Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

After a brief interrogation by the city guards, who eyed them warily but allowed them through, Erik, Isran, and Geri stepped through the great gates of Whiterun, passing under the looming stone archway.

Beyond the short wooden bridge that arched over a flowing canal, the Plains District unfurled before them, a bustling, vibrant heart of the city. The scent of cooking fires, fresh-baked bread, and the unmistakable tang of iron from the nearby smithy filled the air.

Whiterun had grown, its streets teeming with merchants, travelers, and townsfolk going about their daily business, but to Erik, it retained the feel of a rugged Nord village, just as it had centuries ago in the memories of Erik Deathsong—and, strangely, just as he remembered from the game.

Erik's gaze drifted over the familiar sight. Whiterun, founded by Jeek of the River, captain of the Jorrvaskr—the same longship that now housed the legendary Companions—was once a modest settlement in the Merethic Era. Over time, it had grown into a thriving hub of trade, strategically positioned at the crossroads of Skyrim's central plains.

Yet, despite the growth and expansion, Whiterun never fully shed its roots. The Nord village at its heart still whispered through the cobblestones and timbered houses.

Erik couldn't help but smile broadly as his eyes took in the scene. It was all so familiar, yet at the same time alien, more alive than the static world he remembered from the game. Here, everything moved and breathed—the trees lining the streets swayed in the breeze, their leaves rustling softly.

Townsfolk bustled around the square, haggling with merchants, carrying goods, and going about their lives. The statue of the great white steed, which stood proudly in the center of the town square, gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, its marble surface worn smooth by the touch of countless hands over the years.

To the right, the distinctive clang of a hammer striking steel rang out from Warmaiden's, the forge that belonged to Adrianne Avenicci. The blacksmith herself stood at her anvil, her strong arms swinging the hammer down with rhythmic precision, sparks flying with every strike.

To the left, the Drunken Huntsman's sign swayed in the wind, creaking slightly as it rocked back and forth. Erik could already imagine the warmth of the hearth inside, the smell of roasting meat and spiced mead that always seemed to fill the tavern.

He found himself lost in thought for a moment, comparing the different versions of Whiterun that now existed in his head: the game world's version, rigid and predictable; the ancient one from Erik Deathsong's memories, when the city was little more than a collection of huts; and now, this living, breathing grand city before him, so much more vibrant and real than either of the others.

Isran, however, had little interest in sightseeing. His eyes scanned the streets with a suspicious glint, his hand never straying far from the warhammer strapped across his back. "I've never liked this city," he muttered under his breath, glancing at Erik. "Too open. Too exposed. If the vampires ever wanted to strike, this place would fall in a day."

"Not every place needs to be a fortress," Erik replied with a shrug, though he understood Isran's unease. "Besides, not everything is about vampires. Whiterun's held its own for centuries, against dragons, bandits, and everything in between."

Isran grunted, clearly not convinced. "They're not prepared for what's coming. No one is."

Erik smiled faintly, though he kept his thoughts to himself. He appreciated Isran's passion, but the man was wound too tightly, his paranoia laser-focused on vampires as if nothing else in the world mattered. He saw threats in every shadow and every corner, convinced that the vampires' impending rise overshadowed all else.

It wasn't that Erik disagreed—the Volkihar vampires were a menace—but Isran's one-track mind was more of a hindrance than an asset at times.

Erik took another casual glance around, scanning the area out of habit. The city bustled with life—merchants calling out their wares, townsfolk chatting in the streets, the sounds of clinking armor and the shuffling of feet blending with the calls of distant birds.

It was peaceful. Too peaceful, in Isran's eyes. After a moment, Erik turned back to the future Dawnguard leader.

"Let's split up here," Erik suggested. "Go ahead and get yourself situated in the Bannered Mare while I take care of some business."

Isran raised an eyebrow, suspicion flashing in his eyes as usual. "I won't pry into your business, but I need to know where to find you in case something happens."

Exasperated, Erik rolled his eyes, though there was a glint of amusement in his voice as he replied, "I'll be at Jorrvaskr. Once my business there is concluded, I'll find you at the Bannered Mare." He paused for a moment before adding with a slight smirk, "In any case, it's not like what I plan to do there is a secret. Feel free to come find me if you get bored."

Isran nodded once, his expression softening slightly, though his posture remained rigid. Without another word, he turned and headed deeper into the Plains District, his boots crunching against the cobblestones as he made his way toward the marketplace.

The Bannered Mare, along with the various shops and stalls, lay ahead, nestled within the lively heart of Whiterun.

Erik watched him go for a moment before turning on his heel and heading in the opposite direction. He moved toward the Wind District, making his way through the quieter, more residential area of the city. The chatter of the marketplace faded behind him as he walked, his gaze briefly catching sight of children playing near one of the houses, their laughter carrying in the air.

The streets here were less crowded, the homes larger, some adorned with banners and well-maintained gardens. It was a far cry from the rough-hewn wilderness outside the city walls. As he approached the Gildergreen, the massive, ancient tree that stood at the heart of Whiterun, Erik felt a strange pang of nostalgia.

