her voice thick with intrigue. "Some of my bretheren are curious, like I am. Some, like Sanguine or Sheogorath, might simply be entertained by the chaos you bring. But others..." Her tone darkened, and the air around Erik seemed to chill. "Others have... less pleasant intentions. Molag Bal, in particular, has taken an interest in you."

Erik's lips curled into a grim line at the mention of the Daedric Prince of domination. "Of course he has."

Boethiah seemed to savor the discomfort in his voice. "Molag Bal is ever the opportunist. To him, you are a mystery. An anomaly. And he detests what he cannot control. But he is not reckless—he, like the others, doesn't know how or why your soul was brought here, or by whom. That makes him cautious. They won't act against you directly, not without knowing more. But make no mistake, that won't stop him from using his followers to hinder you—or worse, eliminate you."

Erik crossed his arms, thinking it over. "So, while they're interested, they can't just kill me outright."

"Not yet," Boethiah purred. "But don't mistake caution for inaction. You may find yourself hunted by forces loyal to Molag Bal—or others—who are eager to gain his favor. The danger is ever-present."

He nodded thoughtfully, digesting her words. "And you? Should I expect a dagger in the back from you as well?"

Boethiah laughed softly, the sound like silk against a blade. "I enjoy a good game of treachery, but no. At least, not until a more amusing mortal comes along. You intrigue me, outrealmer. There's no fun in eliminating you so soon. I prefer to watch, to see how your story unfolds. Perhaps you'll amuse me further... or perhaps you'll fall victim to one of my rivals' schemes."

Her voice dropped, becoming almost intimate. "But if you bore me, Erik Deathsong... I may have to reconsider."

Erik couldn't help but smirk at her words. "I'll do my best to keep things interesting, then."

"See that you do." The eyes of Boethiah's statue flared brighter for a moment, her power palpable. "Now, about your request..." Her tone shifted, becoming almost lazy, as though toying with him. "You desire the Ebony Mail. A powerful artifact, yes, and one I could give you." There was a pause, as if she were weighing her options. "But such a gift comes at a price."

Erik's smirk didn't falter. "I've always paid my debts."

"Good," she purred, her voice a velvet threat. "Then let us begin the exchange."

...

Erik trudged through the thick snow, adjusting the heavy weight of the Ebony Mail over his robes. The dark, enchanted armor seemed to meld effortlessly with the black robes he wore beneath it, the intricate ebony greaves and gauntlets completing the ensemble. His black cloak billowed behind him as he moved, the whole outfit giving him a foreboding, almost spectral appearance.

He paused at a frozen puddle, glancing down at his reflection. A single eyebrow arched as he inspected himself. The long, dark robes beneath the heavy armor, combined with the blackened metal of the Ebony Mail, gave him an almost startling resemblance to a Nazgûl.

He couldn't help but think of the spiked helmets and pauldrons that would complete the image, though he had none. Still, the resemblance was uncanny.

"Well, it's not the look I was going for," he muttered to himself, tugging the cloak over his shoulder to settle more comfortably. "But I suppose it'll do." He certainly wasn't going to go out of his way to change it. The intimidating figure staring back at him in the ice seemed fitting, in a way.

Before he could dwell on his appearance any longer, Geri came bounding up, darting between Erik's legs and leaping over the puddle. The wolf's weight cracked the ice as he landed, sending shards scattering. Geri barked in excitement, his breath puffing out in small clouds of steam, utterly unbothered by the cold.

Erik sighed, watching the wolf with a tired look. "You damned little... You were as quiet as a mouse when you sensed Boethiah's presence, and now look at you. Lively all of a sudden." Geri tilted his head, his blue eyes wide and innocent, as if pretending he hadn't heard a word.

Shaking his head, Erik turned to gaze back at the distant peak where Boethiah's shrine stood. From here, it was nothing more than a silhouette against the icy horizon, but he could still feel the Daedric Lord's gaze upon him, drilling into the back of his mind.

The results of his visit to the shrine had been unexpected, to say the least. He had gone there with the intent of acquiring the Ebony Mail, but he hadn't truly expected to succeed. Not so easily, at any rate.

After all, the armor was supposed to have been granted to Boethiah's champion, a warrior destined to rise and fall at the hands of the Dragonborn. In his understanding, that champion would become a bandit, only for the Dragonborn to kill him and claim the Ebony Mail at Boethiah's behest.

Yet things had unfolded quite differently. That so-called champion had been slain in the fighting circle beneath the shrine, his body cold and forgotten in the snow. The ritual to choose a champion was meant to take place in a year's time, but Erik's very presence had changed the course of events. Boethiah had accelerated the process, amused by his arrival. And now, without needing to hunt down and kill a chosen champion, the Ebony Mail was his.

As for the price he had to pay for such convenience, it was deceptively simple—he merely had to continue being "amusing." That was the cost Boethiah, the Daedric Prince of Deceit, had demanded. Erik had no reason to doubt her words; yet, he was far too astute to believe that was the full truth.

Only a fool would trust Boethiah's promises at face value, and Erik prided himself on not being a fool.

The Daedric Lord undoubtedly had her own hidden agenda, a deeper price that she would extract sooner or later. It was in her nature, after all. She would discard him the moment someone more entertaining came along. But Erik wasn't concerned with her whims. He knew well enough the game he was playing.

As far as "amusing" mortals went, none would be more amusing to a daedric lord than him, besides the Dragonborn—whenever they finally appeared.

That day, however, was still far off, several years at least. By then, Erik would have no need for the Ebony Mail, a mere daedric trinket, to shore up his strength. He would have mended his damaged soul, regained his full power, and discarded the Ebony Mail long before the Dragonborn sought him out to claim it. If they ever did.

As for whatever hidden cost Boethiah intended to collect in the meantime, Erik cared even less. As long as it wasn't explicitly named, it was something he could thwart, something he could avoid paying if he deemed it too rich for his taste.

A mortal though he may be, he wasn't a gullible one, easily toyed with by the whims of Daedric Princes. He was a necromancer with knowledge spanning millennia, and he would remain vigilant. Guarded.

Shaking the stray thoughts from his mind, Erik turned his gaze southward. The snowy landscape ahead was beginning to thin, giving way to the barren wastelands of sulfurous pools and dead, charred earth.

"Riften it is," he muttered under his breath, pulling his cloak tighter against the cold. Geri barked in response, darting ahead toward the change in scenery, his tail wagging as he led the way through the desolation.

Erik followed, his thoughts a swirling mix of anticipation and caution, ever mindful of the road ahead.

...

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