Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

The crackling fire offered some reprieve from the cold stone walls of Forelhost as the group huddled around it, drying their soaked clothes. The Refectory was just beyond them now, the sealed upper portion of the ruin they had fought so hard to reach. Getting there had been a grueling ordeal, filled with the ancient dead and nearly impassable obstacles.

The collapsed staircases leading to it had forced them deep into the crypts, where draugr rose in overwhelming numbers, their cold, lifeless eyes burning with hatred as they defended the resting place of their masters.

To make matters worse, they had to swim through an underground tunnel filled with icy water to reach the hidden staircase that led to the Refectory. Only Erik's knowledge, which he attributed to "scrying magic" from the School of Mysticism, had made it possible.

None of them, not even the skeptical Marcurio, had bothered to question it. After all, most saw Mysticism as an arcane and obscure field of magic, and Erik's quiet confidence carried the weight of someone who knew more than they let on.

But now, with the fire warming their bones and the endless groaning of the crypts momentarily behind them, they could finally rest. Though Erik could have easily dried them all with a spell, he didn't bother. It wasn't the cold that had worn them down; it was the endless fighting and tension, the looming presence of the Dragon Priest Rahgot waiting for them somewhere ahead.

The sellswords sat in silence, eyes distant as they took stock of their wounds and exhaustion. Erik glanced at them, his mind elsewhere, though he remained outwardly calm. Geri, in his usual mischievous manner, curled up near the fire, occasionally emitting a low growl at nothing in particular, eager for more bloodshed. The daedric hound was always ready for violence, and Erik knew he'd see plenty before their mission was done.

One of the sellswords, a burly Nord with a scar running down his cheek, finally broke the silence, his voice tinged with disbelief. "It's hard to believe, isn't it? The stories. Dragon cultists… forcing their own people to kill themselves. Even the children. All for that cursed Dragon Priest."

Another sellsword, a younger man with haunted eyes, nodded slowly. "I'd heard rumors, but I thought they were just that. Tales to scare people. But this place… I don't know anymore."

Brynjolf, seated across the fire, turned his gaze to Erik. "You seem to know a lot about this place," he said, his voice casual but laced with curiosity. "More than just about Rahgot and his lot. What else do you know about the Dragon Cult, lad? I've heard bits and pieces, but nothing that explains… this."

Erik leaned back, his face illuminated by the flickering light. He stared into the flames for a moment before answering, his voice measured. "The Dragon Cult was more than just a religious order. It was a way of life. Thousands of years ago, long before the Septim Dynasty, before the Empire as we know it, dragons ruled over men. They weren't just worshipped as gods—they were gods, or so the people believed."

He paused, letting that sink in before continuing. "The Dragon Priests were the chosen ones, those who served directly under the dragons. They were given immense power in exchange for absolute loyalty. It wasn't enough for them to lead their people—they demanded unwavering obedience. To disobey a Dragon Priest was to disobey a dragon itself, and that was a death sentence."

The group remained silent, eyes on Erik as he spoke, the weight of history pressing down on them. The burly Nord shifted uncomfortably. "And the people just… followed them?"

Erik nodded. "For a long time, yes. The dragons were powerful, and the Dragon Priests were even worse. Rahgot, the one we're here for, was ruthless, even by their standards. He didn't just demand obedience—he commanded it through fear. When the Dragon War broke out and men rose against their masters, the cultists were some of the last to stand. They believed the dragons would return, that their loyalty would be rewarded."

Brynjolf frowned. "But they didn't. The dragons fell."

Erik's expression darkened. "Not all of them. The war didn't just end with a clean victory. The dragons were powerful, but they weren't invincible. The ancient Nords, with the help of the Tongues—those gifted in the Thu'um—managed to turn the tide. But it wasn't just about killing dragons. It was about dismantling the cults that kept them in power."

Marcurio, who had been listening quietly, scoffed. "All this for some long-dead priest. Sounds like Nord superstition to me."

Erik didn't bother responding to the Imperial's dismissive tone. He knew better than to argue with someone who hadn't seen the things he had. "You'll see soon enough," was all he said, his voice carrying a quiet finality that silenced any further comments.

Brynjolf rubbed his hands together near the fire, his mind visibly turning over the things Erik had said. "So what you're saying is… this Dragon Priest, Rahgot… he believed the dragons would come back for him?"

