Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

Erik stood in front of a tall, dust-coated mirror in the underground bedroom, silently adjusting his attire. He had grown accustomed to the reflection that stared back at him, the face of a man long dead but now his own.

His sharp, angular features were starkly framed by pale skin, and his eyes had taken on a subtle blue glow—an eerie, almost ethereal reminder of the soul transfer that had fused his being with the old necromancer's memories and powers. His hair, turned white as a result of the botched ritual, now reached his shoulders, and was neatly combed, framing his face with a touch of sophistication.

The figure in the mirror, though undoubtedly Nordic in origin, stood slightly apart from the typical hulking Nord physique. He was tall—an impressive 185 centimeters—but his frame was a bit thinner than the average Nord, though still strong and sinewy.

In his past life, he would have towered over most people, but here, he was just another nord, one that was on the shorter side even. Still, there was power in the way he carried himself, an air of confidence he hadn't possessed when he first arrived in this forsaken body.

He wore black robes that clung to his form with a subtle eastern flair, a testament to the old necromancer's travels and his taste for exotic things. Draped over the robes was a long, coal-black cloak lined with fur around the neck, a functional yet elegant garment to shield him from Skyrim's biting cold.

The heavy fabric hung over his shoulders like a shadow, giving him a menacing aura that matched the new role he found himself playing.

As he slid six rings onto his fingers, Erik's lips curled into a small, self-satisfied smile. These weren't ordinary adornments—they were the products of countless hours of trial and error, a triumph in the art of enchanting.

Each ring bore two enchantments, designed with precision. Most of them focused on increasing his magicka and stamina recovery, compensating for the crippling damage to his soul. He flexed his fingers, feeling the faint hum of magic coursing through the metal, each ring buzzing with latent power.

"Now that it's time to leave this god-forsaken fortress," he muttered to himself, giving one final glance at his reflection. "At least I should look presentable."

He admired his reflection once more, satisfied with the old necromancer's wardrobe. "That ancient bastard was a menace to society, but his fashion sense wasn't half-bad..."

He was now ready to face the world. Still, Despite all his efforts, his attempts to enchant anything that would directly increase his magicka had failed. He had tried various combinations of soul gems, enchantment methods, and rare materials, but the result was always the same—his magicka pool remained pitifully small.

Erik sighed, his smile fading. The broken vessel that was his soul can only hold so much, after all.

That was the frustrating reality of his situation. No matter how many enchantments he layered, no matter how many potions he brewed, his damaged soul was a leaky container, incapable of holding the immense power the old necromancer had wielded with ease. It was a limitation that gnawed at him, an obstacle that no amount of ingenuity could fully overcome.

But Erik wasn't the type to be easily discouraged. The old necromancer's memories had given him centuries of knowledge, and he would use every ounce of it.

He might not have access to the immense power he craved just yet, but with the arsenal of low-level spells he had pieced together, the enchanted rings on his fingers, and his growing expertise in alchemy, he would make his mark. Even if it was with a scalpel instead of a hammer.

"Let's see what this world has in store," he whispered, turning from the mirror, the soft rustle of his cloak following him as he made his way toward the door.

After two full months, he had already perfected a fighting style that was suitable for his crippled soul, using both low-level spells alongside the swordplay that belonged to the Sword Saints of Hammerfell.

Although he can't cause havoc as the old necromancer did, there would not be many people who can oppose him in Skyrim.

It was time to leave Snowhawk Castle and step into this dangerous, unpredictable world. But he would be prepared. And he would make sure his enemies underestimated him—until it was far too late.

...

Trudging along the snow-covered road, Erik finally stopped at a three-way crossroad. He turned to glance back, squinting through the cold wind at the distant silhouette of Snowhawk Fortress, now little more than a shadow on the horizon.

The path had led him down from the hills, snaking alongside its steep, snow-dusted inclines and bringing him to the main road. To the west, the road stretched towards Dragon Bridge, a day's journey at least. To the east, it wound toward the misty marshlands, where Morthal lay nestled in the distance.

