Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer

As Babette and Nazir tested their newly acquired vampiric strength in a playful yet skillful spar, Erik barely noticed, his attention fixed solely on the ancient stone wall before him. Carved in the graceful, angular script of the dragon tongue, the words etched across the wall stirred memories from long ago. It read:

"Noble Nords remember these words of the Hoarfather: To kill in glorious war is to honor oneself, to die in glorious war is to honor all of Skyrim."

Erik's eyebrow lifted as he read the words again, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. The Hoarfather—a figure as ancient and enigmatic as Skyrim's tallest peaks. Stories of him had echoed across the centuries, becoming little more than myth and shadowed whispers, yet his philosophies were woven into Nordic history and lore.

Even the old Erik, a necromancer steeped in secrets, had studied the Hoarfather's words, finding in them a strange source of purpose.

"Pray not for peace, for such is the wish of the weak and cowardly."

The old Erik had clung to those words. They'd fed his ambition and justified the conflicts he'd sown across the land. After all, the soul harvests and necromantic arts demanded strife, sacrifice, and the constant cycle of death.

To him, the Hoarfather's teachings validated his own vision, painting his pursuit of souls not as villainy but as a contribution to the grand order. He had convinced himself that he wasn't simply taking; he was shaping Skyrim's destiny.

Eventually, he realized the hypocrisy in it, and he stopped justifying his horrid actions altogether, not that it stopped him from committing even more villainous acts, but that in itself was considered a great deal of growth. At least, he was no longer a hypocrite, or so the old Erik told himself.

Now, though, Erik found it almost ironic. Those philosophies that had once driven the old Erik to justify bloodshed now felt foreign and faintly hollow. That past self had reveled in the Hoarfather's lessons, twisting them to suit his own dark ideals, while the man Erik was now simply marveled at how fate had looped him back here.

Gabriella's sharp voice pulled Erik out of his thoughts, her tone laced with irritation and a touch of exasperation. "Your mutt, my lord... he's..." she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing as she watched him.

Her eyes, now faintly glowing crimson, fixed on him with a mixture of disgust and disdain. She jerked her head to the side, and Erik followed her gaze, frowning as he saw the scene she was referring to.

Geri, his corgi companion, was eagerly gnawing on the charred leg of Arnbjorn's still-smoldering corpse, his werewolf form frozen in death. "Bad dog," Erik said with a mix of amusement and reproach, extending a hand.

With a flick of his fingers, he cast a telekinesis spell, lifting Geri and floating him into his arms. "That's a valuable specimen," he scolded, petting the corgi's head despite his rebuke. "I'll find you something more fitting to chew on later."

Geri let out a low, disappointed whine, his ears drooping as he gazed longingly at the half-eaten limb. Seeing this, Gabriella raised an eyebrow, a flicker of distaste crossing her face, though she remained silent.

She had never been fond of Astrid or her followers, least of all Arnbjorn, who had followed her commands with a loyalty bordering on obsession. Astrid had shattered nearly every one of the Brotherhood's Five Tenets in her time as leader, but still, they had been her "family," for what little it had meant. Yet here Erik stood, treating their remains as if they were nothing more than fodder for his pet.

"Go on, Geri," Erik muttered, setting the corgi down and shooing him off. With a disappointed huff, Geri trotted away, shooting one last wistful glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the shadows.

Erik then turned his attention back to the corpses of Astrid and Arnbjorn. With a faint smirk, he knelt beside them, slicing his thumb to let a few drops of his blood fall onto the ground. He began drawing a ritual circle around their bodies, each line and curve traced with precision.

The crimson markings shimmered as he finished the intricate design, a faint pulse of energy radiating from the circle.

With a snap of his fingers, Astrid and Arnbjorn's bodies disappeared, vanishing from the sanctuary entirely and reappearing far away in Snowhawk Fortress, deep in the heart of Morthal. Erik straightened, brushing his hands off, satisfied with his handiwork.

Gabriella, who had been watching in silence, finally spoke, her voice laced with curiosity and a slight edge. "If I may ask… what exactly do you intend to do with their bodies?" Her gaze was sharp, searching his face for any hint of his plans.

Erik's smile widened as he looked at Astrid, his amusement darkening with a predatory gleam. "I've always wanted to study the anatomy of a werewolf," he began, voice smooth but laced with a cold edge. "But it's proven challenging—those feral ones have a tendency to flee at the mere sight of me, instincts driving them to survive above all else."

