Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #71

Watching his undead thralls march down the path leading deeper into the Dwemer ruins, Erik's gaze shifted back to Breya. His fingers flexed absently, already anticipating the delicate intricacies of the ritual ahead. The process to raise her as one of the undead would not be quick, nor would it be simple.

Time was a resource best used wisely, and his undead could spend it scouring the ruins, collecting the shattered remains of Dwemer machines for future study. Each fragment was a potential clue, each cog a step closer to untangling the secrets of these ancient halls.

His eyes met Breya's spirit, her form translucent but still fierce, like a battle-scarred wolf caught in a winter storm. "I'll ask for the last time," Erik said, his voice carrying a weight of finality. "Are you certain you wish to go through with this?"

Her gaze was steady, her jaw set like tempered steel. "Aye," she said with a nod, her ethereal form flickering for a heartbeat as if her resolve had anchored her more firmly to the realm of the living. That was all Erik needed.

With a flick of his wrist, he reached out toward her corpse. The lifeless body twitched, then lifted into the air, suspended by an unseen force. Telekinesis required focus, but this was second nature to him now.

The body hovered as if cradled by unseen hands, limbs swaying faintly in the air. He shifted his stance, his free hand extending toward the ground. Stone rumbled in response, the ancient Dwemer masonry groaning and scraping as it yielded to his will.

A dais rose from the floor, its surface smooth but for the faint scarring of age and corrosion. It resembled an altar—not unlike the one he himself had been bound to when he first awoke in this world. The irony was not lost on him.

With care, he lowered Breya's body onto the stone platform, arranging her arms and legs with the precision of a craftsman setting the final pieces of a mosaic. Her face was calm in death, lips pale but still pressed together in that stubborn frown she'd worn even in life.

He let out a breath through his nose. "Pardon me," he muttered as he began unfastening the straps and clasps of her armor. Piece by piece, the battered steel plates clattered onto the stone floor, each one a small echo in the cavernous chamber.

Her spirit floated nearby, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"Is this necessary?" she asked, one brow raised like a scolding matron. Her voice had that biting edge to it, sharp enough to cut stone.

Erik glanced at her briefly, his hands not pausing in their work. "I'm afraid so. Enchantment runes need contact with the flesh. Metal and leather would only get in the way." He didn’t elaborate further. Explanations never satisfied the dead.

Once she was stripped down to her linen undergarments, he stepped back, eyes scanning her form with the detachment of a surgeon evaluating a patient before an operation. She had the build of a warrior, all lean muscle and hard edges. Death had robbed her of warmth, but not dignity. Erik ensured that remained intact.

He rolled his wrist, summoning an ebony dagger into his hand—the weapon’s curved blade gleaming faintly in the dim glow of his conjured magelight. Its edge shimmered with a faint sheen of enchantment, the mark of a tool meant for ritual work rather than mere killing.

“Feel free to look away,” he said, his tone light but not mocking. He’d seen many ghosts react poorly to what came next.

Breya’s eyes stayed locked on him, jaw set tighter than before. “I’ve seen worse,” she muttered.

“Suit yourself,” Erik replied, leaning over the altar.

He moved with practiced precision. The tip of the dagger pressed against the hollow of her throat, and with a smooth pull, he carved a line across her flesh. No hesitation. No pause. Blood, thick and dark as oil, welled up and spilled down the sides of her neck, following the grooves of her collarbones before dripping off the edges of the altar.

Next, he seized her wrist, pulling it taut. A shallow cut along the vein—clean and efficient.

Then the other wrist. Her ankles were next, and with each incision, more blood flowed, pooling beneath the altar in a slow, deliberate cascade.

The coppery tang filled the air, sharp and metallic. The faint blue glow of Dwemer lamps made it look almost black.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Erik noted, glancing up at Breya’s spirit.

Breya’s spirit hovered nearby, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes locked on him with a look so flat it could have been carved from stone. “I’m curious to ask,” she said slowly, her gaze shifting to the ritual work before her, “but this strikes me as a process better left uninterrupted.”