"Morthal... should only be two to three hours' ride, at most," Erik muttered under his breath, recalling the necromancer's memories with a furrowed brow. The recollections were still foreign to him, like half-remembered dreams that didn't quite belong to him.

Nodding to himself, Erik checked both directions along the road to ensure no one was watching. He crouched slightly, casting his gaze down at the snow where his shadow stretched long and thin in the pale afternoon light.

"Scadu," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the whistling wind.

The shadows beneath him began to stir, twisting and swirling unnaturally as though responding to his call. In moments, they coalesced into the shape of a horse, its form dark and imposing, shrouded entirely in black cloth that hung from its frame like funeral drapery.

From head to hoof, the creature was veiled in black, giving no glimpse of its body beneath. Erik reached out, running his hand over the horse's neck, and instead of the soft warmth of flesh beneath the cloth, his fingers touched cold, unyielding bone.

Scadu, the old necromancer's mount—a skeletal horse fashioned from the bones of powerful creatures Erik couldn't even name. The old necromancer had drawn inspiration from the ghostly steed Arvak in the Soul Cairn, and through a mixture of necromancy, enchantments, and shadow magic, he had crafted this undead shadow specter, more than capable of traversing the most treacherous terrains of Skyrim.

Luckily for Erik, Scadu was a permanent kind of undead, bound to him not by magicka but by the utterance of its name. Controlling such a creature would've been far too taxing on his meager magicka reserves, even if the necromancer had succeeded in claiming Erik's body fully, without the soul damage. All it took now was a single word, and the mount was his to command.

Erik smiled as he swung himself onto the horse's back. The shadows shifted beneath him, coiling like living things as Scadu responded to his weight, steady and unbothered. He straightened his cloak, gripping the reigns of shadow and bone.

"Let's get moving," he whispered, and with a swift tug of the reins, the shadowy horse leapt forward into a gallop, its hooves making no sound on the snow-covered road.

Erik slowly approached the bridge that spanned the wide, churning waters of the Hjal River. Below, the river surged through the heart of Hjaalmarch, carving its way south from the marshlands that were connected to the Sea of Ghosts. The wind carried a hint of the sea's cold bite as Erik guided Scadu across, the skeletal horse's hooves soundless on the wooden planks.

Ahead, the path curved sharply alongside the mountain, flanked by jagged boulders and thick trees that cast long shadows over the road. There, lying beside a broken carriage, a man leaned against one of the wheels, clutching his leg in apparent pain. His eyes lit up as he saw Erik approach, and he waved his arm frantically.

"Please, traveler! Help!" the man called out, his voice tinged with desperation. "I'm a merchant. My horse—spooked by the howls of wolves—overturned my carriage. I've been stranded here ever since!"

Erik's gaze shifted from the man to the carriage, then to the surrounding area. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the landscape—the boulders scattered along the roadside, the dense tree line at the foot of the mountain.

The scene felt... off. Maintaining a calm expression, Erik gently tugged at Scadu's reins, prompting the undead mount to trot toward the man at a slow, deliberate pace.

As he dismounted, Erik offered the man a friendly smile. "Rough luck," he said with a nod toward the overturned carriage. "When did this happen? If your horse hasn't gone far, maybe I can track it down for you."

The man's face brightened with gratitude, his eyes briefly flicking to Scadu before returning to Erik. "It's only been an hour or so," he said, pointing toward the treeline near the foot of the mountain. "The horse ran that way, spooked by the howls. It's probably still nearby."

Erik followed the man's gesture, his smile widening, though there was a subtle shift in his eyes. "Is that so?" he murmured. "Strange… I don't see any tracks. With how high the snow is on the ground, you'd think there'd be some sign of its passing."

The man's expression faltered for a split second—a barely noticeable flinch—but he quickly recovered, keeping his voice steady. "Ah, the wind might've covered the tracks by now. This snow can be unpredictable."

Erik's eyes flickered with amusement. "Unpredictable, you say?" He gave a dramatic sigh, his tone light but laced with a hint of something darker. "I've been on this road for hours now. Haven't seen a single snowflake fall."

