Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

The black drapery covering Scadu's skeletal frame fluttered slightly in the cool autumn breeze as the steed trotted steadily along the cobblestone road. Erik sat atop the undead horse, his dark cloak blending with the shadows cast by the jagged rocks and towering trees lining the path.

Geri padded along at his side, his bright blue eyes wide with curiosity as he darted ahead to sniff at the occasional leaf or stone. The vibrant yellow of the trees, caught in the golden grip of fall, contrasted sharply with the desolate crags of Forelhost Mountain looming over them to the west.

Once a barren, snow-covered peak, Forelhost had now become a bustling hub of activity. Builders, miners, and prospectors swarmed its slopes, eager to reopen the old mines beneath the mountain. The sounds of pickaxes striking stone echoed faintly in the distance, and Erik couldn't help but let a rare smile tug at the corner of his lips.

He had brought this change with his own hands—turning the abandoned ruins into a beacon of wealth and opportunity. Sure enough, people flocked to gold wherever and whenever it appeared. Wealth had a way of making the impossible possible, drawing even the most stubborn from their holes.

He tore his gaze away from the busy mountain, focusing once more on the road ahead. It had been three days since Maven Black-Briar had waited for him like a specter in the Bee and Barb, her ever-calculating gaze watching his every move.

They had discussed the terms of his investment in Forelhost's mines, agreeing on a fair price for the shares. True to his word, Erik had provided the gold immediately, not one to let opportunities slip through his fingers. The prospect of owning a piece of those lucrative veins of ore had been too tempting to pass up.

But now, that was behind him. Today, he had a different task at hand—meeting his newly appointed housecarl.

Erik shifted slightly in the saddle, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension in his back as he recalled his meeting with the Jarl's pick. Laila Law-Giver had seen fit to appoint a Nordic woman named Iola to serve him.

She was loud, boisterous, and had a tendency to shout everything she said, as if speaking normally wasn't quite enough for her. Erik had found it irritating at first, but there was no denying her competence.

After some exchanges with Erik, she had proven capable and clever enough for him to entrust her with managing his properties in Riften, including Honeyside and his shares in the Forelhost mines.

Though Erik had little interest in playing the role of a traditional Thane or some businessman, he recognized the value of proper management. Wealth needed to be tended, like a fire that must be fed to burn bright.

Their meeting had been brief but direct, much to Erik's relief. After explaining how he wanted her to handle the properties and respond to the various challenges that would undoubtedly arise, he had handed her a substantial amount of gold. Enough to refurbish Honeyside and ensure her living expenses were covered for a few years.

Iola had taken the assignment with a determined nod, her loud voice booming across the room as she assured him everything would be handled to perfection.

The memory of that encounter brought a faint chuckle to Erik's lips. It had reminded him of his first housecarl, Valdimar, a man who had faded into obscurity in his memory. The man seemed eager to serve, but unfortunately, Erik had no need of his services at the time.

Maybe, in time, when he's finally ready to start working on Snowhawk Fortress and turn it into the hub of commerce he envisioned, he'll call on Valdimar and appoint him as a steward, but for now, the housecarl would have to settle for managing his land in the marshes and fending off the local mud crabs and horkers.

Erik turned to Geri and spoke. "Come on, boy. We'll be picking up the pace... Stendarr's beacon should be right ahead..."

With that, he spurred Scadu to start galloping, and Geri followed along, his short stubby legs moving at a deceptively fast pace.

...

The cold wind whipped around Erik as he approached Stendarr's Beacon, its worn stones jutting out from the snow-covered peak like the skeletal remains of a once-great beast. The tower stood defiant against the elements, a lonely sentinel in the unforgiving mountains southeast of Riften.

Though time had weathered its stones, the beacon still served as a stronghold for the Vigilants of Stendarr, a place where they held their grim watch against the evils that threatened Tamriel. Erik couldn't help but admire the resilience of the structure, though he suspected the Vigilants within might not share the same grit as he recalled their fate from the game.

He Stendarr's Beacon as one of the last remaining holdouts for the vigilant after the sudden emergence of the vampires who made their presence known by decimating a great number of the order's branches, but that won't happen for at least a few years.