Erik nodded. "He did. He sealed himself and his followers away, convinced that one day, the dragons would return and restore the world to what it was. That's why they committed suicide—to hide him, to protect him, to give him the time he needed. He's been waiting ever since."

Brynjolf let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Sounds like madness."

"It is," Erik agreed, his eyes cold. "And we're about to wake him up."

The fire crackled between them as the group fell into a tense silence, each person lost in their own thoughts. The wind howled outside the stone walls, and the faint creaks of the ancient ruins seemed to whisper warnings they could not fully hear.

Erik stood, stretching out his limbs as he surveyed the weary group. "We'll set up shifts to keep watch. Rest while you can. The worst is yet to come."

Brynjolf nodded, already moving to organize the lookout. The sellswords muttered their agreements, though the weight of Erik's words hung heavily over them. They were about to face something ancient, something powerful, and none of them knew if they'd live to see the end of it.

...

The team awoke after a much-needed rest, their bodies sore but their minds sharp and ready to continue the exploration of Forelhost's Refectory. The ancient ruin still echoed with the weight of centuries, the staleness of the air thick with dust and decay. The fire from their camp had long since burned down to embers, leaving only the faint warmth of lingering heat, but they had kept safe through the night.

Draugr had stumbled upon their campsite during the early hours, their lifeless eyes gleaming with malice as they attempted to close in. However, Erik's runes had done their job. The undead creatures were reduced to nothing but shattered ice sculptures or charred husks, unable to breach the wards protecting the resting group.

Now, as they packed their supplies and made ready to move on, Erik took a final glance at the frozen remains of their assailants, their crumbled forms littering the edges of the camp. "They'll be the least of our problems soon enough," he muttered under his breath, though the others heard him well enough.

Brynjolf adjusted his gear and gave Erik a nod. "Aye, let's keep moving. This place is giving me more chills than that frost magic of yours."

With the group back on their feet, they resumed their exploration. The Refectory was vast and labyrinthine, the walls adorned with ancient Nordic carvings, faded and worn by time.

Draugr lurked in the shadows, but they were swiftly dispatched, the clashing of steel and bursts of spellwork filling the once-silent halls. As they pressed forward, the Nords in the group fell into their familiar rhythm, hacking down the undead with practiced ease, while Erik and Marcurio handled any threats from a distance with their spells.

Some of the sellswords suffered injuries due to being ambushed or taken off guard by draugr wielding their bows from vantage points, but they all came prepared with healing potions, and Erik even went out of his way to heal one severely injured mercenary with a restoration spell.

Loot was gathered from every corner—their eyes trained to spot even the faintest glimmer. Potions, ancient Nord weapons, and coins were carefully added to their growing haul, but nothing of great significance presented itself—yet.

After several winding hallways and battles, they finally found themselves at a dead end. Ahead, a pathway was blocked by a set of metal spears jutting from the ground like an impenetrable gate. The tips of the spears gleamed ominously in the low light, making it clear that brute force wasn't an option here.

Erik approached the spears, narrowing his eyes as he studied them, hands behind his back. He didn't even consider attempting to break through them. It wasn't the time, nor was it worth the effort, especially when he knew there was another way to unlock the path. Nordic ruins had their puzzles—always a way through, if you knew where to look.

"There's no point wasting time on this," Erik said calmly, turning to the group. "Start searching the area. There's bound to be something nearby."

Brynjolf didn't need any further instructions. He began scouring the room along with the others, carefully inspecting every corner.

Marcurio muttered under his breath about "needlessly elaborate Nord designs," while Geri sniffed around the stone floors with keen interest.

It didn't take long for Brynjolf's keen eyes to spot something out of place. Farther back in the room, tucked into a dark alcove, was another door—its lock old and rusted, but still intact.

"Found something!" Brynjolf called out, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

Erik approached as Brynjolf expertly set to work on the lock, his nimble fingers moving with precision. Within moments, the lock clicked open, and the door swung inward with a low groan, revealing a small chamber beyond.

The room was narrow and unassuming, but it was clear it held significance. Ancient Nord weapons lined the walls, their blades still gleaming under the layers of dust, and potions sat carefully arranged on shelves—some still intact after all these centuries. But the most important object lay on a pedestal near the back of the room: a glass dragon claw.

The claw's translucent surface caught the flickering torchlight, its intricate designs glowing faintly. Erik's eyes narrowed in satisfaction. "There it is. That'll do the trick."