He paused, his gaze sharpening as he looked the man over, his pointed stare making the air between them grow tense. "And now that I think about it," Erik continued, voice low, "there aren't any wolf packs in this area. They tend to steer clear of the marshes this time of year... they don't get along with the spiders..."

The man's mask of calm began to slip, and his eyes darted nervously to the trees. "Must've been a lone wolf then," he muttered quickly. "Not uncommon, right?"

Erik's smile faded, and his hand rested casually on the hilt of the straight sword at his side. His posture relaxed, but the air around him had shifted, a subtle tension coiling beneath his calm demeanor. "Lone wolves. Uncommon, yes. But not impossible," Erik mused softly, his eyes never leaving the man's face.

The merchant swallowed hard, sensing that his ruse had been seen through. He tried to hold Erik's gaze with a blank expression, as if his mask of innocence could somehow mask the obvious lie.

Erik, in contrast, watched him with amusement dancing in his eyes, his lips curving into a subtle, almost playful smile. To him, the situation had shifted from minor irritation to a game—a test to see how long it would take for the man to crack under pressure.

After a moment, the man's face hardened into a scowl. He realized the charade was pointless now, his confidence replaced with open hostility. "So what if you saw through me?" he growled, rising to his feet with a sudden burst of bravado. "You're still surrounded."

With a sweeping gesture, he shouted, "Everyone, come out!"

At his command, eight figures emerged from behind the trees and boulders that lined the road, each brandishing weapons. Their armor was a patchwork of fur, leather, and battered iron plates, the typical garb of highwaymen. Some clutched crude swords, others held axes and maces. None of them looked particularly well-trained, but there were enough of them to be a threat to a lone traveler.

The leader's eyes gleamed as he looked Erik up and down, his gaze lingering on the sword hanging from Erik's belt and the rings glinting on his fingers. "I see you've got some valuable gear," he sneered, pointing at the ornate weapon, his voice dripping with greed. "That sword of yours, those rings—made of gold and studded with flawless gems, no less."

His attention shifted to Scadu, and his smile widened further, showing his teeth like a wolf eyeing prey. "But the real prize is that horse of yours." He gave a low whistle, stepping closer as he studied the undead mount cloaked in black. "Even covered up like that, I can tell it's no ordinary beast. Specially bred warhorse, right? Must've cost you a fortune."

Erik's smile remained, his amusement deepening at the man's utter ignorance. He let the bandit's words hang in the cold air for a moment, savoring the impending shift in tone. These fools had no idea what they were dealing with—especially the "horse."

"You're right," Erik said, his voice calm and measured. "Scadu is… quite valuable."

The bandit leader's smug smile widened as he stepped closer, clearly confident in his assumed victory. "Smart man," he repeated with a sneer, his voice dripping with condescension. "Now, why don't you be smart and hand over your valuables... that way I might consider letting you keep your undergarments."

The bandits around him erupted in laughter, their crude humor filling the air, but Erik remained unbothered, his eyes glinting with amusement. Gesturing casually toward Scadu, he said, "If you want my horse, then go ahead and take it."

The bandit leader's eyes gleamed in satisfaction. "Wise choice." He strode toward Scadu, chuckling to himself. "Let's see what this beauty looks like up close, shall we?"

With a confident grin, the man reached out and lifted the black cloth covering Scadu's head. His smile vanished the moment he saw the blackened skull beneath, glowing with an eerie purple flame. He barely had time to curse before Scadu snapped at him with lightning speed, its skeletal jaws closing around his face.

A sickening crunch filled the air as the horse tore his nose clean off. The bandit staggered back, shrieking in pain, but Scadu wasn't finished. With a powerful kick, the horse's hoof connected with his chest, caving it in with a brutal thud. The man fell to the ground, dead in an instant.

The sudden, gruesome spectacle left the other bandits frozen in shock. A woman among them, wielding a sword and shield, broke the silence. "Undead! Quick, kill it!" she screamed, charging at Scadu with another bandit following behind her.

