Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

Erik drank deeply from yet another potion, the acrid taste coating his throat and making his stomach churn. He had downed enough of them to feel his insides twist in discomfort, but they were doing their job. His muscles were no longer burning with fatigue, and his mind was beginning to clear. With a deep breath, he slowly rose to his feet, feeling the energy surge back into his body—enough to stand, enough to move.

He glanced down at the sword in his hand, the same one that had channeled so much raw power just moments ago. His frown deepened at the sight of its battered blade. Long cracks ran along its length, spider-webbing out from the center, threatening to split it in two. It was nearly on the verge of breaking.

"Useless now," he muttered, shaking his head in frustration. The sword had served him well in battle, but it was a temporary tool—never meant to withstand the full force of his magic. With a twist of his palm, the weapon vanished in a flicker of light.

"Helrath," Erik called out, turning to scan the battlefield for his skeletal ally.

To his surprise, he found Helrath already kneeling behind him, alongside the hulking figure of Surtr. Both stood silent, statuesque in their undead obedience. But what caught Erik's attention wasn't their posture—it was what Helrath held in his bony hands. A large black soul gem, two times the size of a regular one, gleamed under the dimming light.

Its surface was smooth, almost flawless, but the presence radiating from it was far from benign. It thrummed with an ancient, malevolent energy, overflowing with the raw power of magicka. The soul trapped within was unmistakable.

A smirk tugged at Erik's lips. "Rahgot's soul, I take it?" he mused to himself. There was no need to ask; the answer was clear. Helrath had succeeded in capturing the Dragon Priest's essence, sealing it within the gem like a prize.

Erik reached out, tucking the gem into the folds of his cloak. It hummed softly against his chest, a constant reminder of the power he now held. His thoughts raced at the possibilities. What he could learn—what he could gain—from Rahgot's soul was limitless. But that would come later.

Before he could contemplate further, Brynjolf approached, stepping over the charred remains of the battlefield.

His expression was one of weary relief, though there was still an edge to his voice as he said, "Well, you've really done it, lad. That Dragon Priest and his draugr won't be haunting this mountain anymore." He paused, glancing around at the carnage. "Should we head back to Riften now?"

Erik shook his head. "Not just yet." His eyes shifted to the idle skeletons standing among the debris. Their hollow, empty gazes awaited his command. "I want to take care of a few things first."

With a flick of his wrist, he gestured to the skeletons. "Clear the rubble," he ordered. "Gather the dead—both ours and theirs—and prepare them for cremation."

The undead soldiers moved immediately, their bones clattering as they went to work. There was no hesitation in their actions, no need for further instruction. They obeyed without question, their hands methodically sifting through the ruins, retrieving the bodies strewn across the battlefield. It was a grim task, but necessary.

Erik turned back to Brynjolf, who was watching the skeletons with a wary eye. "Take some time to rest. We'll be heading down the mountain in an hour or two at most."

Brynjolf opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, Erik snapped his fingers. A large wooden crate materialized in front of them, filled to the brim with potions of varying shapes and sizes. Erik gestured to it. "You and the ones still breathing can use those. If the potions aren't enough to keep someone alive, bring them to me."

Brynjolf blinked, clearly caught off guard by the gesture. His hard features softened slightly as he nodded in gratitude. "Thank you. I'm sure the lads will appreciate the help."

Without further delay, Brynjolf hefted the crate and began walking toward the surviving sellswords, who were tending to their wounds and the bodies of their fallen comrades.

Watching Brynjolf disappear into the distance, Erik's gaze drifted back to the remains of Rahgot. The once-formidable Dragon Priest was now reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash and dust, the ancient magicks that had bound his form together dissipating with his death and the capture of his soul. His once-imposing skeletal form had crumbled away, leaving behind only a faint trace of his former might.

Kneeling down, Erik began to sift through the remnants, his fingers brushing against the tattered robes that had once adorned the Dragon Priest. The robes disintegrated at his touch, falling apart like brittle paper, but buried within the dust, something far more solid caught his attention. With a quick motion, he retrieved Rahgot's mask.

The mask was an imposing piece, crafted from orichalcum, its greenish hue unmistakable even beneath the layers of dust that clung to it. As Erik held it up to the light, he could feel the energy radiating from it—an almost palpable sense of vitality coursing through the air around it. The mask seemed to pulse faintly, as though it still held some trace of the power that had once animated Rahgot's body.

A smirk played on Erik's lips as he studied the artifact. 'A powerful relic indeed,' he thought, the possibilities already swirling in his mind.

He had read about the ancient masks of the Dragon Priests—how they had been imbued with powerful enchantments, each one unique, each one a testament to the magic of a forgotten era. He would have plenty of time to study its properties, to unlock its secrets, but for now, he slipped it into the folds of his cloak. It would serve him well in time.

Turning his attention back to the pile of ash, Erik's hand brushed against another object. Pulling it free from the dust, he found Rahgot's staff. It was just as he remembered it from the game—ebony in color, standing just over half his height. The staff's surface was intricately inscribed with ancient runes, winding up its length like coiled serpents.