He sighed, almost wistfully. "The civilized ones, though… they tend to band together, and frankly, it isn't worth my time or effort to obliterate an entire pack just to satisfy a passing curiosity."

He leaned closer to Astrid, his tone sharpening. "As for Astrid... There are countless ways a necromancer like myself could make use of the body of a talented assassin. I'm sure you can imagine," he finished, his chuckle echoing in the stone hall, sending a chill through even the darkest corners of the sanctuary.

Gabriella watched him intently, emotions warring in her gaze. She'd felt the allure of Erik's promises, the tantalizing vision he'd painted for the Brotherhood—a rebirth of power, of legacy. The transformation he had offered had been enticing beyond words, turning each of them into vampires of rare and potent bloodlines.

Yet, watching him now, a sliver of doubt crept in. Erik's ruthlessness, his detached cruelty, made Astrid seem almost virtuous by comparison.

Gabriella sighed, her voice tinged with uncertainty as she spoke. "My lord, of course… I understand your intent, but…" She hesitated, considering her words carefully. "If we had refused your offer—would we have also...?"

Erik laughed, a sound both dismissive and chilling, his amusement making it clear that her question was naive. "But you didn't. And that's all that matters, isn't it?" His tone softened, almost patronizing as he reached out, patting her shoulder with a mock gentleness. "Let's not linger on such dark hypotheticals. You should know that I intend to cherish each of you, especially you."

Her breath caught as he stepped closer, his voice lowering to an intimate murmur, "Your blood has blossomed into something extraordinary since you received my gift. I'm pleased with what I see, Gabriella."

He removed his hand from her shoulder, the faintest glimmer of approval lingering in his expression. "Soon, I plan to introduce you all to Lady Serana. And if you prove worthy enough… she might just bestow upon you an even greater gift than I could ever offer."

The mention of Serana stirred Gabriella's sense of ambition, and the last of her doubts seemed to dissolve like mist in the morning sun. Her lips curved in a small smile, and she nodded, her eyes filled with renewed devotion. "I'll look forward to it, my lord," she murmured, voice steady.

Erik's smile deepened, sensing the lingering doubts fade entirely. He moved past her with a calculated grace, satisfaction evident in his expression as he surveyed his new family—every assassin now eager, loyal, and powerful in ways they had only dreamed of before.

Erik cleared his throat, a quiet authority settling over the chamber as his gaze swept across the Dark Brotherhood assassins gathered before him. "Alright, everyone, gather up," he called, his voice carrying a weight that demanded attention.

Nazir, who had been leaning against the wall sharpening his dagger, straightened with a wary curiosity. Babette paused mid-sip from her flask, crimson eyes narrowing as she studied Erik.

Festus, the grizzled imperial with his usual skeptical frown, couldn't help but inch closer, his gaze darting between Erik and Vazeera who was the most dissatisfied with the change of leadership.

Once the circle had formed, Erik reached into his cloak and drew out a sealed letter, its edges embossed with the crest of the Black-Briar family. He held it up between two fingers. "This letter is addressed to Maven Black-Briar. Once you take it to her, she'll know what to do—and she'll direct more business your way."

The assassins exchanged looks, eyes darting to the letter with varying degrees of curiosity and apprehension. Some shifted uncomfortably, but their eyes were all drawn to the letter. A realization settled among them: he had written this note before stepping foot into the sanctuary, which meant Erik had walked in without a shred of doubt that he'd gain control of the Brotherhood.

The quiet confidence, the casual authority—it all pointed to a man who had already calculated every possible outcome.

Without giving them a moment to overthink, Erik continued, "I'll say this only once, so listen carefully. Do not let your new powers lead you to arrogance and cloud your judgment. Treat Maven with respect, or I'll kill the lot of you myself. She will be the key to your success as a Brotherhood..."

The assassins glanced at one another, but no one dared to question him. His tone was cold, devoid of bluster or threat; it was simply a promise, delivered without hesitation. Erik took their silence as agreement and went on. "She'll likely test you with minor contracts, perhaps a dozen inconsequential assignments. Complete each task to her satisfaction. If, however, she demands something too grand in scale or too dangerous, you come to me first."

A beat of silence followed, before Nazir, always the sharpest among them, took a step forward and nodded with a hint of respect. "I'll deliver the letter on your behalf, Lord Erik."

