Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

Erik strode along the damp and creaking docks of Riften, the soft lapping of Lake Honrich's waters against the pier a distant murmur beneath his boots. Geri padded silently beside him, his fur blending into the mist rolling in from the water. Erik's conversation with Brynjolf replayed over and over again in his thoughts, drawing out a deep sigh from his chest.

It would have been so simple to tell Brynjolf outright: Mercer Frey killed the old guild master and framed Karliah to get his hands on the Skeleton Key. Erik knew the truth. But the truth, spoken so plainly, would have gotten him nowhere.

Brynjolf's blind loyalty to Mercer was more than just personal—it was ingrained, rooted in years of trust and camaraderie. Even more frustrating was Brynjolf's casual dismissal of the supernatural. Luck? Patronage from a Daedric Prince? To Brynjolf, such notions were old wives' tales, relics of an older time.

Erik had needed subtlety. Guiding Brynjolf into uncovering the truth for himself was a delicate task, but a necessary one. So, Erik had steered the conversation in that direction, letting Brynjolf's own suspicions grow like seeds planted in fertile soil. He hadn't needed to say outright that the guild was cursed—it was enough to point out the series of unfortunate events that had plagued them. When had it all started? With the death of the old guild master.

'Once that realization sunk in, everything else followed,' Erik mused.

From there, it had been easy to imply that the old guild master's death was tied to Nocturnal's displeasure. The coincidence was too much to ignore. Erik could see the gears turning in Brynjolf's mind as he pieced it together, the dawning understanding that the former guild master's death—and not just his death, but everything surrounding it—was at the heart of the guild's bad luck.

But there was still more left unsaid. Did Nocturnal favor the old guild master in some way? Why punish the Thieves Guild when the one responsible for his death, Karliah, had already been banished? Erik didn't offer answers. He didn't need to.

The questions were enough to stir doubt in Brynjolf, enough to push him towards investigating the truth for himself. If all went well, Brynjolf would eventually uncover Mercer's betrayal—exposing him as the fraud and murderer he truly was.

Erik chuckled softly to himself, the sound drowned out by the creaking planks underfoot. His plan was in motion, but it was far from over. Planting doubt was only the first step.

Erik's efforts had proven successful in the end, but as he walked along the misty docks of Riften, his irritation simmered just beneath the surface. Convincing Brynjolf that luck was no mere superstition had been far more difficult than it should have been.

The time spent dragging the thief from skepticism to reluctant belief felt wasted—hours spent explaining what should have been obvious in a world like this. He glanced out over the lake, the calm waters reflecting the moonlight, and muttered under his breath, "To dismiss superstition in a world like this..."

He shook his head in disapproval.

The world of Elder Scrolls was nothing short of a magical, unpredictable place, filled with curses, powerful artifacts, and fantastical beings—monsters, gods, and even demons. Almost anything and everything was possible here, yet people like Brynjolf clung to the arrogance of dismissing certain forces, like luck, as mere myth.

The irony gnawed at Erik. Even in the real world from which he came, superstitions held sway. They had weight, power. There was no smoke without fire, after all.

One particular memory floated to the surface, a tale from the real world—a story from an old village. The people there believed that building houses too close to the shore would incur the wrath of the sea god, resulting in catastrophe.

When newcomers arrived, they scoffed at the old ways, dismissing the village's warnings as primitive nonsense. They built a port town right on the water, confident in their modern knowledge and defiance of old traditions.

But after only a year, the town was swallowed whole by a tsunami.

It wasn't until later that the true cause was revealed. The area was prone to frequent tsunamis, a natural disaster that repeated itself over the centuries. Each time, the waves would wipe out any trace of human settlement on the shore.

The ancestors of the village had learned this through bitter experience and, over time, crafted a myth around it. The wrath of the sea god, they called it. A divine punishment, to be avoided at all costs.

It wasn't divine wrath, of course. But the myth had served its purpose, protecting generations from disaster. And yet, Erik mused, it was always the arrogance of the new, the ignorance of the present, that led people to dismiss such wisdom.

He couldn't help but compare that tale to Brynjolf's stubborn refusal to believe in the power of luck. To dismiss it as superstition was to misunderstand the world they lived in—a world shaped by forces both seen and unseen.

A world where Daedric Princes like Nocturnal existed and made their wills known through subtle manipulations of fate and fortune. Brynjolf, like the newcomers who ignored the warnings of the villagers, was blind to the undercurrents that governed the reality around him.

