Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

Isran woke with a sudden, desperate gasp, his hand flying to his throat. His fingers searched for a gash, expecting the telltale slickness of blood, the ragged edge of a fatal wound—anything to confirm the horror he remembered. But there was nothing. No wetness, no sting of torn flesh, not even the faintest scar. His skin was whole and untouched.

Breathing heavily, he sat up, scanning his surroundings. The crypt loomed around him, dark and cold, the oppressive silence settling back like a shroud. His mind reeled, replaying the memory of Erik's blade slicing across his throat with a precision that left him speechless, helpless as his own blood spilled over his hands, suffocating him.

The burn of the wound, the choke of blood—he remembered every agonizing detail. His fingers twitched involuntarily, the phantom pain still fresh in his nerves. And yet, if not for the dried blood staining his clothes and pooling on the stone floor, he would have thought it nothing but a bad dream.

"What in Oblivion…?" he muttered, rubbing his neck as if he might finally feel the scar he knew should be there. His hand stilled as a memory surfaced—the strange potion Erik had given him before their journey, a bitter concoction Erik had claimed would keep him warm in the frigid crypt. Had it saved him somehow? Could it have been more than just a cold remedy?

He shook his head, his thoughts tangling in frustration. There was no sense to be found here. The only certainty he felt was a slow-burning rage. "Gods-damned bastard…" he muttered under his breath, his voice thick with bitterness.

Still distracted, he absentmindedly reached into his armor and pulled out a vial labeled "Cure Disease." There was no sign of any vampire bite on his body, but he wasn't about to risk turning into one of those cursed blood-drinkers. He studied the crimson liquid within, the thick substance swirling sluggishly in the glass, then sighed, uncorking the bottle.

Just as he lifted it to his lips, he paused. The red liquid inside had shifted, revealing words written along the glass, their ink the same rich hue as the potion itself. Formerly hidden beneath the liquid, the words now gleamed in the dim light, a single mocking phrase:

"To trick your enemies, you must first trick your allies."

Isran's face went blank, his mind racing, the words burning into him like an insult. Slowly, comprehension dawned, the weight of realization twisting into raw fury. The potion. Erik had given it to him. Another ploy, another damned lie.

"BASTARD!" he shouted, hurling the bottle to the ground with all his strength. It shattered against the stone, shards scattering like glittering fragments, the liquid seeping into the cracks and pooling in crimson patches.

Isran's deductions were sound, yet he could never have fathomed the depth of Erik's preparation. The potion he had been made to drink was no simple brew—it was a rare concoction, one crafted long ago to simulate death, a lifeline the old necromancer himself had once relied on when he was cornered and besieged. It was a tool as precise as it was ruthless and precious.

The Cure Disease potion that he had thrown to the ground was far from ordinary. Unlike the stasis potion, where the liquid itself was the lifesaving element, this vial's true value lay in the bottle itself. Magically enchanted, it anchored his soul to his body, preserving him just long enough for the stasis effect to fade and life to seep back in.

Had he known all this, Isran might have felt something other than this raw, choking fury. But he didn't know—and, perhaps, he never would.

The silence in the crypt thickened once more, swallowing the sound of shattering glass and the echoes of his curses. The air was stale, heavy with the lingering weight of his outburst, bitter and unyielding.

His hands trembled as he stood alone, his anger like a smoldering ember in his chest. It was as though he had awoken from one nightmare, only to realize he was now ensnared in another—a carefully laid trap that held him fast, its true purpose still veiled in the shadows.

...

The soft light of dawn barely pierced the thick mist cloaking Morthal, casting an eerie glow over the still and silent town. Within Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone's dimly lit chamber, Fallion approached the throne with a steady, calm stride, his dark robes trailing along the stone floor as he prepared to deliver his report.

Jarl Idgrod sat there, her expression distant, her eyes as deep and unfathomable as the marshes surrounding her hold. She looked up as Fallion arrived, her lips tightening slightly as though she sensed his news before he even spoke.

"The vampires that plagued Morthal," he began, his voice measured, "they have disappeared. Not a trace remains."

Idgrod's gaze sharpened, her hand tapping lightly on the worn armrest. "And what of the Daughter of Coldharbour?" she asked, her tone both curious and cautious, laced with the faintest thread of concern.

Fallion hesitated, casting a thoughtful glance to the floor before answering. "I can't say for certain. But if the vampires are retreating, it would seem Erik's plan succeeded. Serana must be far from Morthal by now."