Erik gave a satisfied nod as he handed Nazir the letter. As Nazir pocketed it, Erik's gaze swept over the others, the Brotherhood's twisted, complex histories surfacing in his mind.

The Dark Brotherhood wasn't just a sanctuary for killers; it was a haven for society's discarded, their motivations ranging from dark poeticisms to outright madness. Each member would spin a tale if asked—waxing lyrical about the artistry of dealing death, or sharing stories of trauma that had brought them here. In the end, all those explanations boiled down to one thing: they all found joy in killing.

Among them, Nazir was perhaps the most grounded. He wasn't one to romanticize the life of an assassin with high-flown speeches. He was practical, driven more by survival and the 'sense of camaraderie' he found in the Brotherhood than by an appetite for bloodshed.

If the Brotherhood ever had a strategist, it would be Nazir—and Erik recognized that. He watched as Nazir tucked the letter safely away, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes.

With his orders set and his threats issued, Erik moved on to the next topic at hand. "I'll soon be leaving the sanctuary...." he said, scanning the assassins, "but it wouldn't do for me to leave misguided sheep without guidance. Listen closely..."

He went on to tell them about his plans for them.

...

Erik strolled through the tranquil wilderness of Falkreath, his humming soft as he recited the words under his breath, "For hands of gold are always cold…"

Geri trotted eagerly behind, occasionally darting ahead to sniff the grass or chase a falling leaf.

The vast expanse of Falkreath's scenery unfolded around them, sunlight filtering through the thick canopy overhead, dappling the forest floor in warm patches of light. The air was fragrant, tinged with the scent of pine and damp earth—a rare moment of peace amid the turbulence of his pursuits.

As he walked, Erik's thoughts drifted back to the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary he had just left. While he had claimed control over the assassins, his intention wasn't to micromanage or suffocate their craft. He envisioned something grander: a revival of the Brotherhood, shaped into an organized force that would quietly expand, becoming a formidable network he could rely on if the need arose.

He'd told them as much, his final words planting the seeds of ambition, promising a steady flow of high-profile contracts to lure the best mercenaries and cutthroats from across Skyrim. In time, the Brotherhood would accumulate power and influence, and with it, wealth beyond their wildest imaginations.

Erik had set a rule: half of every assassin's earnings from high-level contracts would be funneled back into the Brotherhood. This wealth would be carefully reinvested—part to better equip and train their killers, part to establish sanctuaries across Skyrim.

Dawnstar, with its old, abandoned sanctuary, would be their first base outside Falkreath, a foothold from which the Brotherhood could grow. Someday, he imagined, there would be a sanctuary in every hold—safe havens for Skyrim's deadliest killers, each led by a powerful vampire, each ready to answer his call.

Still, Erik reminded himself, all the influence and wealth in the world were distractions without purpose. His true focus lay within. His soul had been damaged, weakened from the old necromancer's dark dealings with the Ideal Masters. Restoring it was crucial—without it, any power he built would remain hollow, a foundation built on sand.

True power lies within. He'd learned that lesson a lifetime ago, and it resonated now more than ever.

The edge of Lake Ilinalta came into view, its surface a mirror of the sky above, shimmering in hues of blue and silver. The sight stirred something within him—a deep appreciation for Skyrim's rugged beauty, a contrast to the twisted power he sought.

But he knew he'd have to leave this beauty behind now, returning to the murky swamps of Hjaalmarch. 'It was a nice break from snow and mud, at least...' A smile tugged at his lips despite himself.

Though he intended to delay his return to the Volkihars with the filled chalice to buy more time for Isran, not a second should be wasted. With the mercenary group led by Kaiden, the Brotherhood, and his other plans, he needed gold. Lots of gold.

'So much to do with so little time...'

Pausing on the lake's edge, he leaned down to scoop Geri into his arms. The dog wiggled briefly, then settled with a happy bark. Erik's gaze drifted toward the mountain peaks rising beyond the lake, their snow-capped summits touched by the morning light.

He took a deep breath, letting his magicka flood his body in waves of warmth and power. As he concentrated, his feet lifted from the ground, his body ascending until he hovered in the cool morning air, level with the distant mountaintops.

He glanced down at Geri, grinning as the dog let out a surprised yip, his tiny paws paddling in the air. "Shall we, boy?"

...

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