Erik muttered under his breath, "There's always a lesson to be learned in these old tales... but it has nothing to do with me." He let the thought drift away like the fog rolling off the lake, dismissing the Thieves Guild from his mind as easily as one brushes away a cobweb.

His meeting with Brynjolf had been pure chance, a minor detour on his path. He had no grand plan to embroil himself in the affairs of the Guild, nor any desire to entangle himself in their politics. In truth, his actions to expose Mercer Frey had stemmed from nothing more than a petty grudge.

He recalled how, during his time playing the game, the Guild Master had treated his Dragonborn character with condescension and disdain. Mercer had always carried himself with a cold, aloof air, as though everyone beneath him was unworthy of even basic respect. Erik had found the man insufferable, and if the opportunity arose to set the wheels in motion that would eventually rid the world of such an eyesore, well... why not?

Still, there was something impressive about the Guild's ability to track him down. The fact that their intelligence network had noticed him in Morthal, Windhelm, and likely other places, sending descriptions detailed enough for Brynjolf to recognize him on sight—that was no small feat.

Erik couldn't help but be intrigued by how quickly they'd zeroed in on him, despite their first meeting being mere coincidence. It spoke of efficiency, resources, and an unsettling level of reach. For all their decline, the Thieves Guild still had some teeth.

He had been amused enough by this realization to plant a little seed of his own. After subtly guiding Brynjolf toward suspecting Mercer, he'd asked for a favor—one to be cashed in at some unspecified point in the future. It wasn't anything Brynjolf needed to worry about now, but Erik was always playing the long game.

He had also dangled another offer before him, proposing that if Brynjolf ever found the real culprit behind the Guild's misfortunes, Erik might help take care of them in exchange for future favors. It was an idle promise, of course—Mercer Frey wouldn't be so easily exposed, not without time and effort. And Erik had no intention of rushing things.

Mercer was a mastermind in his own right, and unraveling his schemes would take time.

For now, Erik had more pressing matters to focus on. His true reason for coming to Riften had little to do with the Thieves Guild. No, his sights were set on a far different target: a certain Argonian whose mind was slowly unraveling, driven to madness by a Dwemer relic.

He could already see her—his primary reason for coming to Riften. An Argonian woman sat at the end of the pier, obsessively fiddling with something in her hands. A smile crept across Erik's face as he made his way toward her, stepping lightly over the wooden planks until he, too, was seated at the edge of the dock.

The woman, From-Deepest-Fathoms, cast him a brief, cautious glance before losing interest and returning her focus to the item in her grasp. Erik waited for a moment, letting the soft lapping of water and creaking of the dock fill the silence. Geri trotted up to join him, sitting by his side with a quiet huff.

Only then did Erik speak, breaking the stillness with a calm voice. "You are From-Deepest-Fathoms, right?"

The Argonian's eyes widened instantly, her fingers tightening protectively around the contraption she held. Her grip was almost possessive as she replied, her voice edged with suspicion. "You... who are you?"

Erik turned his gaze toward her and smiled, his eyes darting to the item in her hands. It was unmistakable—a black cube, adorned with metallic circles and glowing red arcane symbols. The Lexicon. Just as he had expected.

"I'm here to do you a favor," Erik said, his tone gentle but deliberate. "That thing in your hands... it's not something you should have. But you already know that, don't you?"

Fathoms' eyes widened further, her expression twisting between shock and defiance. Her grip on the Lexicon became even more jealous, her knuckles turning pale beneath her scales. "If it's not something I should have, then why... why did Roots, Brennaan, and Breya all die for it?" she hissed, her voice full of grief and fury. "I will not relinquish it! Not until I've unveiled its secrets."

Erik raised an eyebrow at her outburst, intrigued by her desperation. In the game, she had been a broken woman, crazed and pleading with the Dragonborn to take the Lexicon from her, as though it were a cursed object she no longer wished to bear. But here she was, defiant, driven by obsession. It seemed the Lexicon wasn't in her possession for long.

Without a word, he turned his gaze away from her, casually picking up Geri and placing the corgi on his lap. He stroked the dog's head thoughtfully before speaking again, his voice calm and measured. "And what will you do with its secrets, anyway?"

From-Deepest-Fathoms froze at his words, her breath catching.

"This device," Erik continued, gesturing toward the Lexicon, "it's no ordinary artifact. It records the memories of countless Dwemer—generations of knowledge, all encoded in that cube. It's like a book... but written in a language you could never hope to understand."