The Gildergreen, its leaves a mix of gold and green, was a symbol of hope and resilience, rooted deep in the history of the city. Its towering branches stretched high above, casting dappled shadows on the stone paths below.

But Erik's mind wasn't on the tree or its history. He had other matters to attend to. His destination lay beyond the Gildergreen: Jorrvaskr, the mead hall of the Companions.

He soon found himself standing at the entrance of Jorrvaskr, the legendary mead hall of the Companions. The ancient longhouse loomed before him, a relic of an age-old legacy that stretched back to Ysgramor and the Five Hundred Companions.

Erik didn't have any grand illusions about why he was here—he wasn't looking to manipulate the Companions or entrench himself in their hierarchy. For all their storied history and might in battle, they held little real value to him.

A mercenary group wrapped in tradition, more concerned with the honor of their forebears than anything truly ambitious or forward-thinking. They clung to their beliefs, their ways so deeply ingrained that even the Harbinger, the supposed leader, was more an advisor than an actual commander.

Erik knew better than to waste time trying to influence them. Even if he somehow managed to rise to the rank of Harbinger, it wouldn't matter. The Companions weren't the kind of force that could be bent to someone's will—not his, not anyone's.

They followed the teachings of their founders with a blind reverence, and that wasn't going to change. Still, there was one practical reason for his visit: the Wuuthrad fragment he had come across on his travels. It would earn him access to the Skyforge, and that was where his true interest lay.

Pushing the heavy doors open, Erik was greeted by the raucous sounds of cheers and laughter. The mead hall was packed, and off to one side, a large group of Companions gathered, watching something with eager eyes. Raising an eyebrow, Erik stepped further inside, making his way toward the commotion.

The air was thick with the scent of mead and sweat, and as he moved closer, he realized what was holding their attention—a brawl. Two Companions, one a woman of considerable strength and the other a broad-shouldered man, were locked in a bare-knuckle fight, throwing punches with a brutal intensity.

Their fists thudded into each other's flesh with dull, sickening sounds, but neither seemed close to backing down. Around them, the crowd cheered, jeering and shouting encouragement as the fighters circled and swung.

Erik watched the scene with mild amusement. It was a perfect display of what he already thought of the Companions—brutal, straightforward, and utterly predictable.

A few people noticed him standing at a distance, his presence drawing their attention momentarily, but they quickly returned their focus to the fight. After all, to them, he was just another outsider, someone of no consequence in their world.

The fight ended with a sudden, sharp thud. The female warrior, having taken a heavy blow to her midsection, stumbled backward and collapsed onto the floor with a gasp.

The victor, the man who had knocked her down, let out a triumphant yell, raising his fists into the air as the crowd erupted in cheers once more. The woman lay on her back, grimacing but laughing through her defeat, clearly accustomed to the rough camaraderie that defined the Companions.

Erik leaned against one of the wooden beams near the entrance, arms crossed, observing the scene. It was a reminder of the kind of brotherhood that held the Companions together—something that would never bind him.

As the crowd of Companions slowly dispersed, laughing and slapping each other on the back, one of them made his way toward Erik. The man was clad in heavy steel armor lined with fur, his imposing presence matched only by the sharpness of his gaze.

His long black hair, pulled back loosely, framed his face, and dark war paint stretched across his eyes, giving him a fierce, predatory look. It didn't take much for Erik to recognize him—Farkas, one of the twins.

"Welcome to Jorrvaskr," Farkas said, his voice deep and gruff. "Are you here to apply for the Companions?"

Erik sized him up for a moment. Farkas was broad-shouldered, tall, and undoubtedly powerful, the kind of man who could break bones with ease. But his question, though simple, carried an expectation. Most who walked through these doors did so with the intent of joining their ranks, seeking the glory and camaraderie that came with the Companions. Erik, however, had no such desires.

"Not quite," Erik replied with a slight smile. He met Farkas's eyes, unphased by the man's imposing presence. "I met one of your members not long ago—a Nord huntress with red hair. She suggested I visit if I passed through Whiterun, and so I did."

Farkas raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Aela," he said, more to himself than to Erik. "She doesn't send people here lightly."

Erik smiled a little wider. "I didn't come empty-handed, though," he added. "I've brought both a present and a request."

Farkas opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, a hand clapped down on his shoulder. The man who stepped forward bore an uncanny resemblance to him—just as tall, just as broad—but his features were more refined, his eyes sharper, more calculating. This was Vilkas, Farkas's brother, and he had clearly heard the conversation.

"I've heard about you," Vilkas said, his voice carrying a cool authority. His eyes narrowed as he studied Erik, as though sizing up his worth in an instant. "Aela mentioned the troll you killed—the one she was struggling with."

Erik returned the man's gaze evenly, neither flaunting nor downplaying the event. "It wasn't anything special," he said with a shrug. "Just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

Vilkas's eyes flickered, but he didn't seem impressed or dismissive—merely curious. "So," he continued, "what kind of request do you have? We mostly exterminate beasts and bandits, if the price is right."

