Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

Erik made his way down Riften's narrow streets, heading toward the unmistakable clang of metal against metal. Geri trotted alongside him, the Corgi's ears perking up at every sound of the bustling city. The smoke of forges and the tang of molten metal filled the air as they approached the Scorched Hammer, Riften's resident smithy.

The owner, Balimund, was hard at work, his muscular arms glistening with sweat as he hammered away at a horseshoe. The forge's fire roared behind him, though it was weaker than usual, its once roaring flames now subdued. Erik approached with purpose, Geri staying close to his heels.

Balimund looked up, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. "What can I do for you?" he grunted, though his tone was more curious than annoyed.

"I need to use your forge," Erik said plainly, eyes briefly scanning the layout of the smithy. "I'll buy the materials, but I need access for a bit."

Balimund raised an eyebrow. "You a smith?" His tone was skeptical, though not dismissive. Erik certainly didn't look like one of the usual blacksmiths in Riften.

"Something like that," Erik replied. "I need to practice."

Balimund crossed his arms, clearly intrigued. "Well, practice ain't free, but if you're buying materials, I suppose I can let you use it. Just don't go expecting to work on anything fancy. The forge isn't what it used to be."

Erik's gaze flicked to the forge, noticing the lower intensity of the flames. "Why not?"

Balimund sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Ran out of fire salts," he admitted. "Without 'em, the forge doesn't burn hot enough for the sturdier stuff. Worked on Ebony metal once or twice before, but now…" He gestured at the forge with a helpless shrug.

Erik nodded. "That won't be an issue. I only intend to work with iron for now."

Balimund eyed him for a moment longer before giving a curt nod. "Suit yourself. The forge's yours, for now. What do you need?"

"Iron ingots. Leather strips," Erik said, reaching into his pouch. "Enough for a simple sword."

Balimund moved to the side, retrieving the requested materials with practiced efficiency. "Here you go. And I'll be watching. Just to make sure you don't blow up my forge."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of Erik's lips as he handed over the coin. "I'll do my best."

He took the ingots and leather to the anvil, laying them out neatly. Balimund leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching with a curious eye. Geri, meanwhile, sat by Erik's feet, occasionally looking up at him as if waiting for something interesting to happen.

As Erik began to heat the iron in the forge, the first few hammer strikes were rough, his movements not as smooth as the more seasoned smiths. The rhythm was off, the balance of the metal uneven. Balimund's expression hardened slightly, his skepticism creeping back.

But Erik wasn't deterred. With each strike of the hammer, he adjusted his grip, his stance, his timing. The knowledge was there—the techniques locked deep within his mind, relics of a time long forgotten—but his hands were not yet accustomed to the craft. Slowly, the rough edges of his work began to smooth out, and the clang of the hammer grew more precise.

Balimund's brow furrowed as he watched. Erik was improving—quickly. Far too quickly for someone who had just started. With each pass of the hammer, each adjustment of the metal, Erik's work transformed. The once-shoddy form of the blade began to take shape, the iron bending to his will with increasing finesse.

"You've done this before," Balimund said, more statement than question.

Erik didn't reply immediately, focused on his task. His eyes narrowed, sweat beading on his forehead as he hammered out the last imperfections. "Maybe once or twice..." he finally muttered, his voice distant.

Balimund watched, astonished. The blade was taking the form hilt—a simple sword, but crafted with an efficiency and skill that few could muster after so little time.

Finally, Erik plunged the sword into the water barrel, steam hissing as the blade cooled. He pulled it out, wrapping the leather strips around the hilt and inspecting his work with a critical eye. It wasn't perfect, but it was far from amateur.

Erik reckoned he'd create an iron sword that was infinitely close to perfection if he tried again without much trouble, but there was no need for that. He only needed to apply and absorb what he learned from the Lexicon. He wasn't here to show of his skills, after all.

Balimund, though still skeptical, couldn't hide his surprise. "Not bad," he admitted, walking over to get a closer look. "Could use a bit of refining here and there, but for someone who hasn't spent the past twenty years of his life working a forge... your work is exemplary."