At its head, a dragon's snarling visage roared toward the sky, frozen in eternal defiance.

Erik ran his fingers over the dragon's head, feeling the cold metal beneath his touch. There were two types of staves in this world—some enchanted with a single spell, others merely serving as conduits to enhance a mage's casting ability. This one, however, was unique. It combined both traits, allowing for more efficient spellcasting while also holding a permanent enchantment.

The spell embedded within the staff—Wall of Fire—was potent, though Erik found it somewhat limiting for his purposes. The spell had little practical application in most scenarios, but the staff itself... well, that was another matter.

He had no intention of leaving it as it was. Already, he was considering how best to reforge it, to mold it into something greater. With the right rituals and enchantments, this staff could become something far more dangerous—a weapon tailored to his specific needs. His mind churned with possibilities, each more tantalizing than the last.

As he was lost in thought, a sharp bark broke through his reverie. Erik turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw Geri, the demonic hound, standing near the edge of the ruined balcony. The creature was wagging its tail excitedly, barking at something just beyond the crumbled stone railing. Erik's brow furrowed in confusion as he followed the dog's gaze, his eyes landing on the ancient Word Wall nestled into the cliffside.

The Wall loomed over the edge of the mountain, weathered and worn, but still imposing. The carved dragon language etched into its surface glowed faintly, as if the very stones themselves remembered the power they once held. A sense of ancient, raw magic emanated from it, a connection to the Thu'um, the Dragon Shouts, that had shaped this world long before Erik had ever arrived.

Erik approached the Word Wall, intrigued as the ancient runes glowed faintly in the fading light. He smirked, musing to himself, 'I always wondered what was written on these walls, but I was too lazy to ever look into it.'

Now, however, the opportunity to find out was right before him, and for the first time, the allure of the ancient dragon language drew him in. With the staff still in hand, he stepped closer, his eyes scanning the ancient text with an intensity he rarely displayed.

The carved words seemed to shimmer, pulling his focus deeper into the meaning they conveyed. As he read, Erik's expression grew dazed, entranced by the weight of the history embedded within the stone. He could almost feel the echoes of the past, the warriors who had once stood on this very mountain, carving their legends into eternity.

It wasn't until Brynjolf's voice cut through the fog in his mind that Erik snapped back to the present.

"You alright, lad?" Brynjolf called, his voice tinged with concern. The thief had a keen eye for when something was amiss.

Erik blinked, turning to Brynjolf and offering a quick nod. "All is well. Just lost in thought for a moment," he said, his voice calm but distant as if part of him was still connected to the wall and the power it contained.

Brynjolf glanced from Erik to the Word Wall, then back again, his brow furrowed. "I take it you can read this gibberish then? Care to share?"

Erik shrugged, a casual motion, but his mind was still piecing together the meaning behind the words.

He spoke, his voice taking on a strange cadence as he recited the ancient text. "Here fell Hrothmar, Wrath Wolf, from the savage plains; may his soul wander Sovngarde forever."

Brynjolf's eyes widened in surprise, his curiosity piqued. "And who is this Hrothmar to be honored in such a way?"

Erik shook his head slowly, his fingers idly tracing the grooves of the dragon script. "I've never heard the name before, but the dragon tongue conveys more than just words. It speaks with intent. From what I can gather..." He paused, thoughtfully tapping his chin.

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow, clearly impatient. "Well? Don't keep me waiting."

A chuckle escaped Erik as he continued. "Since Hrothmar is called Wrath Wolf, it's highly likely he was a lycanthrope. The dragon language is precise—every word carries layers of meaning. This title suggests he was not just a warrior, but a fierce one, driven by the rage of a wolf's blood. And since it says he fell here, I'd wager he was an enemy of the Dragon Cult. Possibly a champion who fought against them."

Brynjolf folded his arms, his expression skeptical but intrigued. "And what makes you think he fought against them?"

Erik's eyes gleamed as he delved deeper into his theory. "Look where we are—this mountain was likely a stronghold of the Cult. If Hrothmar fell here, he was either defending or attacking it. My guess is he was a warrior of High King Harald, or maybe even someone from that era. The ancient kings led campaigns against the Cult, and it's not a stretch to think Hrothmar fought in those battles."

Brynjolf's brow furrowed, skepticism etched into his features as he studied the ancient markings on the wall. "It's rather impressive," he began, "that you pull such a story from a few scratches on the wall... but would the Dragon Cult really honor their enemy like this? If Rahgot is anything to judge them by, they don't seem like such an honorable lot."

Erik glanced at Brynjolf with a blank expression, his lips curling into a smirk. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a laugh—sharp and cutting through the mountain air.

The thief's comment amused him, but the truth of the matter was something far darker. "What makes you think this Word Wall was constructed to honor him?" Erik asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "If anything, it's a clear mockery."

Brynjolf's frown deepened, his mind turning over Erik's words, trying to reconcile what he had just heard. "A mockery? What other purpose could this Word Wall serve other than to honor this Hrothmar fellow? They even bid his soul to forever wander Sovngarde."