He let out a soft chuckle, glancing at the intricate patterns etched across the Lexicon's surface. "Even if you could decipher it, your head would likely explode from trying to contain that much knowledge."

Fathoms' grip tightened even further, her body trembling as she looked from Erik to the cube in her hands. Her resolve was faltering, and Erik could see the cracks forming in her obsessive determination.

"But…" she whispered, her voice wavering, "I can't let it go... Not after everything. Not after what happened to them…"

Erik sighed, rubbing Geri's head thoughtfully as he considered how to handle her fragile state. Her attachment to the Lexicon had consumed her, just as it had in the game. But here, in this world, he could see the toll it had taken on her much more clearly—the sleepless nights, the haunted look in her eyes. She was on the verge of breaking, and for what? A relic she couldn't hope to understand.

"Dwemeri isn't something you can just decipher on your own," Erik began, his voice calm and almost fatherly. "Not in this day and age. It's a lost language—forgotten by almost everyone. The few who do know it aren't exactly eager to share. You'll only waste your time, and worse, your sanity, trying to unveil its secrets."

From-Deepest-Fathoms didn't respond right away, her eyes still glued to the Lexicon, her hands trembling as she held it. The weight of her friends' deaths clearly weighed heavily on her, but she was trapped in the illusion that understanding the Lexicon would somehow make their sacrifices worth it.

"And as for your friends…" Erik trailed off, snapping his fingers.

A heavy thud echoed beside them as a large chest materialized out of thin air, causing the Argonian to leap back in surprise. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she stared at the chest, clearly struggling to process what had just happened.

Erik, however, didn't seem fazed by her reaction. He kept his eyes on the lake, speaking as though the sudden appearance of a chest full of gold was the most natural thing in the world.

"There's more gold in this chest than you, or a hundred others like you, could ever need. Enough for you to live the rest of your life in comfort and leisure," he said, his tone casual but laced with intention. "Instead of driving yourself mad over the Lexicon, it would be wiser to take this gold and compensate the families of your friends. Let them live easier lives. That's how you honor their memory."

From-Deepest-Fathoms stared at him, her resolve visibly crumbling. Her grip on the Lexicon faltered, her once-defiant posture now slumped with uncertainty. The allure of wealth and the chance to make amends for her friends' deaths seemed to weigh heavily on her.

"But… what do you intend to do with the Lexicon?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Erik paused, the question catching him off guard. What did he plan to do with it?

In the game, the Lexicon's purpose had been relatively simple: return it to Avanchnzel and receive a minor boost to smithing and armor skills. A nice reward, but hardly life-altering. Yet here, in this world where the lines between game mechanics and reality blurred, Erik suspected the Lexicon held far more potential—and far more danger.

He turned his gaze toward the glowing cube in her hands, its arcane symbols pulsing with a strange energy. The Dwemer were a mysterious and ancient race, their technology far beyond the understanding of even the most skilled scholars in Tamriel. Whatever knowledge the Lexicon contained, it could very well be more than just a passive buff. It could be the key to something far greater.

But for now, he hadn't given it much thought. His goal had always been to retrieve the Lexicon, but what came after? That was a question he hadn't yet answered.

"I haven't decided yet," Erik admitted, his voice softer now. "The Dwemer left behind many mysteries… some best left untouched. But this Lexicon… it's more than just a trinket. There's power in it—power that shouldn't be left in the hands of just anyone."

From-Deepest-Fathoms swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she stared at the Lexicon, torn between her obsession and Erik's reasoning.

"What I do know," Erik continued, "is that holding onto it will only drive you mad. It's not meant for you. And no matter what secrets it holds, they won't bring your friends back."

Tears welled up in the Argonian's eyes, her resolve finally shattering under the weight of his words. She let out a shaky breath and slowly extended the Lexicon toward Erik, her hands trembling.

"Take it," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Take it, and do what I couldn't."

Erik gently took the Lexicon from her, feeling its weight and the strange, ancient energy pulsing within it. He looked down at the cube for a moment before nodding.

"You made the right choice," he said softly, placing the Lexicon into his pack. "Your friends can rest easier now."

From-Deepest-Fathoms didn't respond. She simply sat there, staring at the chest of gold, her mind slowly processing the end of her long, tormenting journey. Erik stood up, Geri hopping down from his lap and trotting beside him. With one last glance at the Argonian, Erik began walking away, the Lexicon now in his possession.

As he left the docks behind, his mind wandered. The Lexicon was his now, but what secrets did it truly hold? And what would he uncover once he studied it thoroughly?

Only time would tell.

...

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