Erik nodded but didn't seem satisfied. He raised the blade in front of him, narrowing his eyes as he focused. A faint, almost imperceptible aura of magicka enveloped the sword as he tested its magical conductivity. He summoned a small flame, barely the size of a candle, and directed it toward the blade.

For a brief moment, the sword glowed, reacting to the magic. But almost as quickly as it began, the flame sputtered out, extinguished as if snuffed by some unseen force.

Erik frowned, nodding to himself. "Not good enough," he muttered. "I'll need better materials."

Balimund, who had been watching intently, raised an eyebrow. "What were you expecting?"

"Iron's not conductive enough for what I need," Erik explained, more to himself than to Balimund. He placed the sword down on the table, his mind already turning toward the next attempt.

Balimund scratched his head. "Well, I don't have Ebony, if that's what you're after. You'll need to find fire salts before I can get this forge hot enough for that."

"I'll take care of that later." Erik turned to leave, Geri perking up and following him. But before he reached the door, he placed the newly forged sword on the counter. "Consider that payment for letting me use the forge."

Balimund stared at the sword for a moment, then nodded, a glimmer of respect in his eyes. "Not bad. You're welcome to use the forge whenever you need. Just let me know."

Erik gave a curt nod. "I'll be back tomorrow."

With that, he left the Scorched Hammer, Geri trotting faithfully by his side, the rhythmic clang of the forge fading behind him as they disappeared into the streets of Riften.

...

Erik hummed the familiar tune of The Dragonborn Comes under his breath as he made his way up the rocky, winding path, Geri trailing dutifully behind him. The sound of his humming mingled with the rustle of the wind through the trees, and the faint echo of his boots on the uneven ground added a rhythmic cadence to his ascent. It was a habit he'd picked up to pass the time on long, silent treks like this.

Having finished his early morning practice at Balimund's forge, Erik felt restless, and so he decided to start exploring the wilderness surounding Riften.

He could only absorb so much knowledge from the Lexicon every day without straining his mind, and he did need the combat experience to make himself more familiar with the sword, after all.

In the end, no matter how sharp his skills grew or how fine the blades he crafted became, there was only so much progress to be made without real experience.

His mind held the memories of the Ansei, the fabled Redguard sword-saints, their graceful and lethal techniques ingrained in his memory. Yet, as formidable as he was with their knowledge, he still felt like an imposter—a man imitating greatness rather than embodying it.

Every swing, every parry, though executed flawlessly, lacked the depth of personal mastery. To truly claim their skills as his own, he had to fight, bleed, and learn from the chaos of battle.

So, he set out into the wilderness of the Rift, sword at his side, seeking that elusive experience.

There had been wolves—more than a few, in fact—and even the occasional bear that had crossed his path. Their savagery was no match for his skill, but still, they offered little in the way of true challenge. Each encounter ended swiftly, leaving him with a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction.

But it was still better than stagnating in Riften, where every glance in his direction carried whispers of fear and uncertainty. The townsfolk had begun calling him wraith after the slaughter at the docks, and while that name didn't bother him, he had no desire to sit idle while the rumors grew.

As he climbed higher, the sky began to darken, the sun dipping low on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched over the rugged terrain. The light was fading quickly, but that was when he saw it—a faint, flickering glow further up the mountain. It cut through the growing darkness like a beacon, a sure sign that people were nearby.

'People,' Erik thought, a cold smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It didn't matter who they were. Bandits, Daedric cultists, or just unfortunate souls—none of that mattered to him. What mattered was that they were the kind of people who wouldn't be missed. Perfect for practice.

His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword, a calm readiness settling over him as he quickened his pace. Geri, sensing the shift in his master's mood, stayed close, the Corgi's eyes gleaming with excitement.

Erik's path twisted up the slope, the terrain growing rockier and more treacherous with each step. The light became clearer now, more distinct—firelight, no doubt. The kind of fire that only travelers or brigands would set to ward off the cold mountain air.

The closer he got, the sharper his instincts became, the faint sounds of voices carried on the wind. Laughter, rough and guttural—definitely not travelers.

Bandits, most likely.

