Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #73

The glow of the firepit cast long shadows across the grand hall of Fort Dawnguard. Its flames crackled steadily, the only sound breaking the quiet rhythm of footfalls echoing through the stone chamber. The fortress's central hall was a cavernous expanse of cold stone, lined with heavy oak tables, weapon racks, and the occasional trophy of a slain vampire mounted on the walls. The smell of fresh ash and oiled steel filled the air.

At the center of it all, Isran stood with arms folded, his eyes narrowed like a hawk tracking prey. His scarred face was a monument to battles fought and won, his gaze as sharp as the warhammer slung over his back.

Opposite him, Florentius Baenius was kneeling beside an old crate, prying it open with a grunt. His robes, loose and tattered around the edges, marked him as the Dawnguard's resident alchemist and priest of Arkay—though he had a habit of muttering to himself as if the Divines were whispering in his ears.

“Florentius,” Isran said, his voice like a landslide of gravel. “I asked you when you’d be ready to start production, not when you'd finish unpacking.”

Florentius grunted, tossing aside the broken lid of the crate. He pulled out a set of clay bottles and a bundle of dried roots tied with twine. His gray-streaked beard twitched as he set them aside, one by one, carefully inspecting them for cracks.

“Patience, Isran,” Florentius replied, his tone more exasperated than reverent. “I just got here. Can’t brew miracles with empty hands, now can I?” He glanced over his shoulder, squinting up at Isran. “Need to set up my workspace first. Mortar, pestle, clean water—basic stuff. Then, maybe, maybe, I can make sense of that jumbled mess you call a ‘formula.’”

Isran’s jaw tightened. “That ‘jumbled mess’ is the only lead we have on a reliable vampire poison. You said you could work with it.”

“I said I might be able to work with it,” Florentius shot back, standing to his full height, dusting his hands off on his robes. “But it’s not a potion recipe, Isran. It’s a fragment. Half of it’s missing. The other half reads like it was written by a drunk herbalist with frostbite on his fingers.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m an alchemist, not a prophet.”

Isran stepped closer, the shadow of his frame eclipsing the flickering firelight. “If Arkay can tell you which herbs to crush, I suggest you start praying.”

Florentius rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. “If Arkay had told me, I’d be halfway done by now.”

The exchange was interrupted by a sudden, resounding clang as the heavy gates of the fortress began to groan open. Both men turned, eyes sharp as they watched the double doors part. The iron hinges creaked, the echo of it reverberating off the stone walls like the bellow of some unseen beast.

A chill draft swept in from outside, carrying the distant scent of rain and pine. Silhouetted in the entryway stood a lone figure.

He was clad in blackened plate armor, jagged edges catching the firelight in sharp glints of silver and obsidian. Over his armor, a weathered black cloak hung loose, the fabric shifting with his every step like a shadow made manifest.

The figure's movements were slow but deliberate, his presence commanding attention with every stride. Behind him, padding on stubby, stumpy legs, came a dog—a corgi of all things. Its ears were upright, its tail wagging as it trotted after the armored figure, its stubby legs working hard to keep pace.

Florentius’s brow furrowed. "What in Oblivion…"

But Isran’s eyes went sharp with recognition. His breath hitched, and for the briefest of moments, his lips curled into a snarl. He knew that man.

"Erik," Isran muttered, his voice low with restrained venom. His body moved before his mind could reason. His hand snapped to his back, gripping the handle of his warhammer with the practiced ease of a man who'd swung it a thousand times before.

Florentius blinked in confusion. "Wait, what?"

"YOU!" Isran roared, his voice thunderous, his warhammer now in hand.

Erik raised his head, his expression one of mild surprise—amusement, even—as he spotted Isran barreling toward him.

His armored boots struck hard against the stone floor, each impact a resounding drumbeat of fury. The warhammer came down with a whoosh of displaced air, aimed directly at Erik's head.

“Hello to you too, Isran,” Erik said dryly, pivoting smoothly to the side. The hammer crashed into the stone floor with a thunderous boom, sending shards of rock flying.

“Don’t speak my name, wretch!” Isran barked, already turning, his muscles coiled with rage. His eyes were wild, his snarl that of a cornered wolf. He swung the hammer again, wide and brutal, a horizontal swing meant to catch Erik mid-step.

Erik rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Kyne’s sake.”

He raised one hand and drew upon the well of magic within him. Blue light rippled around him like frost crawling over steel. A layer of magical armor shimmered into place as his Ironflesh spell took hold.

His skin now had the density of raw metal, his very flesh as unyielding as dwarven bronze.

The warhammer struck him square in the shoulder with a sharp clang, the force of it reverberating through the chamber. But Erik didn’t flinch. He didn't even stagger. He turned his head slowly, gazing at the hammer head still pressed against his pauldron.