Erik chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I can handle bandits and beasts on my own just fine. I'm not here for that."

Vilkas raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you here?"

"The Skyforge," Erik replied simply. "I need to borrow it for a few days."

That seemed to catch Vilkas off guard. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he was silent, processing the request. "The Skyforge?" he repeated, a note of surprise in his voice. "So, you're a smith too?"

Erik's expression didn't change. "Something like that."

Vilkas looked thoughtful, his eyes studying Erik with a new kind of interest. After a moment, he shook his head. "Eorlund Grey-Mane runs the forge. If you want to use it, you'll have to ask his permission. All we can do is put in a good word for you."

Erik had expected as much. Eorlund was a master smith, revered by the Companions, and though the Skyforge was a revered artifact in its own right, it was still Eorlund's domain.

Vilkas, noticing the faintest hint of calculation in Erik's expression, suddenly smiled. "You said you brought a gift, right?"

Erik barely suppressed a chuckle at Vilkas' words. He understood the underlying message: If your gift proves valuable, then maybe I'll go out of my way to convince Eorlund for you. Typical, he thought. Everyone had a price, even among the Companions.

Without further ado, Erik reached into his cloak and carefully withdrew a bundle wrapped in thick cloth. The weight of the object was solid, heavy, and when he unraveled the fabric, he presented it to Vilkas.

The gleam of the dark, jagged fragment caught the light of the mead hall's hearth. "I suspect this is a fragment of Wuuthrad," Erik said casually. "Ysgramor's famed axe. I found it in a bandit lair after... clearing out the residents."

Vilkas' eyes widened with astonishment as he took the ebony fragment from Erik's hands, his thick fingers tracing the contours of the ancient piece of metal. He studied it intently, turning it over, feeling the weight and inspecting the jagged edges.

"This..." Vilkas muttered, awe creeping into his voice. "This does look like a fragment of Wuuthrad." His fingers tightened around the fragment as though he was afraid it might vanish from his grip. But then, his cautious nature returned, and he gave Erik a searching glance. "Though... we'll need to have Vignar or Eorlund confirm it for certain."

He turned back to Erik, eyes sharp with scrutiny. "To recognize the origins of a piece of metal from a bandit lair... and to identify it as a fragment of Wuuthrad? That's not something just anyone could do." His voice held a note of suspicion now, his earlier awe tempered by caution.

Erik met Vilkas' gaze evenly and gave a nonchalant shrug. "I know a thing or two about Skyrim's history and its relics. But even so, I wouldn't have bothered with some random scrap of metal if the bandits themselves didn't seem... off."

Vilkas' frown deepened. He crossed his arms, curiosity mingling with skepticism. "What do you mean by 'off'?" His tone was guarded, as though he suspected Erik might be withholding more than he let on.

Erik let out a sigh, knowing that he needed to play his cards carefully here. "The bandits were holed up in a mountain cave beneath Forelhost," he began. "Until recently, that place was crawling with draugr—lots of them. Not exactly an ideal hideout for your run-of-the-mill highwaymen."

He paused, allowing Vilkas to absorb that detail before continuing. "Their leader wasn't any ordinary cutthroat either. He had a silver blade. That's not common for bandits, especially not in Skyrim. Silver's expensive, and it's usually reserved for... well, monster hunters."

Farkas' face immediately tightened, alarm flickering in his eyes. His lips parted as though to speak, and he muttered, "The Silver Han—"

But Vilkas interrupted his brother swiftly, holding up a hand. His face was a mask of restraint, though his eyes betrayed a hint of concern. "Well then," Vilkas said, his voice a little too measured. "Thank you for bringing this to our attention. I'll have to inform Kodlak about this... and about Forelhost. It seems things are stirring where they shouldn't be."

Erik watched the exchange with mild interest. He hadn't been sure at first, but now he was certain—mentioning the silver sword had touched a nerve. They were already at war with the Silver Hand.

Vilkas cleared his throat and forced a tight smile. "As for the fragment, you've done us a great service by returning it. I'll have it appraised by Eorlund or Vignar to confirm its authenticity. If it is indeed part of Wuuthrad," he added, glancing at the fragment with renewed reverence, "then I'll personally do everything in my power to convince Eorlund to lend you the Skyforge."

Erik nodded, a satisfied smirk playing at the edges of his lips. He had expected Vilkas to offer his help, but this eagerness to assist was more than he had hoped for. "That's all I ask," he said simply. "I'll wait here while you appraise it."

Vilkas inclined his head, and with the fragment still cradled in his hands, he turned to leave. Farkas lingered for a moment, giving Erik one last look—an odd mixture of respect and wariness—before following his brother.

As the two Companions disappeared into the back chambers, Erik allowed himself a moment to exhale.

Things were proceeding smoothly, almost too smoothly. But there was no need to rush. He would play his role, wait for the appraisal, and once he had access to the Skyforge, the next phase of his plan could begin.

For now, patience was key.

...

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