Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

The vast expanse of the central plains stretched before Erik and Isran, an endless sea of gold and green broken only by the distant outline of mountains to the north. The jagged range split Hjalmarch from Whiterun, casting long shadows across the land as the sun began its descent.

With his sword finished, and his business concluded in Whiterun, he had decided to leave without wasting any more time. After the completion of the forging process, he headed to Dragonsreach to borrow the court wizard's enchanting table to put the final touches on his masterpiece, but unfortunately, the man was present.

Naturally, the Jarl's men wouldn't allow him access to the court wizard's tools with Farengar away on business, so he decided to return to the bannered mare to call it a day. He had planned to wait until Farengar returned to finish enchanting his newly forged weapon before leaving, but due to Isran's insistence, he had no choice but to postpone it.

He tried looking for Aela to bid her farewell, but yet again, he found her unavailable, having accompanied Filkas to hunt down the giant terrorizing Rorkistead.

Whiterun, now a distant silhouette to the east, seemed small and remote, while Fort Greymoor loomed to the west, its dark towers imposing against the horizon. The wind carried the scent of wildflowers and wet earth, mingling with the faint sounds of wildlife in the distance.

Their horses trotted steadily along the path, hooves clattering on the stone-paved road. Behind them, Geri, the small but ever-energetic Corgi, darted playfully between their horses, occasionally stopping to chase after a bird or sniff at the grass.

Erik rode in silence for a time, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but a tune slipped from his lips, soft at first, then growing louder as the rhythm of the ride carried it. "Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin, wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal..." His voice hummed with a low, melodic rumble, the ancient dragon language adding an eerie, almost hypnotic cadence to the words.

Isran's frown deepened as he rode beside Erik, his brow furrowed in confusion. He didn't recognize the strange, guttural words. Finally, curiosity got the better of him. "What is that chant you're humming?" Isran's voice was gruff, tinged with suspicion as if the very language made him uneasy.

Erik chuckled, breaking from the song and glancing at Isran with a grin. "It's an old song... The Tale of Tongues," he said, his voice casual, but there was a hint of something deeper in his tone. "It foretells the return of Alduin, the World-Eater, and the coming of the Dragonborn—the one destined to slay him once and for all."

Isran arched a brow. "Alduin? The World-Eater?" His skepticism was clear. "Sounds like a children's story."

"A warning and a lost hope more than anything else," Erik corrected, his smile fading as his tone became more serious. "But since it was written in the dragon language, it's long been lost to most of Tamriel. Few can understand it now."

Isran gave him a sideways look, still not entirely convinced. "And yet you somehow know it."

Erik shrugged, his hand brushing the hilt of his new creation—a combination of staff and sword, forged with ancient magic. "I know a great deal," he replied cryptically, his eyes distant for a moment as if recalling things long buried. "There are some things one stumbles upon in life... pieces of knowledge not meant for most."

Isran rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if weighing Erik's words. "You always seem to have a knack for finding things that most people should never know about."

Erik smirked but didn't respond. The wind picked up again, rustling the grass and causing their horses to flick their ears in irritation. Geri, sensing the shift in mood, bounded ahead of them, barking at some unseen critter darting through the underbrush.

Isran broke the silence once more, his voice lower, almost as if he was hesitant to ask the next question. "Tell me then... if you're so well-versed in these ancient tales, do you know anything about Lamae Bal?"

Erik's expression shifted slightly, his brow lifting in surprise. He hadn't expected that. "Lamae Bal?" he repeated, intrigued. "Mother Lamae... the Blood Matron..." His voice trailed off as he turned his gaze fully to Isran, studying him.

"Yes," Isran nodded, his tone turning serious. "Lamae Bal—the first vampire. Her name often came up in old tomes about vampires, but there was not much. I thought you might know more than what the rumors tell."

Erik leaned back slightly in his saddle, clearly impressed by Isran's knowledge. "She is the first pure-blooded vampire in Tamrielic history. Born of Molag Bal's... cruelty," he said, choosing his words carefully. "It was Bal who transformed her into the creature she became—his dark gift, you could say."

