Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

Erik hummed to himself, a low, steady tune that carried softly through the cooling evening air as he strolled through Riften's market square. Geri padded silently at his heels, the corgi's silver fur gleaming faintly in the last traces of daylight. The sun was sinking behind the jagged peaks that framed the city, casting long shadows over the marketplace.

Stall owners were beginning to pack away their wares, pulling down faded cloth awnings and securing their goods for the night.

But despite the calmness of the scene, Erik could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on him. The usual buzz of chatter that filled the square had hushed the moment he appeared. Some merchants halted mid-task, their hands frozen on the ropes of their stalls, nervously glancing at him whenever they thought his attention was elsewhere.

Others weren't as subtle, openly whispering behind hands, their voices tinged with fear.

"Wraith," one voice muttered from somewhere behind a vegetable stand. "That's him... the Wraith of the docks, no of Forelhost."

"Did you hear what the mercenaries said?" another whispered, eyes wide. "They say he even speaks to the dead..."

Erik pretended not to hear. The gossip didn't bother him. In fact, it almost amused him. Necromancy was frowned upon in Skyrim, but it was not against the law. As long as it was mere words, they could call him what they wanted—Wraith, necromancer, dark mage—it made no difference to him.

He cared not for their approval or their fear. All that mattered was the work he'd set out to do, and he had far more pressing concerns than the opinions of Riften's merchants.

It had been four days since he'd returned to the city, and even now, he could still vividly recall the scene that greeted him upon his arrival. Maven Black-Briar had been waiting at the gate, a formidable contingent of city guards at her side. Her face had been a mixture of impatience and curiosity, and she had wasted no time in confronting him.

"I saw the glow of magic all the way from Riften," she had said, her sharp eyes narrowing. "And the court wizard almost tore her own hair out in anxiousness after feeling the ripples of magicka from Forelhost. Care to explain what exactly went on up there?"

Erik had been too exhausted to engage in a proper conversation, let alone entertain Maven's demands for answers. His body had been heavy with fatigue, his mind still reeling from the battle with Rahgot and the aftermath.

He had simply shrugged and said, "I'm too tired to discuss it now," before brushing past her and making his way to the Bee and the Barb.

Once inside the tavern, Erik had ordered a meal that could have fed five starved Nords—a feast of meats, bread, and mead that made even the tavern's regulars gawk. He had devoured every bite without a second thought, then staggered to his room, collapsing into the bed with a groan. He hadn't expected to sleep for two straight days, but when he woke, the sun had already dipped below the horizon once again.

Upon waking, he had followed the same ritual: another large meal, this time smaller in scale but still enough to draw curious glances from the innkeeper, and then it was back to business.

He'd spent the next two days at the forge, hammering away at raw ingots, forging new blades to replace the one that had shattered during the fight with Rahgot. The clang of metal on metal had been a strangely meditative process, the heat of the forge offering a distraction from the lingering weight of his victory—and the souls he had claimed in the process.

Of course, he didn't neglect his study of the lexicon and devoted even more time to unlocking its secrets. However, with both the accumulation of mental and physical fatigue, he stopped going out to explore the wilderness of the Rift.

Instead, he devoted his free time to simply sleeping and reading books to relax whenever the whispers of the dwemer from within the lexicon became too heavy to bear.

Once his weapons were ready, Erik had moved on to Riften's alchemy shop, stocking up on the ingredients he needed to replenish his depleted stash of potions. The shopkeeper had been polite enough, though Erik noticed the man's eyes constantly flicking to Geri, as if half-expecting the corgi to pounce at any moment. Thanks to the chatter of the sellswords that accompanied him, he wasn't the only one to gain a reputation.

Erik paid him no mind, purchasing what he needed without engaging in small talk, proceeding to brew the needed potions without delay, and by the time he was done, the sky had already darkened, leaving the city bathed in twilight.

Now, as he made his way back toward the Bee and the Barb, Erik felt the familiar weariness returning. His body still wasn't fully recovered from his ordeal at Forelhost, and though he'd managed to rest, the lingering tension in his muscles reminded him that he was still far from his best.

Geri let out a low, soft whine as they passed by the meatmonger's stall, the corgi's nose twitching wildly at the scent of fresh cuts of beef and venison. The little dog's tongue dangled from his mouth, his wide eyes fixed on the array of meats laid out in the open air, practically flooding the cobblestones beneath him with drool.

Erik followed the corgi's gaze and couldn't help but smirk, rolling his eyes at his companion's never-ending appetite.

"We're almost back to the inn," Erik said with a resigned sigh, nudging Geri away from the stall. "I'll get you something nice and chewy there."

Geri trotted along obediently, though he cast one last, longing glance over his shoulder at the tantalizing display. Erik shook his head with a faint chuckle, his thoughts wandering as they made their way toward the Bee and the Barb.