Scadu, his skeletal steed, had been dismissed long before the ascent, and Geri padded quietly at his side, the enchanted collar around his neck masking the daedric aura that would otherwise set the Vigilants on edge.

As Erik drew nearer, two Vigilants, clad in the dull steel of their order, stood at the entrance. Their eyes were cold, their postures rigid, as if the weight of their duty had stripped them of anything resembling warmth or empathy. Vigilants were known for their strict adherence to Stendarr's teachings, hunting down daedra worshippers and creatures of dark magic with fervent zeal.

Erik approached with measured steps, his cloak billowing slightly in the wind, a document held firmly in hand. When he was close enough, he raised it in greeting.

"Thane Erik of Hjalmarch," he said, his voice cutting through the wind. "I come with urgent business."

The Vigilants exchanged glances, but their expressions barely changed. Erik handed them the rolled parchment—a letter bearing the official seal of Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone. One of them took it with a slow, deliberate motion, unraveling the scroll and reading through the contents with an air of disinterest.

The other crossed his arms, his gaze locked onto Erik with the same intensity one might reserve for a suspicious beggar.

"I've been tracking an ancient clan of vampires," Erik continued, his tone steady. "I could use the help of the vigilants. The Jarl herself has endorsed my mission."

The first Vigilant scanned the document for a few more moments, then passed it to his companion with an exasperated sigh. "Vampires, you say," he muttered, his voice laced with disdain. "We have no time for mere bloodsuckers lurking in some cave or the other. We're occupied with far more pressing matters—keeping Skyrim free of Daedric influence."

Erik's eyes flickered with irritation. His mind drifted briefly to the numerous Daedric cults scattered across Skyrim—the insidious influence they had over the people and the land—and he couldn't help but scoff inwardly.

'And what a good job you're doing of it,' he mused sarcastically, biting back the words before they could escape his lips.

Before Erik could respond, the second Vigilant chimed in, his voice mocking. "Go waste someone else's time with this nonsense, thane. We've got real threats to deal with."

A vein bulged on Erik's forehead as his hand instinctively moved toward the hilt of his sword. What little patience he had was wearing thin, and the blatant dismissal of these vigilantes was more than enough to grate his nerves.

But, with a great deal of restraint, he refrained from drawing his weapon. He hadn't come here for a fight, though if these fools continued their mockery, he couldn't promise that his temper would hold.

Taking a deep breath, Erik steadied his voice. "This is an official request from the Jarl of Morthal," he said, emphasizing the title. "Are you telling me it's acceptable to dismiss such a request so casually?"

The first Vigilant snorted, rolling his eyes. "Even if it was from the Jarl herself, we're an independent order. We don't take orders from a Jarl, a Thane, or even the High King himself. We follow Stendarr's teachings. Nothing more, nothing less. Stop wasting our time, thane."

Erik could feel the thin knot that held his tempter slowly unraveling. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to lash out with a fireball. He had expected resistance, but not this level of disrespect. Even Geri seemed to be annoyed, growling at the two vigilantes.

Still, Erik decided to hold it in and give them one more chance to reconsider.

"Stendarr's teachings are all well and good," Erik said, his voice sharp now, "but you're blind if you can't see that the vampire threat is as real as any Daedric influence. They will decimate villages, slaughter innocents—does that not fall under your sacred duty?"

The second Vigilant stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, as if ready to escalate the situation at the slightest provocation. "Again, our duty," he spat, "is to keep Skyrim safe from the Daedra. Vampires are beneath our concern. I strongly suggest you stop wasting our time or else!"

The Vigilant's threat lingered in the cold mountain air, a thinly veiled provocation that pushed Erik to the brink. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, the leather wrapping creaking beneath the pressure of his hand. In his other palm, magicka coiled like a serpent ready to strike, the air around him vibrating with its unseen force.

Geri, ever attuned to Erik's mood, growled lowly at his side, his wide blue eyes glowing with a cold, dim light that betrayed his Daedric nature. The enchanted collar around his neck strained under the pressure of his dark energy, on the verge of snapping.

Erik was seconds away from unleashing his fury. The Vigilants, ignorant as they were, had pushed him too far. But before either he or Geri could act, something shifted in the air between them.