The Jarl nodded slowly, her eyes distant once again. "Out of sight, out of mind," she murmured, almost to herself. Her voice dropped to a low, weary tone. "Let the vampires become someone else's problem. We have enough of our own."

For a moment, her gaze drifted out to the misty town through the stone window slit, her face betraying a rare glimpse of exhaustion. Then she looked back at Fallion, her expression softening. "If only the people of Morthal knew how much you've given to them."

Fallion allowed himself a small, almost self-deprecating smile. "Let them stew in their blissful ignorance, Jarl. Wisdom can be a heavy burden, and I acted out of respect for you… and to keep my young apprentice safe."

Idgrod's expression softened further at the mention of Agni. "And how is Agni these days?"

At the question, Fallion's smile widened, pride evident in his voice. "As bright as ever. With time, she'll be a mage of great renown, if not more." His eyes lit up, and he added, almost to himself, "She's already learning faster than I had anticipated."

A faint sigh escaped Idgrod, and she leaned back in her chair, her weathered face growing contemplative. "I certainly hope the Divines grant me enough time to see that future."

At her words, Fallion's expression grew serious, and he hesitated a moment before speaking. "The Divines…" he began cautiously. "Have they revealed any visions to you of late?"

Her lips curved in a knowing smile, her gaze turning wry. "The Divines show me many things, Fallion. None that you would be particularly curious about as of late."

She paused, amusement flickering in her eyes before she added, "They don't seem inclined to meddle with that man any more than they already have. But it is not for me to interpret their will."

Fallion looked down, thoughtful, her words settling heavily on his shoulders. He could sense the weight of things yet to come, the rippling changes that seemed to echo through Tamriel. And it seemed Idgrod, too, could feel that weight.

Her gaze drifted again toward the mist, her face shadowed. "Still, even without the Divines' whispers, I can sense the world shifting, Fallion. Whether it will change for better or worse… I fear even they might not know."

The silence that followed held a quiet, unspoken understanding. In that small, secluded room, beneath the cold stone and amidst the veil of dawn, both Fallion and Idgrod felt the invisible tension that settled over Morthal and, perhaps, over all of Skyrim—a sense that they stood on the cusp of something greater and far darker than they had yet faced.

...

The candlelight flickered across the opulent yet shadowy walls of Maven Black-Briar's office, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to move in step with her calculating gaze. Brynjolf entered quietly, his steps cautious as he took in the woman seated behind the desk, her sharp eyes fixed intently on him, every inch of her posture emanating control.

"Brynjolf," Maven greeted, her tone curt. "I trust you know why I summoned you."

Brynjolf gave a small nod, forcing himself to hold her gaze, though her scrutiny was far from comfortable. "Aye. I had a feeling."

Her lips twisted into a half-smile, though there was no warmth behind it. "You've been poking around Riften—and beyond, I hear. Disappearing for hours, sometimes days, with no word. I can't help but wonder what's so important that it keeps you out of sight and earshot."

He hesitated for a moment, weighing his next words carefully, but he knew she wouldn't appreciate a delay. "I've been...looking into a possibility, Maven. It's about the Thieves Guild. About the bad luck we've been dealing with. I have reason to believe it might be a curse."

"A curse?" Maven scoffed, her tone dripping with disdain. She leaned back in her chair, waving off the notion. "Don't tell me you're starting to believe in ghost stories now, Brynjolf. You've had some setbacks, that's all. Get back to business, keep your head down, and we'll be back on our feet."

Brynjolf's jaw tightened. He'd expected this reaction, but it still grated on him. "I thought the same, Maven. Until I spoke with Thane Erik."

Her expression stilled at the mention of Erik, her eyes narrowing slightly as her interest grew. "Erik?" she repeated, her tone softer, more controlled. "What exactly did he tell you?"

Brynjolf exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "He didn't come out and say it directly. But he hinted…he hinted that the trouble we're in might have something to do with Nocturnal herself. That it might even be related to the disappearance of the old Guild Master."

Maven's expression darkened, the calculating glint in her eyes growing sharper. "So Erik believes Nocturnal is the one responsible for this…curse. And you're implying Mercer Frey might have something to do with it?"

Brynjolf hesitated, searching for the right words, though it felt as if every one carried a heavier weight than the last.

"Erik didn't outright accuse Mercer. But he...pointed me in his direction, Maven. Made it seem like Mercer might have done something to anger Nocturnal herself. I don't know what, exactly, but if there's truth to it…"

Maven's hand clenched on the armrest of her chair, her face a mask of unreadable coldness. "Mercer Frey is a business partner," she replied icily, her voice even and dangerously calm. "Our arrangement has been profitable and…mutually beneficial for a long time. What exactly do you intend to do if he's indeed crossed Nocturnal?"