The familiar glow of the inn spilled out onto the cobblestone street ahead, a beacon of warmth against the darkening sky. The smell of roasted meat and ale drifted toward him, comforting and welcoming after a long, tiresome day.

Yet, despite the inviting aromas and the promise of food and drink, something felt... off. Erik couldn't quite place it, but the feeling gnawed at him.

A strange tension hung in the air, as though the city itself was holding its breath. He shrugged the feeling off, telling himself it was just the exhaustion lingering from his days at the forge and the lingering aftershocks of his time in Forelhost.

As Erik reached the door of the inn, he paused briefly before pushing it open. The instant he stepped inside, the feeling of unease solidified. The once lively atmosphere of the Bee and the Barb had vanished, replaced by an eerie silence. Gone were the usual sounds of raucous laughter, clinking mugs, and the cheerful strumming of the bard's lute.

The tables, typically crowded with boisterous patrons, were now empty. Only one person remained in the dimly lit room—Maven Black-Briar, sitting calmly at a table directly opposite the entrance.

Her expression was one of cool amusement, a slight smile playing at the corners of her lips as she took a slow sip from a jeweled goblet. The flickering candlelight reflected off her rings, casting sharp glints across the darkened tavern. Erik let out a long, tired sigh. Of course.

"Haven't we been here before?" he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with exasperation.

He made his way toward Maven, grabbing a half-finished plate of food from an abandoned table as he passed. Geri's ears perked up immediately at the sight of the meal, and Erik lowered the plate to the floor, letting the corgi dig in with a happy, muffled bark.

With that taken care of, Erik picked up a nearby bottle of mead, popping the cork off with a practiced motion, and slumped into the seat across from Maven. He took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before leveling a dry look at the woman.

"You couldn't have just sent a letter? Or waited like a normal person?" Erik asked, gesturing toward the empty room with the bottle in hand. "Do you really have to chase away every single patron and even the innkeepers out of the inn just to have a chat?"

Maven's smile widened ever so slightly, her eyes gleaming with that calculating sharpness that Erik had come to expect from her. She set the goblet down delicately, folding her hands on the table as though this were just a casual chat between friends.

"Where would be the fun in that?" she said smoothly, her voice rich with amusement. "You and I both know that sending a letter wouldn't have the... desired effect. Besides, the patrons will return once we're done. I simply needed some privacy."

Erik groaned, leaning back in his chair and taking another long swig of mead. "Privacy," he repeated, his tone flat, the word rolling off his tongue like it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

His eyes wandered toward the wooden chest placed on the ground beside the table. He gestured to it, adding, "Well, what is it that you wanted to discuss? And does that chest have anything to do with it?"

Maven followed his gaze, her expression unchanging as she gave a small shake of her head. "Not at all," she said, her tone dismissive. "That chest contains the money you gave to Brynjolf. The compensation you intended for the families of the dead mercenaries."

Erik raised an eyebrow in surprise, but Maven's face grew more exasperated as she continued. "I don't know what's more astonishing," she added, her voice thick with irritation. "That you entrusted so much gold to a thief, or the fact that he didn't try to embezzle it."

Erik couldn't help but laugh at that, the sound rough and genuine as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Even thieves have their codes of honor," he said with a smirk. "That Brynjolf might not flaunt it, but he's not as rotten as he likes people to think."

Maven chuckled at those words, but there was a slight hint of disdain in her voice as she spoke. "Indeed; a thief with a heart of gold..."

He shot Maven a pointed glance, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "In any case," he added, his tone turning more serious, "why is the gold still here, and not in the hands of the families of the deceased?"

Maven's lips curled slightly into a subtle, knowing smile, but there was a hardness in her eyes as she offered a small shrug. "Because you are not obliged to offer compensation," she said matter-of-factly.

Then, trailing off, she leaned back and added with a hint of something almost vulnerable, "You wanted to go to Forelhost alone. I insisted on sending help. So, I should be the one to compensate them, shouldn't I?"

Erik's brow lifted in amusement, his interest piqued as he studied Maven's face more intently. Her mask of indifference was expertly crafted, but he could sense there was more to her gesture than simple generosity. She wasn't a kind soul by nature, and while Erik knew she wasn't ruled by fear, she was far too calculating to act purely out of goodwill.

Perhaps she saw this as a way to ensure her control, to remind the mercenaries who truly held their purse strings. Or maybe it was her way of placating them before any unrest festered—he couldn't say for sure.

Whatever her reason, Erik found himself mildly amused. He didn't care much for the loyalty or opinions of sellswords, but pride, his pride, was something else entirely.

Scoffing softly, Erik leaned back again, his hand idly swirling the mead in the bottle as he mulled over her words. "The things I've given," he said slowly, his voice low and firm, "should not be taken back so lightly. Think of it as added compensation from me and give it to the families. I was the one who led their sons into their deaths, after all."