“Are you quite done?” Erik asked, voice calm as still water. His gaze met Isran’s, cold and steady as the tundras of the Pale.

Isran bared his teeth, his nostrils flaring like a bull ready to charge. His knuckles whitened around the warhammer's grip, the leather-wrapped handle creaking under the strain. He wrenched the weapon back, his arms bulging with taut muscle beneath his armor. There was no hesitation this time—no warning, no words. Just raw, silent fury.

With a grunt of exertion, Isran raised the warhammer high and swung it down with all the force his years of battle-hardened strength could muster. The air around it howled from the sheer speed of the swing.

But this time, it didn’t connect.

Erik's face shifted from amused to utterly deadpan, his eyes half-lidded with irritation. His fingers flexed as he raised his hand, palm outstretched, fingers curling inward with deliberate intent.

“Enough of this,” Erik muttered.

The air shimmered like a mirage, and with an unseen force, Isran's body was wrenched backward as if yanked by an invisible giant. His eyes went wide for a heartbeat as his feet left the ground. Then he was airborne.

“Hrrgh—!” Isran grunted as his back slammed into the stone wall with a heavy thud, stone dust cascading down like fine mist. His warhammer slipped from his hands, clattering noisily to the ground at his feet.

“Are you going to use your words instead of that hammer now?” Erik's voice echoed with cool detachment, his eyes still fixed on Isran. He lowered his hand slowly, fingers uncurling like he was releasing a caged bird. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes—those cold, predatory eyes—tracked Isran with unwavering precision.

Isran coughed, his breath wheezing as he pushed himself off the wall, his glare like molten iron. His eyes flickered to Erik, then to something just past him—a lever jutting from the wall, bronze and weathered but still functional. A flicker of realization lit his eyes.

“You want words, Erik?” Isran rasped, his lips curling into something between a grin and a snarl. “Here’s one for you—‘burn.’”

His hand shot out, slamming the lever down with a hard clank. The sound echoed through the grand hall, louder than it had any right to be.

Erik’s brow furrowed. “What did you—”

The answer came with a grinding roar of shifting stone. The ceiling above them groaned like an awakening beast, gears clanking and iron chains rattling behind the walls. Light began to filter down in thin, piercing beams that cut through the dim hall like blades of white fire.

Click. Clack. Click. The hidden mechanism shifted, stone panels pulling apart like a theater curtain.

“You clever bastard...” Erik hissed, his eyes snapping upward.

Mirrors—angled plates of polished steel hidden within the ceiling—were turning into position. The light that had once dripped in like stray sunbeams now surged into sharp, focused columns.

The beams met at the heart of the hall, fusing into a single, blinding spear of pure sunlight. The glow of it was hot, searing, and suddenly, the shadows Erik cast beneath him grew unnaturally sharp.

The light hit him full in the chest.

His armor began to sizzle. Wisps of smoke curled from the joints between his plates, thin threads of gray rising like incense from a shrine.

“Hkk—!” Erik staggered, his hands rising instinctively to shield his face, but it was no use. The light was everywhere now. It wasn’t just the brightness—it was the heat, a concentrated inferno of divine radiance.

Beneath his gauntlets, the skin on his arms began to sizzle with audible pops and crackles. His exposed neck reddened first, then darkened to angry blisters. Steam curled from his shoulders, and the smell of scorched flesh and burning leather filled the air.

“VAMPIRE!” Florentius shouted, his voice high and sharp with sudden clarity. His eyes, wide with disbelief, darted between Erik and the rising smoke. His mind, previously caught in confusion, snapped into purpose with terrifying speed.

His hands shot forward, fingers splayed, and his palms began to glow with a bright, golden light. The warmth of Restoration magic flooded the chamber, filling it with the soft hum of divine energy.

His gaze sharpened with righteous fury. "Undead filth in our hall? By Arkay's mercy, I'll see you BURN!"

With a sweep of his hands, the glow intensified, shifting from golden to a harsh, searing white-hot light—the telltale glow of Sun Fire, a spell designed for one purpose: to destroy vampires. Florentius’ face twisted with holy fervor as he prepared to unleash the spell.

"Be silent for a moment, you zealot," Erik said, his voice low but sharp as broken glass. The weight of his words reverberated through the hall like a spell in itself, an undeniable command. His eyes locked onto Florentius with a predator’s cold patience, his gaze as unyielding as iron.

Florentius barely had time to flinch before the ground beneath him shifted. A deep, guttural grind echoed through the chamber as the stone underfoot came alive. Cracks spider-webbed out from where he stood, and before he could so much as lift his hands to cast a spell, the stone lurched. Jagged tendrils of rock surged upward, snaking around his wrists, his ankles, and his waist.

"Wha—? Arkay's light, protect me!" Florentius gasped, struggling as his arms were wrenched outward, splayed like a man bound to a crucifix. The tendrils of stone twisted and coiled around his limbs with the slow inevitability of roots crushing through earth.

