Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

Erik groaned as he came to, lying on the cold stone floor of the hallway. His head pounded, his vision still swimming with the remnants of dizziness. He rubbed his forehead in frustration, feeling both disoriented and humiliated. With a weary sigh, he pushed himself to his feet, wincing as he dusted off the tattered rags that clung to his body.

The sight of the skeleton warriors patrolling the hallway, their hollow eyes now indifferent to him, only deepened his embarrassment. He kept his gaze down, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the undead soldiers. It was bad enough that he'd collapsed in front of them; he wasn't about to endure the indignity of their silent stares.

Shuffling forward, he navigated through the corridor until he reached a wooden door at the end. Grateful for the escape, he pushed it open, slipping inside and closing it behind him.

The room was vast and filled with the unmistakable aura of dark magic. Candles lined the walls, their flames flickering with an eerie green glow. Bookshelves, cluttered and overflowing, stood against the stone walls, filled with ancient scrolls and tomes bound in cracked leather.

Skulls of various creatures sat on display, and a large alchemy table, covered in vials of unknown liquids and powders, dominated one corner. In the center of the room, a circular rug, its patterns warped with arcane symbols, marked the space as a place of power and study. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, burnt herbs, and something darker—perhaps the remnants of forgotten rituals.

But Erik paid no attention to the sinister ambiance. He moved directly toward the large desk against the far wall. Several grim-looking tomes lay scattered across its surface, their pages open to diagrams of necromantic spells and detailed instructions on the manipulation of souls.

Slumping into the chair, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and burying his face in his hands. A curse word hovered at the top of his tongue, but he swallowed it down. There was no point in losing his temper. He knew exactly what had gone wrong.

The spell hadn't failed due to lack of skill or technique—it had failed because he lacked the most basic resource: Magicka. Not only had his attempt to cast the Subjugate Undead spell fizzled out due to his depleted reserves, but the sheer effort had drained him to the point of fainting. Both of these issues should have been impossible.

The old necromancer had chosen this body with great care. He'd spent years rotting in an old body to find a new vessel that was suitable for the intense magicka manipulation required for his necromantic magics. This body, the one Erik now inhabited, had once belonged to a young Nord whose latent magical talent surpassed even that of the most gifted Altmer.

It should have been more than capable of handling even complex spells with ease. And yet, here he was, barely able to summon a flicker of magic without collapsing from exhaustion.

Frowning, Erik leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples. There was no way this was a coincidence. Something had gone terribly wrong during the soul transfer, and the problem was more severe than even the old nercromancer could have anticipated.

Erik stared blankly at the scattered tomes before him, his mind churning as he pieced together the puzzle of what had gone wrong. He had already suspected that something had occurred during the soul transfer, but now, he was certain.

The old necromancer, Erik Deathsong, had been meticulous. A man with two millennia of experience wasn't prone to carelessness, and he would not have made a mistake in preparing his new vessel. Every precaution had been taken.

The body Erik now inhabited had been chosen specifically for its immense magical potential, and everything had gone according to plan—at least, until his soul was disentegrated and devoured.

He could remember it clearly, both from his perspective and that of the old necromancer: the moment the ritual began, the dark energy swirling around the chamber, the old necromancer's soul detaching from his decaying body, ready to claim the younger, stronger one waiting for him.

The problem hadn't arisen until after the ritual was well underway. Erik frowned, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he replayed the ritual in his mind. It didn't take long for him to pinpoint the exact moment everything had gone wrong.

The Ideal Masters.

Of course. He clenched his fists in frustration. The old necromancer had sought their help, knowing that transferring his soul into a new body would require more than just raw magical power.

Extracting a soul and placing it into a new vessel wasn't like raising a zombie or animating a skeleton. It was a direct violation of Arkay's divine authority over the cycle of life and death, something that no mortal—even one as powerful as Erik Deathsong—could accomplish without divine intervention.

The Ideal Masters had been the key. Their power transcended mortal understanding, and for centuries, they had struck deals with necromancers, granting them the ability to manipulate souls in exchange for sacrifices.

The old necromancer had intended to offer up Erik's soul as the price for their assistance in the transfer, allowing him to take over the young man's body and continue his dark reign.

But the Ideal Masters, true to their nature, had reneged on the deal. Midway through the ritual, they had decided that Erik Deathsong's soul would be a more appetizing prize. They devoured the necromancer instead, leaving Erik—the intended sacrifice—alive but with a significant piece of his soul missing.

And that was the crux of the issue. The ritual had never been completed properly. Erik's soul was incomplete, devoured in part by the Ideal Masters before they turned their attention to the old necromancer.

It explained everything—why his magicka reserves were so pitiful, why he had fainted after attempting a simple spell, and why he felt an underlying sense of emptiness deep within himself. Without a complete soul, his ability to tap into his full magical potential was crippled.

Sitting back in the chair, Erik exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling. He was alive, yes. He had over two thousand years of memories and knowledge at his disposal, along with a treasure trove of dark magic. But without a complete soul, all of it was meaningless.

Erik slumped back in his chair, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. The solution was clear: he needed to restore his soul, and the only way to do that was by communicating with the Ideal Masters directly.