Erik’s lips curled into a grin, low laughter rumbling in his chest like distant thunder. He didn’t look away from his work, his hands moving with practiced ease. “Maybe if I were an amateur,” he replied, his fingers deftly etching sigils into the stone surface of the dais, each line glowing with a faint violet sheen. “But I’m not. Feel free to ask your questions—knowledge unspoken is knowledge wasted.”

His gaze flicked to her spirit for a moment, his grin lingering like a man humoring an old friend.

Breya’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, letting the quiet hum of ambient magicka fill the space between them. The faint drip of blood striking stone echoed in time with Erik’s methodical movements.

He turned to her corpse, his eyes sharp with calculation as he watched the crimson streams trailing down her arms, legs, and torso, pooling beneath the dais like ink spilled from an overturned inkwell.

“Blood,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of a lecturer’s cadence, “for the most part, transports nutrients throughout your body to keep it alive, warm, and functional.” His hands moved as he spoke, fingers dancing over her limbs, ensuring the flow was steady and even.

His eyes followed the trails with a clinical detachment. “But now?” He glanced briefly at her spirit. “Now, though your flesh has yet to rot, your blood has. It’s no different than poison.” He tapped his temple, his gaze sharp and knowing. “Even if that weren’t the case, you wouldn’t need it. For an undead, it would be nothing more than extra weight....”

Breya tilted her head, one brow arched in skeptical curiosity. “Then what do I need?” she asked, her tone flat but edged with genuine interest.

“Magicka, of course,” Erik said with a crooked grin, his eyes flickering with that telltale glow of arcane power. “Your body will run on it, like a forge fueled by fire.” He glanced down at her lifeless form, her flesh now pale as frostbitten snow.

The last trickles of blood drained from her fingertips, staining the stone beneath her like an offering to an unseen god. “But blood isn’t the only thing you’ll have to forgo, I’m afraid.”

Her gaze followed his as her eyes flicked to her own body, now pallid and still. “You’re being deliberately ominous,” she said, her voice dry as dust.

“A little mystery keeps things interesting,” Erik shot back, already reaching for the next step. He spun the ebony dagger between his fingers with the ease of a bard twirling a lute pick. The blade’s edge shimmered with a faint, wicked glow.

Without ceremony, he drove it into the center of her chest. The sound of metal biting flesh was wet, sharp, and final.

Her spirit’s eyes widened, her arms unfolding as she took an instinctive step forward. “Hold on—what are you—”

“Patience,” Erik said, his voice calm but firm as his hands worked with purpose. His fingers dug into the wound he’d made, his magicka surging into her corpse with a flash of violet light.

Flesh sizzled and muscles shifted beneath his touch, parting like clay under a sculptor’s hand. His grip tightened, and with a sharp pull, he withdrew his hand from her chest. In his grasp, cradled like a prize taken from a dragon’s hoard, was her heart.

It pulsed once. Just once.

Breya’s ethereal face twisted in disgust, her lips curling in a grimace. “Please tell me you’re not enjoying this.” Her eyes were locked on the heart, her gaze hard as steel.

Erik’s face was unreadable as he studied the heart in his hand, turning it over like a jeweler inspecting a flawed gem. “Not any more than you’d enjoy grocery shopping or doing the laundry,” he replied, his tone flat but tinged with mild amusement. “It’s just a task. One I’ve done too many times to feel anything about it.” His fingers tightened around the heart, magicka surging through his palm.

Flames burst to life in an instant—pale blue fire, cold and otherworldly. It consumed the heart in seconds, reducing it to ash that sifted through his fingers like gray sand. He flicked his hand, scattering the remnants into the air. “Besides, you’ll have no need for it now.” He smiled, his eyes glinting with that sharp, predatory intellect she’d grown to expect. “I’ve got something better in mind.”

Breya’s eyes followed the ashes as they drifted into the air, her gaze distant. “Better, huh?” she muttered, her voice quieter this time. “That’s a high claim, necromancer.”

“Wait until you see it,” Erik said, his tone light but brimming with the confidence of a man holding every card in the deck. He flicked his fingers, and the dagger vanished in a small burst of magicka, replaced by something far more sinister. He raised his hand, and from the fold of space and will, it appeared.