His eyes locked with Maven's, and though his words were practical, there was a finality in them that silenced any further debate. Erik understood the weight of responsibility for those who had fallen under his watch, and he had no intention of letting someone else carry that burden—not even if Maven saw it as a chance to extend her influence.

Like thieves, who adhered to their own unspoken codes of honor and limits, Erik had his own. The remnants of two thousand years' worth of memories, the beliefs of an ancient necromancer, and the habits of that long-perished soul clung to him from the moment he awoke at the ritual's conclusion, even if he didn't fully realize it.

He remained himself, the video game addict who had once preferred the glow of his computer screen to real human interaction. But now, he was also a Nord—a skald, a necromancer who had once turned Tamriel on its head. And the warrior traidition of Skyrim, etched into his very soul, shaped his every thought.

Those fallen sellswords, though mere passersby in the greater sweep of his journey, had been brave warriors. Even if their skill didn't stand out, they deserved the respect of those who fell with their weapons still in hand, defiant until their final breaths.

Maven studied him for a moment, her expression inscrutable. Then, after a brief pause, she inclined her head slightly, as if acknowledging his decision. "Very well," she said softly. "It shall be as you wish."

Erik leaned back, stretching his arms over his head as he let out a long breath. "Glad we got that out of the way," he said, his tone a little lighter, though his sharp gaze remained on Maven. "Now, what's this really about? I know you didn't clear out the inn just to discuss some pocket change..."

Maven's smile widened as she reached beneath the table and pulled out two rolled parchments, placing them on the worn wooden surface with deliberate care. Erik quirked an eyebrow, reaching for one of them.

"What are these?" he asked as he began to unfurl the first scroll.

Maven leaned back in her chair, taking a leisurely sip from her goblet before responding. "The first," she said, her voice smooth, "is a decree from Jarl Laila Law-Giver, proclaiming you Thane of Riften for your great service to the hold."

Erik blinked, glancing from the parchment to Maven before his lips curled into a smirk. "Thane of Riften?" He shook his head in amusement. "And here I thought titles like that required at least a meeting with the Jarl."

Maven's eyes sparkled with amusement as she gestured to the second scroll. "The other," she continued, "is a property deed for Honeyside, a lovely little house overlooking the harbor. A gift, from me."

"A house?" Erik asked, picking up the second scroll. "Generous. Though I suppose it wouldn't do for the Thane of the Rift to be holed up in the Bee and the Barb like a common tourist, now would it?"

Maven chuckled softly, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet. "Precisely. It's a rather... dignified position, wouldn't you say?"

Erik tilted his head, studying the parchments before glancing back at her. "I don't know how you pulled this off without me even meeting the Jarl, but I'll remind you—I'm already Thane of Hjaalmarch. Your little maneuver here might've been for nothing."

Maven's expression didn't falter as she leaned in slightly, her voice lowering in that silky, persuasive way of hers. "That might be true in ordinary times," she admitted. "But these are far from ordinary times."

"Oh?" Erik raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "And what, exactly, makes these such extraordinary times?"

Maven's smile faltered, but only briefly, as she gestured around the room. "Vampires stir in Hjaalmarch. The ancient dragon cult awakens here, in the Rift. And you, dear Erik, just happened to crush both threats in a single blow."

Her voice took on a more serious note. "And then, of course, we have Ulfric Stormcloak eyeing the throne of High King with the subtlety of a troll, while bandits and marauders multiply like skeevers across Skyrim. If these aren't times of turmoil, then I don't know what is."

Erik let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. "That sounds like a regular Morndas in Skyrim if you ask me. But, who am I to argue? Especially when this arrangement serves my purposes."

Maven's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Then it's settled."

Erik gave her a nod, folding the parchments and setting them aside. "Very well. Now let's discuss something that truly matters... my shares in the mines beneath Forehost, and how much they're going to cost me..."

Maven's demeanor shifted instantly, her eyes gleaming with a businesslike focus. "Ah, yes. The mines. You'll find they are quite profitable, though they've been largely untouched for some time now."

They both leaned in, their conversation turning to the finer points of investment, shares, and ownership rights. Erik, as ever, kept a casual demeanor, but his eyes gleamed with interest as he pressed Maven for details, negotiating with the seasoned Black-Briar matriarch in a way few could manage without being devoured whole.

Meanwhile, as the conversation stretched on, Geri had entirely lost interest in their discussion. The corgi was far more concerned with the plate of food Erik had set down earlier. He licked it clean, his little nose twitching in satisfaction. When that was done, he turned his attention to one of the empty tables nearby.

With a small bark, Geri hopped up onto it and made himself comfortable, content to keep nibbling on scraps while his master brokered deals that would undoubtedly shape the future of Riften—and perhaps Skyrim itself.

The fire crackled warmly, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls of the inn. Maven and Erik's voices blended into the background as the night deepened, leaving the world outside in darkness while Geri, blissfully unaware of the weighty matters being discussed, finished his meal in peace.

...

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