But there lay the problem—he didn't have the magicka to reverse summon his own soul to the Soul Cairn, a feat that the original Erik Deathsong had mastered long ago.

For the old necromancer, it had been as simple as temporarily banishing his own soul to the Cairn as one would do a Daedra or a summoned undead, something Erik himself could now do in theory. But knowing the spell and having the magicka reserves to cast it were two different things entirely.

Erik cursed under his breath. Without enough magicka, his only option was to travel physically to the Soul Cairn, and the thought of it made him grimace.

"Black Marsh and Elsweyr…" he muttered, rubbing his temples. The old necromancer had left portals scattered across Tamriel, hidden in dens like Fort Snowhawk, but the closest ones were halfway across the continent.

Crossing Tamriel in search of them wasn't just time-consuming; it was reckless. Too many eyes, too many risks, and it would take years. He didn't have that kind of time, especially not with his current magicka deficiency.

There was another option, but it wasn't much better.

"Volkihar Castle," Erik sighed, pushing himself up from the desk and pacing the room. He knew exactly where one portal to the Soul Cairn existed—right here in Skyrim.

However, the portal wasn't just sitting around, waiting for him to waltz through. It was tied to the vampire clan living in Volkihar Castle and the Dawnguard, both factions deeply entrenched in their own conflicts.

And that conflict… well, it wasn't exactly something he was eager to get mixed up in. The thought of dealing with vampires, particularly those of Lord Harkon's brood, was enough to send a shiver down his spine.

And then there was the Dawnguard, whose sole purpose was to eradicate vampires like the ones he'd have to negotiate with. Neither side was one he could afford to antagonize, not in his current state.

With his pitiful magicka pool, he was in no shape to challenge anyone, let alone the vampires of Volkihar Castle. The best he could do right now were novice-apprentice spells—basic reanimations, sparks, forcible, and things that wouldn't even faze a vampire lord or his thralls. He clenched his fists, frustration welling up inside him.

"Damn it," Erik muttered, stopping his pacing. He was stuck in a bind. Going to the Soul Cairn was the only real option, but getting there meant involving himself in the Dawnguard and Volkihar conflict, something that was easier said than done. He needed more power, more magicka, more… everything.

Yet, sitting around wouldn't help. He needed to start somewhere.

"Well, I suppose if I can't take on vampires right now, I'd better start working on that," he muttered, looking back at the tomes on the desk. The old Erik's knowledge was vast, and even if his magicka reserves were low, there had to be ways to improve them.

Erik straightened, a newfound determination bubbling within him. "First things first—find a way to fight with this broken body. Then we'll see about vampires."

...

Erik hunched over the alchemy table, his fingers working quickly and efficiently as he mixed ingredients into vials. The faint aroma of herbs and reagents filled the air, as the contents of the vials simmered and turned shades of green and blue. Alchemy had always been a secondary pursuit for him in the past, but now, it had become his primary focus. Unlike magic, alchemy didn't demand magicka, and the old necromancer—Erik Deathsong—had been one of the finest alchemists in Tamriel. Erik, the new bearer of that name, was now benefiting from centuries of accumulated knowledge.

He muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the clinking of glassware. "I may not have the magicka to cast advanced spells yet, but with these potions, I'll make sure the little I do have will never run out." His tone was sharp, focused. The irony of his situation wasn't lost on him—an ancient necromancer, feared across the land, reduced to brewing potions to compensate for his lack of power.

He carefully poured a shimmering blue liquid from a flask into a smaller vial, his hands steady as he stoppered it. Magicka restoration potions. Simple but necessary. Erik had learned early on that magic was all about endurance. Having more magicka than your opponent meant outlasting them, and right now, he had to take advantage of every scrap of energy he could get.

As he set the potions aside, he couldn't help but feel a spark of satisfaction. If nothing else, the old necromancer's alchemy skills had transferred perfectly. The mastery of plants, minerals, and the arcane art of combining them for powerful effects was at his fingertips. He could use these potions in the coming days to prepare for whatever challenges lay ahead.

He leaned back, letting out a sigh. "It's something, at least."

Finished with his brewing, Erik rose from the alchemy table and left the study. The skeleton warriors patrolling the hallway continued their rounds, but Erik kept his eyes averted. He wasn't about to relive the embarrassment of earlier. Navigating through the dim corridor, he found his way to a room he hadn't explored yet—an armory.

...

The armory was exactly what he expected. Rows upon rows of weapons lined the walls, from crude iron swords to intricately designed steel blades.

Armor sets were displayed on mannequins, varying in design and material. Erik's eyes scanned the room, noting everything from battle axes to staffs, but what drew his attention the most was a sword sitting in the far corner, unlike the others.

It was thin and straight, sheathed in a heavily decorated black scabbard. Erik approached it slowly, feeling something stir within him as he reached out to grasp the hilt.

There was a certain gravitas to the weapon, as if it was more than just a simple blade. He unsheathed the sword carefully, revealing the gleaming silver blade, decorated with intricate blue and silver symbols along its length. They shimmered in the low light of the armory, almost glowing with latent power.