The soul gem was unlike any ordinary black soul gem. It was larger—twice the size of a normal one—its surface dark as midnight but with veins of shifting red light threading through it like cracks in volcanic glass.

It pulsed faintly, like a heart that had forgotten how to beat, and from within came a low, almost imperceptible hum. The sound of something trapped, something angry, something hateful.

Breya’s gaze locked onto the black soul gem, her eyes narrowing with a mix of disbelief and unease. Her voice was hushed but sharp. “That thing... it’s alive, isn’t it?” Her words hung in the air like the distant rumble of thunder.

Erik’s lips curled into a knowing smile as he tilted the gem, letting its malevolent glow dance across the walls. Shadows writhed like living things. “Not exactly,” he said, his tone calm but laced with grim authority. “But the soul inside it? That’s another matter entirely.”

He held the gem higher, letting its eerie glow illuminate Breya’s spirit. “This is no ordinary soul. Trapped within is the essence of a dragon priest—a being of ancient wrath, knowledge, and power.” He tapped the surface of the gem with his nail, producing a hollow, resonant chime. “This will be your heart. And the dragon priest’s magicka will become your lifeblood.”

Breya’s eyes widened in shock, and she pressed her fingers against her temples. “How in Oblivion…” Her voice trembled with disbelief before she shook her head fiercely, clenching her fists as if to ward off the thought. “No. I—I—I don’t even want to know.”

“A wise choice,” Erik replied with a faint chuckle. “The intricacies of soul transference, vessel attunement, and necrotic infusion would take far too long to explain. It’s a process better witnessed than understood.” His eyes, glinting with cold resolve, met hers. “But you’ll understand enough soon enough.”

The humor drained from his face as he tightened his grip on the gem, his knuckles whitening. “Now then,” he said, stepping toward her body, his presence as inescapable as the slow toll of a funeral bell. “Time to work.”

The stone altar beneath Breya’s lifeless form stirred. The faint rumble grew into a tremor as cracks spidered through the surface. From these cracks, stone tendrils slithered out like serpents, curling around her wrists and ankles with an iron grip. Her limbs were pinned down, her body now a prisoner to the altar.

The air grew cold, sharp as a whetted blade. But that was not all. Pale-blue spectral chains erupted from the ground, each link shimmering with ghostly light. They latched onto her corpse, their ethereal glow contrasting against her pallid skin. The rattling of chains echoed like a death knell.

“No turning back now,” Erik muttered, his voice a low, steady hum as he pressed the soul gem against the gaping wound in her chest. The split flesh quivered as if it had a mind of its own. Slowly, the gash widened, its jagged edges peeling apart like petals of a grotesque flower. Beneath the exposed ribs, the cavity where her heart once beat lay empty. Hollow. Ready.

The soul gem’s glow intensified as it hovered just above the cavity. Its light pulsed in a slow, deliberate rhythm—a mockery of a heartbeat. Erik’s eyes closed, and he began to chant in a deep, resonant tone, his words thick with power and ancient authority.

“Fahdon un brii... Grah-zeymahzin... Pel-nahlot do gein!”

His voice echoed, layered as though multiple voices were speaking in unison. Each word carried a weight that pressed against the very air, and Breya’s spirit flinched as if struck by invisible blows. The altar’s glow brightened, veins of blue light coursing through its cracks like molten magma.

Shadows danced madly around them, twisting into fleeting shapes—figures, faces, and clawing hands that vanished as quickly as they formed.

Inside the corpse, the severed blood vessels—those limp, lifeless things—twitched. Then they writhed. Thin red tubes wiggled like worms, their ends seeking, searching, until one by one, they latched onto the gem’s surface. Tendrils of faint blue light crept up their length like ivy growing on stone.

The blood vessels pulsed, filling with an unnatural glow as the magicka of the dragon priest began to seep into them. Faint wisps of white fog leaked from the open wound, curling into the cold air like breath on a winter’s day.

Breya's eyes were locked on the sight before her, unable to tear herself away from the morbid spectacle. Her spectral form hovered closer, watching as Erik’s hands deftly guided the soul gem into the hollow cavity of her own chest.