With the Ebony Mail cloaking his movements in silence and shadow, Erik crept forward, each step barely a whisper against the rocky terrain. He found himself crouched behind a large boulder, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene before him.

The ridge he had stumbled upon was slightly elevated, more of a platform, really, with a cave entrance set into the mountainside, its door a crude assembly of old wood and rusted iron hinges. A pitiful attempt at fortification, Erik thought with a faint sigh.

Two bandits stood at the mouth of the cave, warming their hands by the flickering flames of a brazier. They were chatting idly, their guard completely down, unaware of the danger that now watched them from the shadows.

Erik's eyes skimmed over their sorry state—their blades were rusted, their armor a ragtag mix of leather and mismatched metal plates. They looked more like scavengers than hardened fighters. It was disappointing, really.

Erik had hoped to encounter something more challenging—someone whose skill would push him to refine his swordplay further. But these men? They were barely more than a nuisance. Still, he hadn't come all this way to leave empty-handed. If their abilities weren't enough to hone his blade, he could always harvest their bones for future use in his necromantic pursuits.

With a soft sigh of resignation, Erik deactivated the concealing power of the Ebony Mail, letting the dark shroud that had enveloped him fade away. He stepped into the light cast by the brazier, his tall figure emerging from the shadows.

Geri, trotting at his side, let out a low, eager growl, his small frame practically vibrating with anticipation. The bandits, startled, exchanged confused glances as they noticed the intruder, their hands instinctively going for their weapons.

"The hell?" one of them muttered, squinting through the dim light to make sense of what he was seeing. A man in dark, ancient armor and a dog? His confusion quickly gave way to a snarl. "Oi, you lost or something? Wrong place to be wanderin', friend."

The bandits, though clearly ill-prepared for anything resembling a real fight, didn't hesitate. One of them, a bulky Nord with a shaved head, hefted a two-handed sword from his back and charged at Erik with a wild battle cry, his footfalls heavy against the rocky ground.

The other, a thinner, wiry Imperial with twin iron swords, moved toward Geri with a wicked grin. "I'll take care of the mutt!" he spat, twirling his blades with a flourish.

The Nord charged forward, his face twisted in a scowl as he closed the distance, raising his massive sword high over his head. Erik raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the predictable move, and calmly lifted his own blade to block the incoming strike. Seeing this, the Nord's scowl twisted into a wide grin.

"I'll split you and that toothpick in your hands with one fell swing!" he bellowed, clearly confident in his brute strength.

Erik didn't bother responding. As soon as their swords collided, he shifted his stance, taking a measured step to the side and redirecting the Nord's blade with minimal effort. The heavy sword, now off balance, crashed into the ground with a dull thud, sending a small plume of dust into the air.

The Nord's grin vanished instantly, replaced by a look of panic as he tried to lift his weapon again. But Erik was quicker, pressing his foot firmly onto the blade, keeping it pinned against the ground.

"In a situation like this," Erik said coolly, his voice barely above a murmur as he pointed his own sword downward, "a competent swordsman would pull back his sword, take a few steps back, and prepare to block or evade depending on the situation...."

With a swift motion, Erik brought the hilt of his sword up, slamming it into the Nord's chin. The force of the blow sent the man reeling backward, his eyes glazing over as he crumpled to the ground in a heap, his body limp.

Erik shook his head, stepping back. "But you wouldn't be here if you were any good with that sword, I suppose."

He turned his attention to the second bandit, the wiry Imperial, who had charged at Geri. Erik's eyes narrowed, already calculating his next move, but before he could fully assess the situation, a loud, anguished scream split the air. Erik blinked in surprise and quickly turned to see the Imperial lying on the ground, his legs flailing wildly as he desperately tried to pry Geri off his crotch.

The Corgi had sunk his teeth into the softest part of the man's body, viciously thrashing his head from side to side, blood staining the bandit's britches. The Imperial's face was contorted in agony, his hands trembling as he frantically clawed at Geri, but the dog was relentless.