Erik's amusement faded into a weary sigh. He turned his gaze back to the wall, the weight of ancient history pressing on his thoughts. "That's exactly why I think it's a mockery," he explained, his voice softer now, tinged with a scholar's disdain for those who would twist legends to their own ends. "You might not know this, but a werewolf can never enter Sovngarde. Hircine wouldn't allow it."

Brynjolf blinked, confusion flickering in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Erik's expression hardened as he continued, his tone more deliberate now, as though he were lecturing a novice. "All lycanthropes are destined to forever hunt at their master's side in the Hunting Grounds after their souls leave Mundus. Hircine, the Daedric Prince of the Hunt, claims them—every last one of them. To bid Hrothmar's soul to wander Sovngarde, knowing full well that he could never set foot there... it's a cruel jest."

The words hung between them, and for a moment, the mountain seemed quieter. Even the wind, which had been howling moments before, seemed to still, as though out of respect for the truth Erik had just laid bare.

Brynjolf's frown grew more pronounced. "So... this is meant as an insult? A jab at his fate?"

Erik's gaze turned sharp, his disdain for the Dragon Cult clear in every word that followed. "Think about it. Would a cult of cowards who bent their knees to dragons really regard Sovngarde so highly? These men—these priests—forsook everything for power, for the fleeting favor of the dragons. They worshipped their overlords, carved these walls with their draconic tongue, and subjugated the people. To them, Sovngarde was just another farce, one they likely despised for how it glorified the warriors who fought against them."

Brynjolf exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced again at the Word Wall. "So... what you're saying is, they wrote this knowing full well Hrothmar would never reach Sovngarde? That it was a curse disguised as an honor?"

Erik gave a curt nod, his voice calm yet dismissive as he replied, "Exactly. But it's nothing more than ancient history now. It has nothing to do with us."

Turning away from the wall, Erik cast his gaze over the area, and his eyes fell on the sight of the skeletons—Helrath and Surtr among them—having already gathered the fallen soldiers. The bodies lay in neat rows, their faces turned skyward as if awaiting their final journey.

The battlefield, once filled with the clamor of steel and the roars of battle, now lay silent, except for the faint whisper of the wind that carried with it the scent of snow and death.

Erik walked forward, his steps steady but heavy with the weight of what had transpired. He stood at the center of the fallen, looking over the bodies of those who had fought and died in Rahgot's forsaken lair.

He raised his hands and addressed the dead, his voice somber but full of a quiet respect. "Your deaths need not be pitied," Erik began, his tone carrying across the cold air. "You fought with blades in your hands, as true Nords should. Your souls will find their way to Sovngarde."

He paused, letting the words sink in, not just for himself but for any who might still be listening from the afterlife. "You will feast with the heroes of old, drink mead in the halls of Shor, and your names will be sung alongside the greatest warriors to have ever lived. This world may forget you, but Sovngarde will welcome you with open arms."

The quiet reverence of the moment stretched, and for a fleeting second, it felt as if the dead themselves were listening, as if the spirits were waiting for the release that would carry them away from this cold, broken world.

With a deep breath, Erik lowered his hands and, with a swift motion, began weaving his magicka into a spell.

The fire that erupted from his hands was not wild and raging, but a steady, controlled blaze that moved from one body to the next, igniting them in ceremonial flames. The fire danced over the dead, consuming them in a glow of orange and gold, the heat radiating outward but never threatening the living.

The snow around them began to melt as the flames roared higher, and a faint smell of burning flesh mixed with the crisp mountain air. Erik stood still, watching as the fire took them, transforming the fallen into ashes that would soon be carried away by the wind. There was something both cleansing and final about the act, a fitting end for those who had died in battle.

Satisfied that the dead were being seen off properly, Erik turned to his undead companions. Helrath, still clutching the large black soul gem, and Surtr, the towering skeletal warrior, stood at attention, awaiting their master's command. The rest of his undead legion stood behind them, their vacant eyes glowing faintly in the dimming light.

With a snap of his fingers, Erik dismissed them all. "Return to Snowhawk Fortress," he commanded, his voice laced with authority. "You've served your purpose here."

One by one, Helrath, Surtr, and the rest of the undead minions vanished in swirls of ethereal energy, their forms dissipating like shadows cast by a fading sun. Soon, the only reminder of their presence was the stillness that followed, a silence that felt strangely peaceful after the chaos of battle.

Erik exhaled, feeling the weight of the day's events pressing on his shoulders, but he was far from done. Turning back toward the path down the mountain, he began preparing himself for the journey. "We should head down soon," he muttered to himself, already thinking about what awaited him next.

Brynjolf reappeared, his steps crunching softly in the snow as he approached. "Everything in order, lad?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of weariness.

Erik nodded, casting one last glance at the burning pyre that consumed the bodies of the fallen. "Aye. Let's get off this mountain before the storm rolls in."

With that, they began their descent, the distant glow of the fire behind them, marking the end of one battle and the start of whatever came next.

...

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