Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

Erik charged toward Rahgot with fierce determination, his straight sword gleaming in the dim light of the chamber. The dragon priest floated above the stone floor, his skeletal mask locked in a permanent grimace as he conjured flames and ice, ready to hurl at Erik.

But Erik was not one to be cowed. His sword swung with lethal precision, forcing Rahgot to conjure defensive wards, the edges of Erik's blade crackling with arcane energy as it slammed into the shimmering barriers.

Beh2ind him, Geri's small corgi body erupted into flames, transforming into an elemental force of nature. With a low growl, Geri split into three distinct entities: flame, ice, and storm. Each form raced toward one of Rahgot's summoned atronachs, elemental forces colliding with a thunderous roar.

The sellswords gaped at the sight of the tiny dog now blazing as a trio of elemental creatures. For a moment, they hesitated, unable to fully comprehend what they were witnessing.

"By the gods..." one of them muttered, gripping his axe tighter.

But there was no time for awe. The draugr champions had awakened, their ancient eyes glowing with malevolent blue light as they rose from their crypts, and more of them were rushing toward the area from the crypts.

Brynjolf rallied the sellswords, stepping forward to meet the undead warriors head-on. "To arms, lads!" he roared, steel flashing as his sword met the rusted blade of a draugr, the impact almost breaking his wrist. The sound of metal clashing against metal echoed throughout the chamber as the nords barely kept the ancient champions at bay.

While the Nords fought valiantly, Marcurio had other plans. Eager to prove his superiority, he stepped forward, hands crackling with magical energy. "Let me show you how it's done!" he sneered, preparing to unleash a devastating spell.

But before the magic fully coalesced, one of the draugr champions turned its head toward him, its ancient lips parting as it bellowed "Fus Ro!"

The force of the Unrelenting Shout hit Marcurio like a hammer. His body was torn apart mid-spell, chunks of flesh and bone exploding in all directions. His headless torso slammed into a pillar, blood splattering across the room, staining Brynjolf and the others. The smell of iron filled the air as the sellswords faltered, their morale shaken by the brutal demise of the cocky Imperial.

Erik spared a glance at the carnage, his eyes narrowing in disdain. "Stop shaming your ancestors, you damn whelps!" he roared, slapping away an incoming fireball with a compressed ward spell. His voice boomed across the chamber, cutting through the chaos. "Either find your courage, or I'll send you to Sovngarde myself!" His hand snapped, summoning Surtur in a burst of black and crimson flames.

Surtur materialized in the midst of the battle—a towering skeletal figure adorned with the searing energies of the Deadlands. Flames licked his bony frame, and his hollow eye sockets burned with the malevolent red glow of Oblivion's fire. Unlike Helrath, who was imbued with the cold cruelty of Coldharbour, Surtur embodied the wild, savage heat of Mehrunes Dagon's realm.

The ground smoldered beneath his feet as he charged the draugr champions with an unrelenting ferocity. The sellswords regained their composure as Surtur tore into the draugr, taking advantage of the element of surprise.

His fiery fists ignited as they crushed ancient armor and brittle bone, each swing sending out bursts of flame. One draugr staggered, its torso severed in two by a brutal swipe of Surtr's claws.

Another found its sword-arm torn from its body before being incinerated by a blast of fire from Surtur's mouth. The sellswords, inspired by the summoned monstrosity, regained their fighting spirit and pressed forward.

Brynjolf wiped the blood from his face, shaking his head in disgust as he pushed Marcurio's dismembered arm out of his way. "Gods damn it," he muttered, rallying the men. "We fight! For Sovngarde or glory!"

The Nords clashed with the draugr champions, their shouts of battle rage mixing with the clanging of weapons. Axes and swords swung with brutal efficiency, cleaving into the decaying flesh of their enemies. But these were no ordinary draugr.

They were champions of old, their skills honed in countless battles. The fight was hard, each blow a test of endurance, but Brynjolf and the sellswords fought with the fury of their ancestors, and it was enough to slowly push them back.

Meanwhile, Geri, in his three elemental forms, engaged Rahgot's atronachs. The flaming Geri bit into the fire atronach's core, his flames burning brighter as he tore into his opponent.

The ice Geri slammed into the frost atronach, each impact sending shards of ice flying in every direction, while the storm Geri faced off with the storm atronach, their energies colliding in a swirl of lightning and thunder.

The chamber trembled under the weight of their elemental battle, the very air charged with raw magical energy.

Rahgot, still levitating, cast spell after spell at Erik, attempting to keep his distance. Fireballs, ice spikes, and streams of lightning shot through the air, but Erik deflected them all with calculated precision. His straight sword reflected the light of the wards he wove with his other hand, his grin widening with every blocked spell.

Rahgot's hollow eyes flared with fury, his voice a deep growl as he spat a response in the ancient tongue, "Hin sil los vorah, Nil Bahlaan!"

("Your soul is weak, unworthy one!")

But Erik merely chuckled, advancing relentlessly.