“No prayers will help you now,” Erik muttered, his eyes narrowing as he flicked his fingers. A final vine of stone shot up from the ground, curling around Florentius’s face and over his mouth, silencing him with a muffled grunt. His muffled protests came in short, panicked bursts, his eyes wild with the realization that he couldn’t move—or speak.

Satisfied, Erik turned away from Florentius without a second glance. His eyes scanned the sunlit chamber, his gaze cold and calculating. Light's still too strong.

He raised his hand, fingers splayed wide. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, from beneath his gauntlet, a single crimson bead seeped out from beneath his fingernail. It hovered just above his hand, catching the light like a drop of fresh ink on parchment. His brow furrowed in concentration.

"Skaal azil thraal..." Erik murmured in the tongue of forgotten sorcery, his voice like a distant drumbeat.

The droplet of blood shuddered, pulsing like a heartbeat. It expanded, twisting and dividing into more droplets until half a dozen hovered in a lazy orbit around his hand. The blood spun, tiny spheres of red glimmering like rubies in the sun. With a sudden snap of his fingers, the droplets shot upward.

As they rose, they grew. Each drop swelled from a bead to a marble, from a marble to a fist-sized orb, until finally they merged together into a single, writhing mass of liquid crimson. The blood shimmered unnaturally, not like a liquid but like something caught between substance and shadow.

Erik swept his hand in a wide, commanding arc, and the crimson mass flattened itself, stretching out like molten steel being hammered on an anvil. It became a sheet of blood, wide as the hall's ceiling, its glossy surface shifting with subtle, rippling motion. Shadows danced beneath it as it hovered high above him.

The focused sunlight that had once burned him now met the crimson sheet instead, refracting into softer, blood-red rays that bathed the hall in an eerie, hellish glow.

Erik rolled his shoulders, relishing the immediate relief from the searing heat. Steam still curled from his armor, and the charred patches of his skin hissed as the burned flesh began to heal. He glanced down at his hands, the blackened blisters already receding, pale new skin creeping over the wounds like ivy reclaiming a wall.

“That’s better,” he muttered, rolling his neck with a satisfying pop.

But Isran was already on him.

A blur of movement caught Erik's eye just a second too late. Isran was a force of nature, his charge silent, his steps as heavy as a charging bull. His warhammer gleamed with the telltale glow of holy light, its surface pulsing with runes carved in the language of Arkay’s faithful. He moved with ruthless efficiency, cutting across the distance in a flash.

“HRAAAGH!” Isran bellowed, bringing the warhammer down with a single, two-handed swing aimed straight at Erik’s head.

'Too fast to dodge.'

Erik's eyes flashed with cold calculation. His left hand shot up, fingers spread wide. The world slowed for a heartbeat. Magicka surged from his core, racing through his veins like wildfire. His arm tensed with raw strength as he moved to intercept the strike.

CLANG!

The collision echoed like a forge hammer striking raw steel. Sparks shot out in wild arcs, the flare of divine light clashing against the cold-blue glow of Erik's raw magicka. But instead of the warhammer meeting its mark, it stopped dead in Erik’s palm. His gauntleted hand had caught it mid-swing.

“Tch.” Erik winced, his fingers curling tightly around the warhammer’s haft. The light emanating from it licked at his skin like tiny flames, but he didn't flinch.

“This again?” Erik muttered through gritted teeth, eyes narrowing at Isran. "You're stubborn. I’ll give you that."

He let the magicka flood into his palm, surging from his chest into his hand like a coursing river. His fingers tightened. His eyes glowed faintly with an eerie, cold-blue light.

“But stubborn doesn’t mean smart.”

His fingers crushed the haft of the warhammer. The steel bent, warped, and finally, with a deafening crack, the entire shaft shattered. Pieces of enchanted metal burst outward like shrapnel, scattering across the stone floor. The glow of holy light flickered and died.

“Hngh—!” Isran stumbled forward, his grip broken, his momentum carrying him too far in. Before he could recover, Erik’s hand shot out with blinding speed.

“Back.”

He didn't strike Isran—he pushed him. But even a light push from Erik’s palm carried the force of a battering ram. Isran's breath left him in a choked grunt as his boots skidded across the stone floor. His heels dug into the ground, his armor groaning from the strain, but he slid a full five feet before regaining his footing.

Erik exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers like he'd just shaken off dust. He raised his hand again, this time snapping his fingers with a sharp crack.

The sound was like a spark igniting dry tinder. From the shadows behind Isran, four figures lurched into existence. Clack. Clack. Clack. The rattle of bones echoed like distant drums.

Four skeletal warriors clawed their way out of the darkness, each of them whole, armed with rusted axes and broken shields. Their hollow eyes burned with cold-blue flames, their empty sockets locked on Isran like wolves spotting prey.

