Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #72

Breya’s spirit flickered erratically between her spectral form and her possessed body, her jaw tightening as her unease turned to sharp anger. "This is insane! You’re insane!" she spat, her voice shaking with disbelief. "You’re just taking everything anyone’s ever called cursed or forbidden and just… slathering it on me?!"

Erik didn’t respond immediately, his focus unwavering as he cupped the face of her possessed body with both hands. His wild grin betrayed an unsettling mix of fascination and determination.

Magicka flowed from his fingertips, crackling like veins of lightning as he murmured ancient words under his breath. "Necromancers and the undead are cursed beings by definition," he finally said, his voice calm but tinged with eerie fervor. "Defiling and defying the natural cycle of life and death—that is the source of our strength."

Breya’s spectral form shivered involuntarily as Rahgot’s furious shrieks echoed from her body. The guttural roars in the ancient dragon tongue reverberated like thunder, shaking the chamber.

Glyphs of searing, golden light began to crawl across the corpse’s flesh, spreading in intricate, arcane patterns. The symbols pulsed in time with the maddened cries of Rahgot’s soul, a rhythm of defiance and despair.

"This doesn’t answer anything!" Breya exclaimed, her panic mounting. "How in Oblivion do you even have these things?! Who just carries this kind of nightmare fuel around?!"

Erik ignored her this time, his grin fading into a mask of sheer focus. His hands moved with purpose, guiding the flow of magicka into the glyphs that now covered her body. Rahgot’s defiance reached a fever pitch, his shrieks transforming into desperate, unintelligible howls as the glyphs on Breya’s corpse began to shift and merge.

The lines twisted together, forming a singular, impossibly complex magic formation that pulsed with a life of its own.

Breya recoiled instinctively, her spectral form flickering violently as she clutched her head. The shrieks tore through her like claws, but Erik pressed on. His voice rose, carrying the commanding tone of the dragon tongue as he spoke with finality. "Zu'u los nunon! Nok Rahgot los nid! (I am the victor! Now Rahgot is nothing!)"

The moment the words left his mouth, the glyphs flared brilliantly, flooding the chamber with light so intense that Breya had to shield her eyes. The shrieks ceased abruptly, as though cut off by a blade. Silence followed, thick and heavy, broken only by Erik’s sharp exhale of satisfaction.

The glyphs on Breya’s corpse dimmed, their glow fading into her pallid skin, now eerily still. Erik stepped back, his grin returning with a quieter but no less unsettling edge. "And so," he said softly, "you are no more."

Rahgot’s will, once so ferocious and unyielding, was gone, leaving only the raw, potent essence of his magicka and the lingering power of his soul. They now inhabited Breya’s corpse, bound by the intricate sorcery that Erik had painstakingly woven.

Breya stared at her unmoving body, horror and fascination warring in her expression. "What… what did you do?"

Erik turned to her, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "I erased him. Completely. His power now belongs to you—and, by extension, to me. A fitting end for a dragon priest, wouldn’t you agree?"

Breya opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her gaze flickered between Erik and her lifeless body, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, it seemed like she was fighting against herself, searching for something—anything—to say.

Seconds stretched into a full minute, silence hanging heavy in the chamber like a fog that refused to lift. Finally, she exhaled a slow, shaky breath and asked in a voice barely louder than a whisper, yet sharp with intent:

"Just… who are you?"

Erik’s grin widened with a slow, theatrical flair, his eyes brimming with a self-assured glow. He spread his arms wide like a performer at the final act of a grand play. His cloak billowed slightly, caught by an unseen breeze, shadows dancing along the stone walls like a shifting audience.

"I am a binder of souls, a weaver of bones." he declared, his voice carrying an almost musical cadence, each word sharp as a chisel on stone. "Necromancer and skald, where grief intones."