Brynjolf looked away, conflicted, but he couldn't deny the resolve slowly building within him. "I don't know yet. But if the curse is real, if it keeps draining the guild the way it has, then soon enough, we'll be nothing but a hollow remnant of what we once were. And that would make things…difficult, even for you..."

A tense silence settled between them, and for a long moment, Brynjolf wondered if he'd finally pushed too far. But Maven's gaze remained level, her fingers tapping thoughtfully against the desk.

"Continue your investigation," she said at last, her voice quiet, almost a whisper, though the command in it was unmistakable. "But report to me first before you make any foolish moves. Understood?"

Brynjolf nodded, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. "Understood,"

The silence resumed, but now it felt charged with something darker and heavier. Brynjolf turned to leave, feeling her gaze follow him out of the room, like a shadow in the candlelight. As he reached the door, her voice stopped him.

"And Brynjolf," she called softly, yet with an edge that reminded him just how much was at stake. "Whatever you find…remember whose interests your actions might affect..."

He gave a final nod, pushing down the growing knot of apprehension in his gut as he left Maven's chambers, her words echoing ominously in his mind.

...

Outside the imposing, snow-covered gates of Windhelm, Nurelion stood bundled in thick furs, leaning heavily on his staff. The air was biting cold, but his gaze was aflame with a fervor that cut through the chill. Around him, the mercenaries he'd hired shifted impatiently, casting wary glances his way. Some of them looked skeptical, others resigned; clearly, escorting an elderly alchemist into the depths of a ruin was not their typical fare.

Quintus Navale hurried toward him, clutching his own cloak close to his chest, his breath visible in the cold air as he rushed to keep up. His face was creased with worry, and his eyes darted between his master and the hired swords surrounding them.

"Master," he began, his tone pleading. "Are you truly certain you must go yourself? You're no longer as… spry as you used to be. These mercenaries can handle the retrieval without risking your health. Let them earn their pay."

Nurelion's weathered face turned toward Quintus, his gaze sharp, defiant. "Quintus, I am not entrusting my life's work to these... brutes," he scoffed, sparing a dismissive glance toward the mercenaries. "Do you think they'll understand the value of the White Phial? One careless touch, one misstep, and it could be shattered before it even sees the light of day again. No, I must be there to ensure its safety."

Quintus's brows knit in frustration, though he masked it with concern. "I understand, but if something goes wrong—if you're injured or worse, who will carry on your work? Who will guide me?"

Nurelion waved a dismissive hand. "Bah! My health is inconsequential compared to the Phial. Don't you see, Quintus? This isn't just some trinket. This is an artifact holds untold alchemical knowledge, lost to time and mystery. I have spent decades dreaming of this day, and I refuse to let it slip away. My hands will be the first to hold it—mine!"

Quintus took a steadying breath. "And what if the journey itself claims you, master? It's a grueling trek through dangerous terrain. Let the mercenaries handle it; they're trained for this."

"Do you think I fear a little rough travel at my age?" Nurelion's voice cracked with both anger and something softer—desperation. "I'm an old man, Quintus. Every day, every breath I take could be my last. If I wait any longer, I may never see the Phial at all. I cannot risk that. This is my purpose, Quintus. My last chance to finish what I started all those years ago."

Quintus swallowed, glancing down before speaking softly, "If that's how you feel, I won't try to stop you. But at least let me come along. If something happens, I'll be there to help you."

Nurelion considered his apprentice, his face softening for a brief moment. "You are a good apprentice, Quintus. Loyal. But you're needed here. If I... if I should not return, you are the one who will carry on what I've built. Someone has to look after the shop, after the ingredients, after my life's knowledge. That is your duty."

Quintus sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Very well. I can see there's no changing your mind." He lowered his voice, glancing at the mercenaries before looking back to Nurelion. "But be careful. The Phial isn't worth your life."

Nurelion smiled, though it was a wan, tired thing. "Don't be so dramatic, Quintus. I'll return with the Phial, and all will be well. You'll see."

The two shared a look, a lingering moment of unspoken words and worry. Finally, Nurelion gave Quintus a reassuring pat on the shoulder, nodding toward the waiting mercenaries.

"Let's go, then!" he commanded, his voice crackling with an energy that defied his age.

...

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