Carefully, Erik lifted the claw from the pedestal, turning it over in his hands. The craftsmanship was remarkable, as always—a testament to the ancient Nords' skill in creating objects both practical and mystical. He gestured toward the blocked path. "Removing this should unlock the gate."

True to his word, the moment the claw was lifted, a low rumbling echoed through the chamber. The metallic spears slowly retracted into the ground with a grinding noise, leaving the path open and ready for them to proceed.

"Well done, lad," Brynjolf said, giving Erik a satisfied grin. "Let's move on before anything decides to wake up and walk again."

The group passed through the now-open path, weapons at the ready as they pressed forward. The air grew colder as they advanced, the silence oppressive. More draugr awaited them, rising from their tombs as the group entered each new chamber, but they were dealt with swiftly.

Erik's ice flew through the air, and Marcurio's fire spells lit the darkened corridors with bursts of orange and red.

Finally, after what felt like hours of fighting and searching, they came upon another obstacle—a large, imposing Nordic Puzzle Door. The circular stone slab was engraved with three rotating rings, each bearing the symbols of animals. The familiar sight of an ancient puzzle stood before them, its mechanism waiting to be unlocked by the dragon claw Erik now held.

Using the combination of Fox—Owl—Snake, Erik rotated the rings of the Nordic Puzzle Door into place and inserted the claw. A deep rumble echoed through the chamber as the door shifted, stone grinding against stone, and slowly, it slid open to reveal the final room beyond.

The air was thick with ancient power, stifling and cold as they stepped into the massive chamber. Their footsteps echoed off the high stone walls as they approached the back of the room, where a wide flight of stairs led to a grand dais. At the top, enshrined in his tomb, sat Rahgot, Dragon Priest of Alduin.

His sarcophagus loomed like an altar to forgotten gods, carved with intricate draconic symbols and bathed in an eerie glow. Behind him stood an enormous, ornate door, leading to the balcony overlooking the snowy peaks of Skyrim. Flanking the chamber, four tombs, two on each side, leaned against the walls, ancient and silent—but not for long.

Brynjolf's hand rested nervously on his weapon as the group ascended the stairs, the tension rising with every step. "Something's coming," he muttered, his eyes darting around.

As if in answer, Rahgot's coffin lid exploded outward, shards of stone scattering across the floor as the ancient priest rose, his skeletal form draped in rotting robes, his mask gleaming darkly beneath the torchlight. His eyes glowed with malice as he floated above his tomb, his staff crackling with arcane energy.

The four draugr champions stirred in their own tombs, the lids flying off as they rose to stand beside their master. Each one was armored in the finest of ancient Nord gear, weapons drawn, their soulless eyes fixed on Erik and his companions.

Rahgot's voice boomed in the ancient tongue of dragons, echoing off the stone walls:

"Sos hin vokiin sil fen siiv alun, tol los Alduin."

("Your blood will feed the sky above, for this is Alduin's will.")

As his words filled the chamber, Rahgot summoned three atronachs—flame, ice, and storm. They materialized with violent bursts of elemental energy, filling the air with the crackling sound of fire and the howling wind of ice. The chamber roared with power as the draugr champions let out guttural battle cries, brandishing their weapons with unnatural fury.

Erik, unfazed by the display, stepped forward with a grin of anticipation. He raised his chin, his voice steady and cold as he replied in the dragon tongue:

"Dovah los nid pah. Rok los nid ful."

("The dragons are not all. He is not everything.") 

Rahgot's glowing eyes narrowed as he understood the challenge. Erik's words cut through the room, and even in the dragon priest's ancient arrogance, there was a flicker of recognition. He had been defied before, but this time, the defiance was different.

With a sweeping motion, Rahgot raised his staff, and the room erupted into chaos. The atronachs surged forward, their elemental forms surging with violent intent, flame, ice, and storm, while the draugr roared and charged down the stairs, weapons gleaming with ancient enchantments.

Rahgot floated backward, the dark energy swirling around him as he began preparing a series of destructive spells, crackling with lightning, fire, and frost. The clash of the living against the dead echoed through the chamber as Erik and his team surged forward to meet their fate.

Erik's grin widened as he unsheathed his sword, his fighting spirit almost tangible. The selsswords moved into formation, weapons ready, spells charged. The final battle had begun.

"Drem Rahgot, nid do dovah. Hin tiid fen ofaal!" 

....

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