Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #75

The alchemy room was a modest space, newly completed but already brimming with purpose. Shelves lined the walls, laden with ingredients—everything from dried herbs and powdered minerals to vials of ichor and bottled venom.

A small hearth crackled in the corner, casting flickering shadows over the cluttered workspace. At its center stood a sturdy table, atop which Florentius busied himself with a bubbling cauldron and an array of glassware.

He carefully decanted a fiery liquid into a squat, round-bottomed bottle. The concoction inside swirled like molten gold, rippling with faint hues of crimson. Its heat seemed almost tangible, wreathing the glass in an otherworldly glow.

“Well?” Isran’s gravelly voice broke the silence, his arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe.

Florentius let out a slow sigh, holding the bottle up to the light for a final inspection. “It looks good,” he admitted, though his tone carried a note of caution. “But I’ll have to test its effects before we start celebrating.”

With that, he set the bottle down and retrieved a small vial of thick, dark liquid from a rack nearby. The label, scrawled in Florentius’s neat handwriting, read: Vampire Blood. He unstopped the vial, carefully dripping the fiery concoction onto the viscous red substance.

The reaction was immediate. The vampire blood clotted violently, bubbling and darkening as wisps of heat rose from the mixture. A faint sizzling sound filled the air, and the smell of scorched iron wafted through the room.

Florentius watched the reaction with narrowed eyes, then turned to Isran with a triumphant look. “It seems your vampire friend just helped us figure out a poison that could considerably weaken his kind.”

Isran grunted, his expression unreadable. “We aren’t exactly friends.”

Florentius raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “I gathered as much. Friends don’t usually greet each other with war hammers.”

Isran said nothing, his eyes fixed on the now-coagulated mess in the dish. He stroked his chin, deep in thought, his brow furrowing as if weighing an invisible scale.

Florentius leaned back against the table, folding his arms as he observed Isran’s brooding silence. “Well?” he prompted after a moment. “Can he be trusted?”

Isran’s gaze snapped to Florentius, his frown deepening. “No.” The word fell flat, as certain as steel meeting stone.

Florentius tilted his head, unimpressed by the brevity of the answer. “But?”

Isran exhaled heavily, his shoulders sagging slightly. “But I don’t think we have much of a choice in the matter.” He met Florentius’s gaze, his voice tinged with reluctant frustration. “I don’t like it. Not one bit. But his plan is sound.”

Florentius let out a long, weary sigh, setting down the vial of vampire blood with an audible clink. “I figured you’d say that,” he muttered, his shoulders sagging. “It doesn’t seem we have much choice indeed.” He trailed off, shaking his head slowly. His voice dipped lower, almost bitter. “More like, he didn’t give us any.”

Isran winced at the remark, though he tried to hide it. “Yes,” he admitted after a beat, his tone heavy with resignation. “He has that effect on people.”

Florentius rubbed the bridge of his nose, as though the conversation itself was giving him a headache. “So now we’re following the lead of a powerful vampire... to exterminate other vampires.” He let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Just how in Oblivion did you get mixed up with a skeeter, anyways?”

Isran frowned, his expression darkening. “A skeeter? Really? Is that something a priest of Arkay should be saying?”

Florentius scoffed, crossing his arms. “So says the grumpy Vigilant of Stendarr. Shall we compare notes on who’s keeping better moral high ground?”

A bitter smile tugged at Isran’s lips, though it carried no warmth. “I quit the order,” he said flatly, his voice edged with lingering bitterness. “And it couldn’t have been any sooner. It was that, or getting the boot.” He shook his head, as though the memory itself was an irritant he was trying to dislodge.

Florentius raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “And here I thought quitting wasn’t in your vocabulary.”

Isran ignored the comment, his gaze shifting to the crackling hearth. “To answer your question,” he said, his voice quieter now, “he wasn’t a vampire when I met him... not when he came to me.”

Florentius tilted his head, curiosity lighting his eyes. “Go on, then. Tell me how the great Isran ended up working alongside the undead.”

Isran let out a long breath, his jaw tightening as if deciding how much to reveal. After a moment, he began. “He came to me with a proposition... a plan so insane, it should’ve gotten him killed. Infiltrating the Volkihars, of all things.”