“Restrain him.” Erik's command was cold, quiet, and absolute.

The skeletons lunged. Bony hands grabbed at Isran’s arms, legs, and shoulders. He snarled, thrashing violently, twisting and jerking against their grip.

One of them caught his leg, locking his knee in place. Another seized his arm, and though Isran managed to punch one skeleton’s skull clean off its spine, the others surged in to replace it. They overwhelmed him, their combined weight pressing him to his knees.

“You’re wasting your strength, friend,” Erik said, watching Isran struggle with a mixture of amusement and pity. "But I suppose that's always been your way, hasn't it?"

The glow of Erik's charred skin faded. His flesh, now fully healed, looked as smooth as fresh marble. The burns were gone, the pain with it. He rolled his neck again, his joints letting out a satisfying pop.

He stepped forward slowly, his shadow looming over Isran. Erik knelt just low enough for their eyes to meet, his cold, piercing gaze locking with Isran's unyielding glare.

"Are you ready to talk now, Isran?" Erik asked, his voice low, calm, and sharper than any blade. "Or do you need another lesson in humility?"

The four skeletons held Isran still, their bony hands clutching him like iron shackles. His breath came in heavy, slow growls.

Isran’s breath was slow and measured, but his eyes never left Erik. His glare was a wall of ironclad defiance, sharp as broken steel. He didn’t thrash against the skeletons holding him anymore—he knew better. Their grip was too firm, their bony fingers like iron shackles on his arms and shoulders. Resistance would only waste his strength, and Isran had never been one to waste anything, especially not resolve.

His jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring as he breathed deeply through his nose. “What do you want, Erik?” he asked, his voice low, worn like old leather but just as tough.

Erik tilted his head, his cold eyes glimmering with a quiet satisfaction. A slow, measured grin spread across his face—not wide, but enough to be seen.

“What do I want?” Erik echoed, as if tasting the words for himself. He raised one hand lazily, and with a sharp snap of his fingers, the air shuddered.

From behind him, the darkness swirled unnaturally, curling like smoke drawn into a draft. Bones clattered from nowhere, the sound echoing like a distant wind-chime in a storm. In a flash of pale-blue light, the bones slammed together, piece by piece, ribs snapping into place, femurs locking into joints, vertebrae stacking one on top of the other.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Moments later, a complete throne of bones appeared.

Erik turned with a lazy flourish, cloak sweeping behind him like a shroud of mist. Without a care in the world, he strode toward the throne, his eyes still locked on Isran. Never breaking eye contact.

He sat, his armor creaking softly, and then made himself comfortable on the throne. His posture was casual—relaxed in a way that only a predator could be—leaning forward with his hands draped over his knees.

“You’re angry with me, Isran. I can see it in your eyes.” Erik tilted his head again, the mirth in his voice barely veiling the mockery beneath it. “And you’ve every right to be. After what happened in Dimhollow Crypt I'd be angry too.”

The skeletons holding Isran tightened their grip as if to emphasize the point. Isran grunted, eyes narrowing to slits, his teeth grinding audibly.

Erik leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His voice dropped an octave, smooth and quiet, like a conspirator sharing a secret.

“But tell me this, friend—” Erik’s grin faded slowly, his gaze sharpening into something colder. “will your anger help you in stopping the vampires?”

Silence.

The words lingered like smoke from a dying fire. They sank into the room, heavy, undeniable.

Isran’s eyes flickered, just once, with the briefest hint of hesitation. Not enough for most to notice—but Erik noticed.

The vampire smiled, slow and patient, like a hunter watching his trap close. He leaned back on his skeletal "throne," his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest bones of his unliving seat.

“Don’t let your anger blind you, Isran. I didn’t come here to gloat, much as I’d enjoy it.” He rolled his head to the side, letting his neck pop with a sharp crack of relief. His eyes shifted back to Isran. All business now.

“I came here to give you something you want.” He paused, letting the words settle in, like bait dropped into a pool. Then he added, “Information.”

Isran’s eyes flicked toward him again, slower this time, more controlled. But he was listening. He always listened when it came to information.

“Information on what?” Isran growled, his eyes like burning coals.

Erik leaned forward again, his smile growing just a hair sharper. He spread his hands as if presenting an offer on a silver platter.

“The latest movements of the Volkihar.”

That did it.

Isran’s entire body tensed, his breath slowing. No anger now. No wild defiance. Only focus.

Erik saw it. He knew that shift well. It was the shift of a hunter hearing the sound of prey in the distance. Good.

"Not just their movements,” Erik continued, his voice cool as a winter breeze. “Their numbers. Their leaders. Their plans.” He raised a hand and traced a slow circle in the air, as if drawing an invisible map. “Every dark little whisper carried on the cold wind.