Scadu let out a low, bone-chilling whinny, the sound reverberating through the clearing like the voice of death itself. Without hesitation, it charged the woman, its skull head slamming into her with a sickening crack. She was sent flying, crashing into the snow several feet away, unconscious or worse.

The bandit behind her barely had time to react before Scadu trampled him underfoot, his screams cut short by the sound of bones shattering beneath its weight.

The remaining six bandits snapped out of their stupor at the sight of their comrades being slaughtered. One of them, a hulking man wielding a large battle axe, shouted, "This undead is too powerful! Hold it down while me and Alrik deal with its master. It'll disappear if we kill him!"

Two of the bandits, including the man with the axe, charged at Erik with murderous intent, while the others fanned out, clearly intending to swarm Scadu and bring it down through sheer numbers.

Erik, however, didn't flinch. Instead, he smiled. There was no fear in his expression, no panic in his posture. He had been preparing for this moment. Months of sparring with the lesser skeletons outside the hidden basement in Snowhawk Fortress had honed his skills, and now, for the first time, he had the chance to test his mettle against human opponents.

The first bandit, axe in hand, rushed at Erik with a wild look in his eyes, eager for the kill. "Die, necromancer!" His massive weapon swung downward with brutal force, but Erik moved with the precision of someone who had seen countless battles, sidestepping the clumsy strike with ease.

The axe bit into the ground instead, its momentum dragging the bandit off balance. Before the man could recover, Erik's sword flashed from its sheath, the blade singing through the cold air as it struck the axe's handle just below the blade, snapping it clean in half.

Caught off guard, the bandit staggered backward, his arms flailing for balance. The opening was perfect. Erik capitalized on it in an instant, stepping forward and slitting the man's throat in a single, smooth motion. Blood sprayed across the snow, and the bandit gurgled, clutching at his neck before collapsing. The entire exchange took less than a second.

But Erik had no time to reflect. The second bandit was already upon him, charging with a spear aimed directly at his chest. The man's eyes burned with determination, certain that he would skewer Erik with sheer speed and strength.

Erik raised his free hand calmly, his fingers splayed wide. "Blinda," he muttered under his breath. An intense flash of light erupted from his palm, a modified candlelight spell designed for one purpose: to blind and disorient. It consumed very little magicka but delivered a burst of brilliance that outshone the midday sun.

The bandit screamed, stumbling forward as his vision was suddenly seared by the light. "My eyes! I can't see!" His spear jabbed forward wildly, missing Erik by a wide margin.

With a practiced sidestep, Erik slipped past the flailing weapon and sliced the back of the bandit's knee, severing tendons and bringing the man to the ground. In the same fluid motion, Erik thrust his blade through the bandit's back, piercing his heart before he could even scream. The bandit collapsed into the snow, face-first, his blood pooling around him in a dark, steaming patch.

Erik stood over the body, his breath steady, his expression calm, but inside, there was a slight unease. He glanced at the blood-slicked blade, watching the crimson droplets fall from the steel and stain the white snow beneath his feet. He sighed, muttering to himself, "So, this is what it feels like to kill someone..."

Technically, it wasn't the first time his hands had drawn blood. The memories of Erik Deathsong—thousands of years of battles, dark rituals, and slaughter—drowned out any sense of guilt or remorse that might have surfaced. Life was no longer sacred... it was cheaper than hay.

Yet, despite the numbness of those inherited memories, something still lingered in him, a faint echo of what it meant to take a life. It wasn't horror, nor was it regret—just a quiet, uncomfortable understanding that some part of him still reacted to death.

He swung his sword to the side, casting the blood from the blade before sliding it back into its sheath. "Whose next?"

...

I'm motivated by praise and interaction, so be sure to leave a like, power stone, or whatever kind of shendig this site uses, and more importantly do share you thoughts on the chapter in the comment section!

Want more chapters? Then consider subscribing to my pat rēon. You can read ahead for as little as $1 and it helps me a lot!

 -> (pat rēon..com / wicked132) 

You can also always come and say hi on my discord server 

 -> (disc ord..gg / sEtqmRs5y7)- or hit me up at - Wicked132#5511 - and I'll add you myself)