Florentius blinked, his expression incredulous. “And you agreed?”

Isran snorted. “Not at first. I thought he was a lunatic. Still do, for what it’s worth. But Erik—he has this... way about him. He made it sound like the only choice that made sense.”

He paused, his gaze hardening as if reliving the memory. “The plan was simple, in theory. He’d take an Elder Scroll and a Daughter of Coldharbour to the Volkihars, get inside, gain their trust, and feed me intel while I built up the Dawnguard. Only...”

Florentius leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Only what?”

Isran’s voice dropped, low and grim. “Only he decided to make it convincing. Too convincing. In Dimhollow Crypt, he slit my throat right in front of that very daughter of Coldharbour...”

Florentius froze, his eyes widening. “He what?”

“Slit my throat,” Isran repeated, his tone cold and even, like he was recounting a weather report. “Left me for dead. I woke up several days later, throat unslit, very much alive.”

Florentius stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. “Arkay’s mercy... and you’re just fine with that?”

Isran winced, his jaw tightening as he stared at the fiery concoction in Florentius’s hands. “I wouldn’t say I was okay with it,” he muttered, his voice rough. “If I had the chance, I’d bash his skull in. Stendarr knows I’ve tried.”

Florentius scoffed, shaking his head with a knowing smirk. “Oh, I’m well aware. I’ve seen it firsthand, remember?”

Isran turned his glare on Florentius, his brow furrowing. “Yes, I’m sure you got a good show, tied up as you were. Limbs and mouth bound by the ground itself, thanks to his little tricks.”

Florentius chuckled at the memory, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough, fair enough,” he conceded. “Still, I can’t say it wasn’t entertaining. Even if the dirt was a bit too cozy for my taste.”

Isran shook his head, the ghost of a rueful smirk flickering across his face before fading.

Florentius leaned back against the alchemy table, setting the fiery potion carefully aside. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, his tone lighter but no less pointed. “This vampire—Erik—comes out of nowhere, whisks you off on a grand quest to stop some grand vampire menace. Then somehow convinces you that it’s a good idea to take an Elder Scroll and a Daughter of Coldharbour straight into the jaws of an ancient coven of vampires.”

He paused, gesturing for emphasis. “Only to slit your throat for good measure?”

Isran exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression one of weary resignation. “And now he’s back as a vampire,” he said flatly. “Trying to sell me on yet another insane plan.”

Florentius blinked, his incredulity giving way to a dry, wry smile. “And judging by that look on your face, it seems like you’re actually going to take him up on it.”

Isran shrugged, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his own begrudging admission.

Florentius let out a low chuckle, his amusement tinged with disbelief. “That man has a way with words, I’ll give him that much,” he said, shaking his head. “If he can talk you into taking up this lunatic crusade, I imagine he could have the vampires eating out of his palms...” He smirked, his voice dipping with humor. “Or, well... drinking.”

Isran gave him a hard look, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying this far too much, Florentius.”

“I can’t deny that in good conscience…” Florentius admitted, straightening up with a sigh. He folded his arms and leaned back against the table, his gaze thoughtful. “In any case, if we’re to sail on this ship of madness, then we need more information. You said his name was Erik Deathsong, right? Any idea where he came from? His background?”

Isran exhaled heavily, the sound bordering on a groan. “Beyond his name and the fact that he’s better at wielding magic and a sword than anyone I’ve ever met? Not much. I only know he’s the Thane of Hjaalmarch—claims his ancestors hailed from there.”

Florentius frowned, his brows furrowing deeply. “Hjaalmarch? I’ve been there on more than one occasion. Morthal, the marshes... I don’t recall ever hearing about a Deathsong clan.”

Isran shrugged, his expression indifferent. “It’s an old clan, most likely from the First Era. He himself isn’t a resident of Morthal. According to him, he was only there on business when he stumbled onto this Volkihar conspiracy.”

Florentius rubbed his chin, his frown deepening as he mulled it over. “An old clan, one most likely lost to history...” He sighed and shook his head. “No matter. I’ll look into it—see what I can learn about this Erik Deathsong and this supposed clan of his.”

He straightened, fixing Isran with a pointed glare. “Which, by the way, is something you should have done yourself.”