Isran grimaced at the mention of Molag Bal, the Daedric Prince of domination and enslavement of mortals. His face darkened, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as if processing Erik's words. "And her bloodline still curses Tamriel to this day," he said bitterly. "The vampires... the abominations that plague us."

Erik gave a slow nod. "Her lineage persists, yes, though her story is largely forgotten outside of vampire covens, who despise Bal. They revere her, as you might expect. She is their matron, after all. But I wouldn't say her story is merely a curse." He glanced at Isran, his tone now curious. "Why the sudden interest in her?"

Isran was silent for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. "It's relevant to the mission," he said finally, his voice clipped. "She and her kind are at the root of what we're dealing with now."

Erik chuckled softly, but it was a humorless sound. "The more you know about vampires, the better equipped we'll be to deal with them, I suppose, but Lamae is not the monster you envision her to be... not entirely."

Isran's brow furrowed. "What do you mean by that?" he asked, his voice edged with suspicion.

Erik hummed thoughtfully, considering his words before replying. "Lamae Bal, or Lamae Beolfag as she was known before Molag Bal tainted her... she was a devout worshiper of Arkay. As pure as the unmelting snow atop the Throat of the World," he said, his voice softening with reverence, as though speaking of a long-forgotten saint.

He paused for a moment, letting the gravity of his words sink in, then continued. "How and why she earned Molag Bal's attention is not truly known. There are many records... conflicting, as most tales of ancient history are. However, the one I find most credible was told by a bard, whose name is lost to time. An Ayleid, if you can believe it, who fell in love with her at first sight."

Isran raised an eyebrow, bemused. "Of course," he muttered with dry sarcasm. "A love story."

Erik chuckled, though it was a dark, sardonic sound. "Rather clichéd, I know," he admitted. "But that's how the story goes. Love between an Ayleid (elf) and a Nede(human)—absolutely forbidden at the time. They were enemies, their people separated by war and hatred. Still, this bard was not content to give her up."

Isran's expression darkened as Erik spoke, his hand tightening around his reins. "So he turned to Molag Bal for help," Isran said, his voice filled with disgust.

"Aye," Erik nodded. "And, as you might expect, it ended in tragedy for both parties."

Isran's eyes narrowed, his sharp gaze studying Erik as though searching for the deeper meaning in his words. "So Lamae became the first pure-blooded vampire," he said, more a statement than a question. "But what of the bard? What became of him?"

Erik sighed, his expression clouding with something like regret. "Who knows?" he said with a shrug. "Some say he took his own life out of regret and despair, unable to live with the consequences of his actions. Others claim he challenged Molag Bal in his own realm—Coldharbour—and was slain for his defiance."

Isran's lip curled slightly, unconvinced. "That would be the best ending he could hope for," he said, his voice low, almost to himself.

"But," Erik continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "there are other stories. Darker ones." He leaned forward in his saddle, his eyes gleaming in the fading light as he spoke. "Some say he never truly died. Instead, he became something... worse. A pawn in Molag Bal's twisted games. Cursed to forever wander Tamriel, to die and reincarnate again, spreading corruption in the name of his master. Wherever he goes, death and suffering follow."

The horses' hooves beat a steady rhythm on the road as Erik's words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken menace.

Isran's gaze flickered to Erik, his expression unreadable. "And you believe this?"

Erik smirked faintly, though there was little humor in it. "I believe that there are many truths hidden in the shadows of myth," he said cryptically. "What I do know is that Lamae's story is not a simple tragedy... it simply goes to show that some monsters are born from circumstance, not of an evil nature..."

Isran's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his reins. "I don't care what she was before," he growled. "All I care about is what she became."

Erik shot Isran a sideways glance as they rode, the tension between them palpable. "Blind hatred can make you powerful, Isran," Erik said, his voice calm but firm. "But it can just as easily break you."

Isran opened his mouth to reply, but before Erik could continue, the sound of distant screams shattered the moment. Both men snapped their heads forward, eyes narrowing as they scanned the road ahead.