Erik paused for a moment, suppressing the urge to laugh. The scene was almost absurd—here was a grown man, a so-called bandit, reduced to a pitiful, squirming mess, completely at the mercy of a Corgi, albeit a highly unusual, possible demonic one. The sound of the bandit's screams echoed off the rocky walls, and for a brief second,

Erik considered sparing the man just for the entertainment value alone.

But then again, the Imperial's fate had already been sealed.

Erik approached the squirming Imperial with measured steps, his sword sheathed as he gazed down at the pitiful sight. Blood pooled around the bandit's thrashing legs, the sounds of his whimpers almost drowned out by Geri's excited panting. Erik's gaze softened for a brief moment as he sighed, tilting his head.

"As a fellow man," Erik began, his voice devoid of malice, "I feel your pain. So, I'll end your misery, at least."

Before the Imperial could muster a response, Erik raised his hand, focusing his magicka. A sharp, crimson droplet formed at the tip of his finger—a frozen blood drop. With a swift motion, the shard shot forward, piercing clean through the bandit's skull.

The body went limp, a final gurgle escaping his lips before silence filled the clearing once more.

Geri, triumphant, trotted over to Erik, his muzzle stained with blood, tail wagging in anticipation of praise. The little corgi looked up expectantly, his eyes wide and bright.

Erik couldn't help but chuckle. "Bad boy, Geri," he scolded lightly, bending down to ruffle the dog's ears. "You don't go after a man's balls like that. That's just pure evil."

Geri let out a soft whine, clearly unrepentant, his tail still wagging as though he believed he'd done a fine job.

Erik shrugged, smiling wryly. "Oh well, who am I to judge anyway?" he muttered, patting the corgi's head. "Good boy, Geri."

At that, Geri perked up instantly, his tail whipping back and forth as he barked in excitement. Erik shook his head, amused by the dog's enthusiasm, before turning his attention to the unconscious Nord.

Unsheathing his blade once more, Erik knelt beside the prone body and drove the tip of his sword into the man's thigh, just enough to jolt him awake.

The Nord let out a sharp gasp, his eyes snapping open, only to find Erik looming over him. Panic set in as the bandit tried to scramble away, but Erik pressed a boot down on his chest, keeping him pinned.

"Don't bother struggling," Erik said coldly. "I have questions."

The Nord stared wide-eyed at his captor, fear creeping into his expression as he spotted the dead Imperial lying in the dirt, Geri still standing by his side, blood covering the dog's snout. Erik followed the Nord's gaze and smirked, wiping the blood from his blade.

"You saw what happened to your friend," Erik continued, his voice casual yet threatening. "Cooperate, and you might get to meet Arkay with your balls intact. How many people are inside? Who's leading this little operation?"

The Nord hesitated, but after another glance at the dead Imperial, he swallowed hard and nodded. "Th-three others," he stammered. "Besides our boss. We—we're just small-time, I swear! The leader, he's the one running everything. We just… we just follow orders."

Erik raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. "Three others, huh? And your boss. If they're all as pitiful as you, it hardly matters if there were twenty of you."

Before the Nord could plead further, Erik swiftly plunged his sword through the man's heart, ending his life with a single, clean strike. The bandit's body slumped, lifeless, as Erik stood and sighed in disappointment.

Wiping his blade clean on the dead bandit's ragged clothes, Erik mused over the situation. If the bandits inside were on the same level as these two, it would hardly be a challenge. He felt a pang of boredom creeping in, the prospect of a mindless slaughter hardly appealing to him now. Still, he had come this far.

Pausing for a moment, Erik's thoughts drifted to Helrath, the undead skeleton he'd raised with the summoning stones back in Morthal. The memory of the skeleton's swordsmanship during the battle against Movarth and his coven of vampires flashed through Erik's mind. He couldn't help but wonder—had Helrath improved since then?

Maybe he'll have a good show, after all.

...

I'm motivated by praise and interaction, so be sure to leave a like, power stone, or whatever kind of shendig this site uses, and more importantly do share you thoughts on the chapter in the comment section!

Want more chapters? Then consider subscribing to my pat rēon. You can read ahead for as little as $1 and it helps me a lot!

 -> (pat rēon..com / wicked132) 

You can also always come and say hi on my discord server