One of the Vigilants, his stern expression faltering for a moment, leaned over and whispered into his comrade's ear. Whatever he said brought a sneer to the other's face, his lips curling with amusement.

"Now that I think about it," the second Vigilant drawled mockingly, "we did have a new transfer here recently. Some fool who seemed just as concerned about these so-called vampire threats as you are."

The two Vigilants exchanged smug glances, clearly enjoying the power they wielded over the situation. The first Vigilant's smirk deepened as he gestured lazily toward the tower behind them.

"You'll find him atop the watchtower, staring off into the horizon like he's expecting a horde of vampires to suddenly appear," he continued, his voice dripping with condescension. "Perhaps he's the kind of 'help' you're looking for."

Erik's muscles tensed, the urge to wipe the smug looks off their faces gnawing at him. It would be so easy—just a flick of his wrist, a swift draw of his sword, or a burst of magic—and these fools would be put in their place. But he stopped himself, taking a deep breath, forcing the surge of rage to subside.

Slowly, his hand slipped from the hilt of his sword, the magicka in his other hand dispersing into the cold mountain air. Geri, sensing his master's restraint, stopped growling but continued to glare at the Vigilants, the faint glow of his eyes still visible.

With a final look of disdain, Erik bent down and scooped Geri up, the corgi's small form trembling with barely suppressed aggression. Erik held him firmly, his own patience tested to its limits. Without another word, he walked past the two Vigilants, not bothering to grace them with a glance or acknowledgment.

Their mocking laughter followed him as he made his way toward the watchtower, echoing through the mountain pass like the call of carrion birds. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he climbed the worn stone steps, the bitter wind biting at his face. The tower loomed above him, a solitary beacon in a desolate land.

Despite its purpose, the place felt abandoned. The only thing that seemed to receive any type of maintenance was the shrine to Stendarr, resting on a table near the stairwell leading upward. Erik didn't linger for long and quickly proceeded to make his way up.

Erik ascended the final steps of the tower, his breath steady despite the cold air biting at his lungs. As he reached the top, he halted, his eyes locking onto the figure standing before him.

A tall Redguard, broad-shouldered and imposing, stood at the edge of the tower, his posture unyielding. His hands rested firmly on the shaft of a heavy warhammer, its head embedded in the snow-covered stone. He wasn't holding it in a threatening manner, but there was a weight to the way his fingers curled around it, as if he was always ready to use it.

The man's bald head gleamed under the weak sun, while his long, grizzled beard hung thick and untamed down to the base of his neck. His sharp blue eyes, colder than the winds swirling around the peak, bored into Erik, studying him with an intensity that was hard to ignore. It felt as though the man was trying to see straight through him, to uncover every hidden intention, every unspoken thought.

Erik's brow twisted slightly in recognition. Of all the people in Skyrim, he had to be here. He forced himself not to grimace. Isran. The man who would one day lead the Dawnguard, Skyrim's fiercest vampire hunters.

This was the very last person Erik had wanted to run into on this quiet, half-abandoned watchtower. Someone out there was having a laugh at his expense, for sure.

Erik exhaled slowly, the mist of his breath disappearing into the cold air. He had made so many plans before leaving Snowhawk Fortress. Detailed, meticulous plans. Yet it seemed like every step along the way, fate had thrown him a new twist to deal with.

First, the revelation that the summoning stones were actually conduits to a powerful spell, one that concealed Serana's presence from the Volkihar clan—something Fallion had barely managed to explain in time. Then came the incident with the fragment of Wuuthrad, which he had found after inadvertently killing a Silverhand member he'd mistaken for a common bandit.

The whole Forelhost incident that came after had nearly derailed his efforts, not to mention the tangled mess of his mine shares and newfound status as a Thane of Riften. None of this had been in the plan.

And now this.

He'd come to Stendarr's Beacon hoping to recruit a handful of Vigilants into his service. Just some nameless zealots, pawns he could send to harass the Volkihar vampires once he stirred their nest. Instead, here stood Isran.

Isran had no tolerance for anything less than absolute commitment to his cause, and while that hatred could be useful alongside his commitment and knowledge of vampires, it also meant the man was dangerously sharp and cautious. Not someone who would be easily manipulated or deceived.

Erik barely held back a bitter chuckle, not sure if this was a blessing or a curse.