Suddenly, a memory surged through him. One of Erik Deathsong's memories.

He was in Hammerfell, watching from the shadows as three Sword Saints—Ansei—stood their ground against an army of risen dead. These warriors were masters of the Shehai, spirit swords formed from their very souls, and they moved with grace and precision, cutting through the undead ranks with frightening ease.

The group of elven necromancers leading the attack couldn't withstand their assault for long. In a matter of minutes, the Sword Saints had decimated the entire army and beheaded the elven mages.

It was one of the few times the old necromancer had felt admiration, a rare moment where he acknowledged the skill and bravery of others. But, of course, admiration hadn't stopped him from capturing their souls afterward. The Sword Saints' memories had been added to his own, scanned and stored for future use.

It had been the old necromancer's design to orchestrate the necromancers' attack on Hammerfell, a plot to harvest souls for a ritual. Though he had succeeded in his goal, the valor and power of the Ansei had impressed him enough to leave Hammerfell and never return.

The memory faded, and Erik blinked, his breath catching in his throat. Holding the decorated blade in his hands, he could feel the echoes of that same power. Although forming a Shehai—a spirit sword like the Sword Saints—was beyond him, their swordsmanship was not. Their memories were within his grasp, buried deep in his mind. All he had to do was unlock them.

He ran his fingers over the symbols etched into the blade. "I may not be able to summon a Shehai, but the sword-play of a saint alone…" He paused, thinking.

With the memories of those Sword Saints, he would be able to surpass most warriors easily. Sword Singers were legends in their own right, but the Ansei were something else entirely.

For the first time since waking up in this place, a small grin crept across his face. He sheathed the sword and strapped it to his belt. If nothing else, he now had a weapon worthy of a necromancer who had lived for over two thousand years.

...

Erik sat cross-legged on the stone floor of an empty room, surrounded by dozens of sheets of parchment, all scrawled with fresh ink. The pages fluttered slightly, disturbed by the faint draft creeping through the castle's corridors. Each one bore arcane symbols, arranged with obsessive precision, yet written in a frenzy, his hand moving faster than his mind could keep up.

He had an almost manic grin plastered across his face, a far cry from the despair that had consumed him days earlier when he first learned his soul was damaged.

The dim light from the room's sole candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across the chaotic assembly of papers. Erik's gaze darted from one symbol to another, his grin widening as he continued scribbling, his quill flying over the pages with barely a pause.

Row after row of arcane inscriptions poured from his hand, each one representing a novice or apprentice spell from the depths of the old necromancer's vast memory. Despite the supposed weakness of these low-level incantations, Erik's excitement never wavered.

"Who cares if they're weak on their own," he muttered under his breath, the grin still etched into his face. "Together... together, they'll be unstoppable."

The sheer number of these basic spells was staggering. Erik knew he couldn't access the powerful magics the old necromancer had mastered, not with his diminished magicka pool. But that didn't mean he was helpless. He saw the potential in these "useless" spells, realizing that their limitations were only a matter of perception.

He didn't need a grand spell of destruction when he could weave together the subtleties of these lower-tier magics, blending them into something entirely new—something that even the old necromancer had likely overlooked in his arrogance.

The thrill of it coursed through Erik's veins. There was something intoxicating about being on the brink of discovery, of forging a new path in a world that was his for the taking. The arcane symbols on the paper in front of him were no longer just spells—they were pieces of a puzzle. Each spell, no matter how small or insignificant, was a tool he could use to bend reality to his will.

It was then that a familiar thought resurfaced in his mind. Ultimate freedom.

For years, he had spent countless hours playing open-world games, immersing himself in their carefully crafted universes. Some offered the freedom to explore vast landscapes, while others gave players the ability to make world-shaping choices.

But true freedom—the kind where a player could manipulate the game's very mechanics, twist the combat systems, and break the rules—was elusive. Even in the most liberating games, there were boundaries, limits that couldn't be crossed.

But here? Here there were no boundaries.

Erik was no longer bound by the constraints of a game engine or limited by design choices. In this world, this ancient and magic-ridden reality, the limitations came only from himself.

And the more he thought about it, the more he realized the boundless opportunity that lay before him. He wasn't just another player on a preset path. He had absolute freedom—freedom that even the most sophisticated games could never offer.

"Break the system," he whispered, the grin stretching further across his face. "Reinvent the rules. Reimagine the spells."

He saw it now. The potential to weave novice-level spells in tandem, to create devastating combinations that no one would expect from such humble beginnings.

No longer limited by the linear progression of magic, he had the creativity and insight to transcend the old necromancer's teachings. While that ancient soul had focused on mastery of power, Erik would focus on mastery of manipulation. He would bend even the weakest spells into something extraordinary.

He set the quill down for a moment, wiping sweat from his brow, feeling his heart race in his chest. This world wasn't a game—it was his reality now. But the mindset he had cultivated over years of gaming, the urge to push the limits, to find loopholes and exploit them, was his greatest strength.

And in this world, Erik had the ultimate cheat code: knowledge, unbounded by rules.

...

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