Rahgot let out a guttural roar, summoning even more power from the depths of his ancient soul. Lightning crackled around his skeletal frame as he raised both hands, preparing to unleash a devastating wave of destruction magic. But Erik was faster. With a burst of magicka, he surged forward, bringing his sword up in a deadly arc.

Rahgot barely managed to raise his staff in time to block the blow, the force of their clash sending a shockwave through the room.

Behind them, the draugr champions were slowly being overwhelmed by the combined might of Surtur, Brynjolf, and the sellswords. Surtur's fiery sword cleaved through their ranks, each strike a blazing inferno of destruction.

Brynjolf fought with grim determination, his sword hacking at the ancient warriors with practiced precision. The sellswords, their fear forgotten, pressed the attack, their axes and swords biting deep into draugr flesh.

The chamber echoed with the sounds of battle—clashing weapons, roaring flames, and the guttural shouts of the undead. The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh and ozone, the ground littered with the corpses of fallen draugr and shattered atronachs.

Erik grinned as he saw the tide turning in their favor. Rahgot, now on the defensive, was running out of options. The dragon priest's once-mighty spells were beginning to falter, and Erik could feel the end drawing near.

"Zu'u krii dii sahrot himdah! Hahkun!" Erik shouted.

("Your time has come! Now die!")

Suddenly, Rahgot brandished his staff, slamming it into the ground. The air crackled with fiery energy as a wall of flame erupted between him and the others, cutting him off from view. The last of the draugr champions fell, their ancient bodies crumbling into dust as the Nord sellswords hacked through their ranks.

But the victory was fleeting. Rahgot's bones began to glow with an eerie light, his hollow sockets burning brighter as the surrounding magicka was drawn into him, devoured like a hungry beast consuming the very essence of the room.

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Ready yourselves! He's preparing something big!" he exclaimed for everyone to hear, immediately launching a volley of ice spikes toward the flaming barrier. The shards of ice shimmered as they shot through the air, but as they neared the dragon priest, they simply dissipated into the heat, turning to steam before even touching him.

Rahgot wasn't just absorbing the magicka—he was feeding on it.

Erik's expression darkened, his grip tightening on his sword. He could feel the air becoming thick with energy, the atmosphere growing more oppressive as Rahgot's power grew. The priest was drawing in every ounce of magic in the room, preparing for something catastrophic.

The very stones of the ancient ruins seemed to tremble beneath Erik's feet, as though the entire structure was straining to hold against the unnatural force that was building.

"Bloody dragon slave," Erik growled, quickly reaching into his pouch. He withdrew a flame resistance potion and a mana recovery elixir, uncorking both and downing them in quick succession. The bitter taste of the potions burned his throat, but there was no time to hesitate. With a burst of energy, Erik leaped over the towering wall of flame, his sword raised, ready to cut down the dragon priest.

But before he could close the distance, Rahgot let out a low, guttural chant, summoning two Dremora lords from the fires of Oblivion. The daedric warriors appeared with a blinding flash of red and black light, their massive, armored forms radiating malevolence. The first Dremora charged Erik with a vicious battle cry, its ebony sword slashing through the air toward his neck.

Erik barely managed to block the incoming blow, the force of it sending vibrations up his arm. Sparks flew as steel met daedric metal, the clash echoing throughout the chamber. The second Dremora was already charging from the side, its weapon poised to strike Erik from behind.

But before it could reach him, Geri's flame elemental form lunged through the fiery barrier, slamming into the Dremora with the force of a blazing meteor. The two tumbled across the stone floor in a whirlwind of fire and daedric metal, the elemental dog gnashing at the Dremora's armor as it struggled to rise.

Erik's focus, however, remained locked on Rahgot. The dragon priest floated ominously in the air, his skeletal form wreathed in an intense, fiery aura. He was continuing to accumulate magicka—more and more of it—until the sheer pressure of his power filled the chamber. The oppressive heat pressed against Erik's skin, even with the flame resistance potion still fresh in his veins.

"I don't have time for this! Begone!" Erik cursed, sweat dripping down his brow as he deflected another savage blow from the first Dremora. With a burst of magicka, he channeled his energy into his hands, casting a banish daedra spell. His voice rang out with arcane authority, the ancient words pulling at the fabric of Oblivion itself.

A shimmering portal opened beneath the Dremora, dragging the daedric warrior back to the realm from whence it came. The creature let out one last guttural roar before vanishing, its essence scattered back to the void.

Erik winced as the spell drained the last of his magicka reserves. He was running on fumes now, his body aching from the strain. But there was no time to recover. He summoned Helrath with a snap of his fingers, the skeletal warrior appearing with its cold, blue glow. Erik didn't even bother giving it instructions.

Helrath needed no guidance. The undead knight charged at the second Dremora, its ethereal blade clashing with daedric steel as they locked in combat, bone and metal grinding in a vicious struggle.

Erik's gaze snapped back to Rahgot, who was still suspended in the air, the fiery aura around him growing ever more intense. The chamber trembled, the ancient stones groaning under the strain of the immense magical energy.

If Erik didn't stop him now, the entire ruin might collapse, and whatever spell Rahgot was preparing could level half the mountain.