His arms lowered slowly, hands like a puppeteer guiding unseen strings. As he gestured toward Breya, an unnatural force surged through the chamber—a pull, gentle at first but swiftly turning into a tidal drag. Breya's ethereal form jolted, her eyes going wide with sudden panic. She thrashed, clawing at the air, but her movements became sluggish, like swimming against a whirlpool.

"W-Wait—!" she stammered, her voice distorted, echoing strangely. "What are you—"

Her words were drowned out by a low, resonant hum that reverberated through her very being. Her limbs felt weightless, her vision dimming at the edges like ink bleeding through parchment. She reached for Erik, her transparent fingers flickering like a dying flame, but it was too late. Her vision collapsed into darkness, her awareness shrinking into a singular point of nothingness.

Then, light.

Not the soft glow of a lantern or the piercing brightness of magelight—this was different. She could feel it, searing behind her eyes like a sunrise after a sleepless night. Sensation flooded in next: the coolness of stone against her back, the stiffness of unmoving joints, and something far more alien. Her senses expanded in ways she couldn’t quite understand. She could feel the air shift with Erik’s every movement. The heat of his magicka still lingered in the air like the fading warmth of a campfire.

Her heart—no, not a heart anymore. The gem. She could feel its presence within her chest, heavy but powerful, like a lantern lit in the hollow of her ribs as her chest began to mend itself. It thrummed steadily, a low, slow beat that wasn’t quite sound but something more primal.

Her eyes—her eyes—flickered open.

They did not blink.

Her gaze found Erik immediately, standing before her like a maestro at the peak of his symphony. Her body moved, but not as she remembered. It was too smooth, too deliberate, like a marionette testing its strings for the first time.

Her fingers twitched, curling one by one, and as her hands lifted, she realized she could feel everything. The cool air, the shift in weight as she moved, even the lingering echoes of the power that had been carved into her flesh.

Her breathing came in slow, measured draws—not out of need but out of old habit.

Erik stepped forward, his eyes locking with hers, unwavering and absolute. He tilted his head ever so slightly as if watching an artist admire their latest creation. His grin was gone, replaced by something colder, heavier.

"I am Erik Deathsong," he said, his voice low but with a resonance that made her feel it in her chest, rattling the gem that now served as her heart. His eyes never wavered, twin lanterns of icy blue that burned with ancient resolve. He leaned forward just enough for his shadow to fall over her face, his gaze like a weight pressing her down.

"I am your master, I am your lord."

...

The winds howled softly across the craggy cliffs of the Reach, carrying the chill of distant glaciers and the sharp, earthy scent of wild juniper. Erik stood at the edge of a high slope, his gaze fixed firmly on the vast expanse to the south. From this vantage, he could see beyond Skyrim’s rugged borders. Below lay the autumn-stained forests of Cheydinhal sprawled like a painter’s careless brushstrokes.

The sharp peaks of Bruma’s mountains framed the horizon, their snow-dusted crowns barely distinguishable from Skyrim’s own. Further south, spread the rolling green of Cyrodiil’s heartlands, dotted with ancient roads like veins running through flesh.

But it was the Imperial City that drew his eyes. Far away, yet undeniable, its silhouette rose against the sky like a monument to the vanity of man. Its White-Gold Tower pierced the heavens, visible from nearly every kingdom that bordered the Empire.

The tower gleamed faintly in the afternoon sun, distant but unyielding, like the gaze of an ancient god.

"Still standing after all those years," Erik muttered to himself, eyes narrowing with a tinge of amusement. "Stubborn thing, aren't you?"

At his side, Geri barked sharply, his stubby tail wagging with excitement. The little corgi sniffed at the ground before trotting in circles, his bright eyes darting toward the distant lands as if he, too, saw the Imperial City’s majesty.

Erik’s hard expression softened into a grin. "Yes, yes, Geri," he said, glancing down at the corgi, his voice carrying an indulgent warmth. "We’ll make our way there eventually. But all in good time."

Geri barked again, his excitement undeterred.