For a moment, it was eerily still—too still. Then, with a violent, bone-rattling jolt, her corpse spasmed. The sound of tendons snapping taut echoed through the chamber, and Breya’s lifeless eyes flared with a sudden, malevolent glow of sickly green.

A guttural, rasping shriek erupted from her corpse’s throat. It was not her voice. The ancient cadence of the Dragon Tongue rumbled from her lips, carrying a venomous snarl: “Vuth krosismaar! Zu'u fen kos laan hi ko aan dilon kosil dovah do veymah!” ("Filthy necromancer! I’ll tear you apart and torment your soul for eternity!")

Breya’s spirit recoiled as if struck, her translucent form flickering in sudden alarm. "What in Shor’s balls is going on?!" she shouted, her voice high with panic. Her gaze darted from her thrashing corpse to Erik, frantic for an explanation.

Erik’s expression remained as calm as still water. He turned his head just enough to glance at her, one brow arched with mild amusement. “Nothing beyond expectation,” he said smoothly, his voice a cool, steady anchor amidst the chaos. “Rahgot’s soul is asserting control over your body. It’s normal. No need for alarm.”

Breya’s wide-eyed stare snapped back to her possessed corpse, which thrashed against the spectral chains binding it to the stone slab. “Normal?! That’s not normal, Erik! That’s me! He’s in my body!”

“Only for a time,” Erik assured her, his tone as nonchalant as a scholar arranging quills on a desk. He turned to face her body fully, his eyes narrowing with sharp focus.

His lips moved, uttering the ancient syllables of the Dragon Tongue, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Hi lost grah-zeymah, Rahgot. Hi los gein rotmulag kos un feykro. Laan wah rok. Kaaz wah dok.” ("Cease your struggle, Rahgot. You are a mouse caught in a trap. Bow to fate. Gnaw at nothing.")

The corpse’s writhing slowed to strained, jerking movements. The glow in its eyes flickered like a fire on the verge of being snuffed out. Rahgot’s snarls grew more desperate, his voice hoarse with frustration and hate. “Hi fen krosis nid, joor! Pogaas sahlo zu'uvaak fen kos tiid hiil kos los!” ("You will regret this, mortal! I will be your undoing!")

The guttural threats continued, but they no longer carried the same power.

“Idle threats,” Erik muttered, turning away from the possessed body. With a flick of his wrist, three small bottles materialized from thin air, clinking softly as they floated into his hands. He examined them with a practiced eye, tilting each one slightly to watch the contents shift.

One contained shimmering gray dust that sparkled faintly like crushed gemstones. The second held darker, coarser ashes that seemed to pulse with a dull red glow, as though embers lay hidden within. The third was a small vial with a few drops of deep, crimson blood swirling unnaturally slowly, as if thickened by some unseen force.

Breya’s eyes narrowed on the bottles. Her voice was still tight with tension, but her curiosity fought through her unease. “What is all that? Ingredients for a potion?”

“Ingredients, yes,” Erik replied absently, his focus locked on his work. He pulled the stopper from each vial with the ease of someone performing a well-practiced ritual. “But not for a potion.”

He tipped the first bottle—the shimmering dust—into the center of his palm. It glowed faintly as it touched his skin. “Ashes of an ancient vampire,” he said, his eyes flicking to Breya’s spirit. “Old enough that his blood had transmuted into something beyond mortal comprehension.”

Next, he emptied the second vial, pouring out the glowing red ash to mingle with the first. “Ashes of a Dragon Priest,” he continued, his tone one of reverence and finality. “The very same Dragon Priest currently occupying your body.” He tossed a glance toward her corpse as Rahgot’s growling turned to harsh laughter.

Breya’s face twisted with disbelief. “You’re putting his own ashes back in me? Are you mad?!”

Erik chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Madness and genius tend to walk hand in hand.” He reached for the final vial. “This last one is special,” he said, his tone shifting to something heavier. “Two drops of blood from a Daughter of Coldharbour.”

He held the small vial up to the dim light, letting the red liquid glint like liquid rubies. “Few things in this world are as potent as the blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour. This will bind it all together.”