With a guttural snarl, Erik charged at the dragon priest, his sword raised high. The distance between them closed in an instant, and Erik swung his blade down toward Rahgot's skull, hoping to sever the dragon priest's connection to his magicka in one decisive blow.

But it was too late.

With a deafening roar, Rahgot unleashed the full force of his accumulated magicka. The fiery aura surrounding him exploded outward in a violent, fiery tempest. Erik barely had time to react as the blast hit him like a battering ram, the heat and force tearing through his body and sending him hurtling backward.

His vision blurred, the chamber spinning as he crashed into the stone floor, skidding across the ground like a ragdoll. He could hear nothing but the roar of the flames, the very air vibrating with the might of the master-level destruction spell.

The world around him seemed to darken, the edges of his vision closing in as he struggled to stay conscious. The ancient stones of the ruin creaked and groaned, barely containing the fiery storm that Rahgot had unleashed. Smoke filled the air, the scent of burning stone and ash overwhelming Erik's senses.

...

Erik's eyes flickered open, a groan of pain escaping his lips as he forced himself to breathe. Above him, the collapsed ceiling of the ancient ruins lay strewn about in massive chunks, remnants of a structure that had once entombed Rahgot's body. Now, it was nothing but rubble, pulverized by the overwhelming force of the dragon priest's magicka explosion. The walls, the altars, the intricate carvings—all obliterated, leaving nothing behind but debris, dust, and ruin. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning stone and scorched earth.

Helrath and Surtr stood vigil over him, their glowing eyes casting a cold, spectral light over the shattered landscape. Helrath, his skeletal knight, held his blade aloft, ever the silent guardian. Surtr, the fiery berserker bound to Erik by the energies of Oblivion, flickered like a living inferno, his wild, untamed power barely contained. They were the only reason Erik had survived the blast, their protective stances shielding his battered body from the worst of it.

Erik grunted, wincing as pain shot through his body. His ribs felt like they were on fire, his limbs heavy with the weight of shattered bones. Each attempt to move was met with agony, a reminder of how close he had come to death. His magicka reserves were utterly drained, leaving him powerless. He tried to lift himself up, only to fall back with a frustrated growl. He was stuck.

Through the haze of pain, Erik's gaze swept across the scene. What he saw made his heart sink. The expedition team—his sellswords, Brynjolf's crew—lay scattered across the rubble, their bodies broken and lifeless. More than half of them had fallen, reduced to little more than twisted corpses among the debris.

Only Brynjolf and two of the more seasoned sellswords remained on their feet, though they were barely standing, their breaths ragged, their bodies bruised and bloodied.

Erik clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding against each other. He had led them into this, and now most of them were dead. But as dire as their situation was, none of that compared to the growing alarm that gnawed at his insides. Erik's eyes slowly lifted toward the sky, his heart pounding in his chest.

High above them, Rahgot hovered in the air, his skeletal arms spread wide as if in a mockery of triumph. His tattered robes billowed in the unnatural wind that swirled around him. But what truly chilled Erik's blood was the massive sphere of fire coalescing above the dragon priest's head.

The flames roared to life, growing larger and larger with each passing second, feeding on the magicka that Rahgot continued to siphon from the surrounding area. The power radiating from the fiery orb was unlike anything Erik had felt before—raw, volatile, and catastrophically dangerous.

"Shit..." Erik whispered, his voice barely audible. If Rahgot unleashed that, there wouldn't be anything left—not of them, not of the ruins, not even of the mountain.

Erik's mind raced. He needed to act, and fast. But his magicka was depleted, his body battered, and he had no potions left. He instinctively reached for his belt, only to curse under his breath as he realized the vials he kept there had been shattered by the blast. His fingers clenched around empty air, the bitter taste of failure rising in his throat.

"Think, damn it, think!" Erik muttered, his vision swimming from the pain.

Suddenly, a flicker of hope ignited in his mind. He remembered Brynjolf—always the opportunist—pocketing a few potions among other items from the ruin when he thought no one was watching.

Erik had deemed their values as beneath the effort to call out Brynjolf on his petty theft, but now, that little bit of thievery might just save them all.

With a ragged breath, Erik turned his head toward where Brynjolf stood, barely able to stay upright, his face streaked with blood and grime.

"Brynjolf!" Erik rasped, his voice hoarse. "You… you took potions from the ruin, didn't you?"

Brynjolf looked up, startled, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. "What in Oblivion are you talking about?"

"Now's not the time to play dumb!" Erik spat, wincing from the effort. "You took some potions. I need one—now. A magicka potion, anything! Rahgot's going to obliterate us if I don't stop him."

Brynjolf hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the blazing sphere of fire growing above Rahgot. The sellsword swallowed hard, his expression torn between fear and self-preservation. For a moment, it seemed like he might turn heel and run, but then he reached into his pouch and pulled out a small vial of blue liquid.

Erik's heart raced as Brynjolf stumbled toward him, tossing the potion into his hand. Without a second thought, Erik uncorked it with his teeth and downed the contents, the cool liquid sliding down his throat like salvation.

The rush of magicka flooded his veins, a revitalizing surge that filled the emptiness left by the battle. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

...

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