Erik knelt, scratching behind the little dog’s ears, his gauntleted fingers careful not to apply too much pressure. "Patience, little one," he said, his grin curling into something sly. "Even kings must wait for their crowns."

Without another word, he scooped Geri up into his arms, earning a happy yip from the dog. Erik’s eyes turned back toward the south one last time, lingering on the White-Gold Tower. His grin lingered, but there was something sharper behind it now, a gleam of calculation. "Soon," he thought.

With a deep breath, Erik lifted a hand, fingers splayed as he called upon the threads of magicka. Pale blue light flickered around him like dying stars, swirling upward in a silent tempest.

The stones beneath his feet thrummed as gravity released its hold. Slowly, his boots rose from the rocky ledge, and he hovered in the air with the slow grace of a bird catching a thermal. Holding Geri close to his chest, he descended toward the beaten road below, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow stretched thin.

“First things first,” he muttered as his boots touched down with the soft crunch of dirt and gravel. He set Geri down, the corgi circling his feet before falling into a steady trot behind him. Erik glanced toward the east, his eyes narrowing with focus. "An old friend to see. One who might not be happy to see us."

The image of Isran’s face came unbidden to his mind—grizzled, grim, and ever scowling. A man carved from the same stone as the walls of his fortress. Erik's grin returned, this time edged with mischief. "Oh, he'll definitely have a lot to say..." His laughter echoed softly as he strode down the path.

It didn’t take long before he spotted it—a narrow break in the mountainside, hardly noticeable if you didn’t know to look for it. The entrance was framed by crooked trees and thick underbrush, branches clawing at the air like skeletal fingers.

Vines hung low, veiling the path in green shadows. Barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through, it would seem unremarkable to most. But to Erik, it was unmistakable.

“Dayspring Canyon,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes tracing the familiar contours of the path ahead. “Still hidden, still secret.”

He glanced down at Geri, who sniffed at a clump of moss-covered roots with unbothered curiosity. Erik's gaze lingered on the corgi for a moment longer, his expression distant. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the road behind them before turning toward the canyon. No sign of pursuit. No sign of eyes watching.

Good.

“Come along, Geri,” Erik said, stepping toward the narrow entrance. The corgi followed dutifully, his little legs working twice as hard to keep pace. Each step took them deeper into the canyon, the air growing cooler, the sounds of the outside world muffled by stone and earth. Birdsong faded into echoes, then into silence. The soft crunch of dirt and stone beneath Erik's boots seemed unnervingly loud now, even with Geri’s tiny paws padding beside him.

His mind ticked through his objectives with the precision of a battle plan. He had already concluded most of his business in the Reach. The mines of Avanchnzel had yielded their bounty—pieces of forgotten Dwemer machinery, broken but full of promise. Their secrets would take time to unravel, but he had time now.

Breya, meanwhile, would handle matters that didn't require his personal involvement. She and a contingent of his undead were already on their way to Redwater Den. The Blood Chalice required feeding, and the crimson elixir that flowed from Redwater’s depths would serve that purpose.

'All is proceeding smoothly,' he thought with satisfaction. 'The Volkihar will get their precious Chalice filled, but only when I feel like giving it to them...'

Once that was done, he could shift his focus. Research awaited—ancient cogs, pistons, and broken Dwemer cores waiting to be reassembled. There was something buried in their design, something the Dwemer had known that no one else had ever discovered. 'Not yet, anyway.'

His fingers itched to take them apart and piece them back together again, to dismantle the knowledge he gleaned from the Lexicon. But for now, the canyon came first. Isran came first.

The descent into Dayspring Canyon was a quiet one, marked only by the soft crunch of Erik’s boots and the patter of Geri’s paws on the dirt path. The air grew cooler as the stone walls of the canyon loomed higher on either side, sealing them in like a colossal, weathered corridor. Overhead, shafts of sunlight cut through the cracks in the rock, illuminating drifting motes of dust that danced like spirits in the air.