A lone figure appeared over the horizon, running toward them in a panic. His face was twisted in terror, his breath ragged as he stumbled over his words. "Turn back! Turn back quickly!" he screamed, his voice hoarse with fear. "Vampires have ambushed our caravan! They're slaughtering everyone!"

Behind the man, a blood-colored cloud seemed to swirl ominously, dark and unnatural, as if the very air had been tainted by death. The figure from within the crimson mist surged forward with terrifying speed, lunging toward the fleeing man, claws outstretched.

Erik reacted instantly. With a flick of his wrist, his staff was in hand, and the air around him crackled with energy. A fireball roared to life at the tip of the staff, streaking toward the vampire with deadly precision. It struck the creature squarely in the chest, exploding in a blinding flash of flames.

An anguished scream echoed across the plains, and the blood cloud dissipated into nothingness, leaving behind only a pile of ash where the vampire once stood.

"Blood-sucking vermin," Isran muttered, his voice cold and venomous as he dismounted, eyes narrowing on the smoldering remains. His hand instinctively moved toward the crossbow strapped to his back. "I suppose we don't need to go looking for them anymore."

Erik dismounted as well, his expression more contemplative than angry, though the grimness in his eyes showed he wasn't taking the situation lightly. The wind carried the faint, metallic scent of blood, mingling with the charred remains of the vampire.

Geri barked excitendly, sensing the tension in the air as he padded closer to his master.

The man who had warned them—still pale and visibly shaken—was slumped over a rock, trying to catch his breath. His clothes were torn, and blood from a shallow gash on his arm stained his sleeve. Erik and Isran exchanged a quick glance before approaching him.

Erik crouched down, his voice calm but direct. "Tell us exactly what happened."

The man looked up at Erik, his eyes wild with lingering terror. "We... we were traveling from Markarth," he began, his voice trembling. "I'm part of a merchantry—small group. We mostly transport goods between the cities, but we've been hearing strange rumors over the last week. They said vampires were stirring up trouble in Hjalmarch."

"People disappearing in the wilderness. Cattle drained of blood. You know... the usual stories that send people running." He shuddered, as if the words themselves held power over him.

"Rumors like that are enough to keep most people away," Isran said gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest. "What made your caravan come this way, then?"

The man grimaced, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Our employer... stubborn fool... he thought it was just some exaggerations, you know? Bandits, maybe. We'd been hearing the price of certain goods had risen in Morthal recently, and he wanted to take advantage. Didn't matter what we said. Half of us didn't even want to come this way, especially with the stories, but he insisted. Promised us a bigger cut of the profits."

Erik's brow furrowed as he listened. "What exactly were the rumors saying? Anything specific about where the vampires were operating?"

The man shook his head. "Not really. Just that Hjalmarch was cursed. They've been dealing with the monstrosities in the marshes for years now. We thought it was just talk, you know? Superstitions."

"Superstitions are often rooted in truth," Erik murmured, more to himself than to the man. He straightened up, his gaze shifting toward the direction the man had come from. "How many of you were there?"

The man's face fell, his hands trembling as he ran them through his hair. "There were twelve of us. Maybe and a couple of mercenaries... maybe a few are still alive, hiding in the wreckage. I don't know. It all happened so fast."

Erik and Isran exchanged another look. Twelve people, and this was all that remained? The vampires had descended on the caravan like wolves, striking without mercy.

Isran's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "How many vampires?"

The man swallowed hard. "At least five... maybe six. They came out of nowhere—one moment we were just talking, and the next... blood, screams. They didn't even give us a chance to fight back. It was as if they were herding us like sheep."

Erik's eyes darkened, the weight of the situation settling in. He nodded once, turning to Isran. "If this guy made it here, then he hasn't been running for long. The rest of the vampires will be upon us soon."

Isran didn't need to be told twice. His hatred for vampires was like a smoldering fire—one that was only fanned by the man's story. He adjusted the crossbow strapped to his back, his expression hard as steel.

"Keep running toward Whiterun," Erik instructed the man, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We'll deal with whatever's left."

The man nodded frantically, his relief palpable. "Thank you... thank you both."

...

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