Isran scowled, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve been a little busy turning this ruin into a fortress, Florentius. Or have you forgotten?”

Florentius rolled his eyes, his tone turning dry. “Ah yes, the esteemed steward of crumbling stone and rotting wood. How could I forget?” He shook his head, his sarcasm fading into exasperation. “Anyway, I’ll get to it. In the meantime, take that warhammer he left for you and bring it to Gunmar. See what he can tell you about it.”

Isran turned his gaze toward the corner of the room, where the warhammer leaned against the wall, radiating a faint, sacred light that bathed the shadows in a golden hue. It seemed almost alive, its intricate carvings glowing faintly with an otherworldly aura.

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “That’s what I intended to do,” he said, his voice low.

Florentius watched as Isran crossed the room and hefted the warhammer, its weight settling into his grip like it had been forged just for him. For a brief moment, the light from the weapon illuminated his face, casting his usually stern features in a softer glow.

“Be careful with that thing,” Florentius called after him, half-joking. “It looks like it might smite you just for thinking too hard.”

Isran grunted, sparing him a fleeting glance. “It’ll be fine.”

With that, he strode out of the room, the sacred weapon in hand, leaving Florentius behind to his thoughts and the lingering glow of the alchemy lab’s firelight.

...

Erik stepped onto the veranda of Honeyside Manor, the polished wood creaking faintly under his boots. The twilight of Riften bathed everything in warm hues, and the scent of pine mingled with the faint tang of the lake. He took in a deep breath, letting the quiet of the moment settle over him.

He sank into a sturdy wooden chair, setting a bottle of Black-Briar mead on the ground beside him with a soft clink. As he leaned back, the tension in his shoulders eased. Geri, his ever-loyal corgi, padded over and curled up at his feet, releasing a soft huff as if to signal his approval of the restful evening. Erik reached down to scratch behind Geri’s ears, earning a pleased wag of the tail.

Turning his gaze to the lake, Erik was greeted by the sprawling expanse of Lake Honrich. Its waters shimmered like molten gold under the dying light of the sun. From here, the view was uninterrupted—a perfect tableau of serenity. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply exist in that peace.

But rest was fleeting.

With a sigh, Erik reached for a stack of papers resting on a nearby table, his housecarl Iona’s meticulous handwriting scrawled across them. They were the latest revenue reports from the Forelhost mines, his venture into the lucrative ebony trade proving as reliable as ever. He flipped through the pages, scanning the numbers for irregularities.

Nothing. Everything was accounted for, right down to the last septim.

“Efficient as always, Iona,” he muttered, his lips quirking into a faint smile.

Setting the papers aside, Erik picked up the mead bottle and took a slow sip, the honeyed liquid burning pleasantly down his throat.

The cool evening breeze swept across the veranda, tousling his hair and carrying the faint scent of wildflowers. He let out a long, loud grunt, the kind only a man weighed down by exhaustion and endless work could muster. It was a sound of surrender to the moment, to the peace he rarely allowed himself.

For once, he didn’t bother to mask his fatigue. The dark circles under his eyes and the slight slump of his shoulders betrayed the toll of days spent overthinking and nights spent without sleep. Even a vampire would struggle to match his current level of weariness.

His solitude was short-lived.

A soft chuckle echoed from his right, breaking the stillness. Erik stiffened, his hand reflexively tightening around the bottle. He turned his head to find a woman standing beside him, her presence as unmissable as it was unnerving.

She was pale as moonlight, her jet-black hair framing a face that was both regal and haunting. Her crimson eyes glowed with quiet amusement, a predatory glint hidden just beneath the surface. The corner of her lips curled into a knowing smile as she regarded him.

“Is this what you look like when you’re not trying to impress anyone?” she asked, her voice smooth, like silk brushed against steel.            

Erik blinked, then chuckled softly, holding up the bottle of mead as if to explain himself. “I don’t need to impress anyone,” he replied, a mischievous glint in his tired eyes. “It’s usually the other way around.”

She arched a dark brow, her smile growing.

“But,” he added, shaking his head as a faint grin tugged at his lips, “I do like to look my best when in the company of beautiful, ancient vampires.”

The woman tilted her head, her laughter soft and melodic as she leaned slightly closer. “Flattery, Erik? You must be more tired than I thought.”