It wasn't long before the soft roar of water echoed in the distance—a steady, thunderous hum that grew louder with each step. Soon, the familiar sight of the great waterfall came into view, its cascade of silver crashing into a deep, misty pool below. The scent of fresh water mingled with the earthen smell of the canyon, and droplets of cold mist peppered Erik's face as he walked past.

The path was far from deserted. Dawnguard recruits moved with purpose, their movements sharp and deliberate. Some hauled crates of supplies on their shoulders, sweat clinging to their brows. Others sparred against crude dummies, the rhythmic clanging of steel against wood echoing off the stone walls.

The recruits wore the signature blue-and-orange gambesons of the Dawnguard, their leather-and-plate armor marked with sigils of sunbursts.

A few of them glanced in Erik's direction as he passed, their gazes lingering with quiet suspicion. He knew that look well. "Stranger. Possible threat." Their eyes flicked toward him and then toward Geri, the little corgi trotting dutifully at his side. None of them stopped him. None of them seemed to even have the energy.

There was no nervous Dawnguard hopeful stumbling into his path like in the game he played in another life. Instead, the soldiers stayed where they were, sparring, carrying supplies, or casting cautious glances in his direction. As it should be.

Geri trotted ahead, tail wagging as if he were leading Erik on some grand adventure. Erik’s eyes flicked up, past the canyon walls, past the distant recruits, and onto the fortress itself.

It was more impressive than he remembered.

The Dawnguard fortress towered above him like a bastion of forgotten grandeur. The stone walls were thick, weatherworn but unyielding, their cold, gray faces marked with ancient carvings worn smooth by time.

Great watchtowers jutted from the top, their crenelated battlements casting long, jagged shadows across the courtyard below. Arrow slits lined the walls like a row of narrow, watchful eyes, and he could just barely make out the silhouettes of crossbow-wielding sentries moving behind them.

The gatehouse was a hulking monolith of stone and iron. The portcullis loomed ahead, its iron spikes as sharp as dragon’s teeth. The heavy chains and winches on either side suggested it would take more than a handful of men to raise or lower it.

“Impressive,” Erik muttered under his breath, his eyes scanning every detail of the fortress. "Far more than I ever gave it credit for."

It wasn't the fortress's size that struck him—big castles are everywhere—but its sheer defensibility. Dayspring Canyon was a natural choke point. The narrow canyon leading to the entrance meant only a few men could approach at a time.

Siege engines couldn’t be wheeled through the tight passage, and any attack force would be forced to march in tight formation with no room to maneuver. Even if an army somehow reached the fortress, they’d be met with crossbow bolts raining down from those arrow slits and murder holes.

The longer he gazed at it, the more he realized something.

"This might be the most defensible fortress in all of Skyrim."

He snorted softly, shaking his head. "And yet, for generations, they let it rot." His tone was tinged with wry amusement as he glanced down at Geri. "Imagine that. A fortress like this left to crumble while Jarl after Jarl poured coin into Solitude's walls..."

Geri barked once, as if he, too, disapproved of such wastefulness.

“Exactly,” Erik agreed, rubbing the corgi’s head. “They could have done something with it, but I suppose that’s the way of men. If it isn’t easy to reach, it isn’t worth keeping.”

It made sense, though. The fortress’s isolation was both its greatest strength and its greatest flaw. The same choke point that made it unassailable also made it a nightmare to supply. Hauling food, water, and supplies through the canyon would have been a logistical nightmare for any standing army.

Without advanced magic, supply lines would have been slow, grueling, and vulnerable to ambush.

"But for the Dawnguard," Erik muttered, eyes narrowing, "it's perfect."

An army wouldn’t have survived here. But for a small, militant order of vampire hunters? Isolation was a virtue. This wasn’t a castle—it was a temple of war. No courtiers. No servants. Just soldiers, smiths, and zealots, all willing to suffer hardship to prepare for the next battle.