Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #69

The metal doors let out a slow, echoing groan as Erik pushed them open, his fingers brushing against the cool, dust-coated surface. The air that greeted him smelled of stale metal and oil—an ever-present tang of old Dwemer ruins.

He stepped through cautiously, eyes scanning every inch of the hallway ahead. His gaze immediately landed on the subtle, telltale signs of danger. Pressure plates. Half-buried under decades of dirt and dust, their outlines were barely visible to the untrained eye. But Erik had been in enough of these ruins to recognize them on sight. His brow lifted, amused. Sloppy.

As he moved further in, his eyes swept ahead. The corridor sloped downward at a shallow angle, dim light catching on the metallic floor. Halfway down, a narrow gash split the center of the path, the edges of the metal smooth and clean as if something had sliced through it recently.

At the far end of the hall, just before another set of doors, lay an all-too-familiar sight: an Argonian corpse sprawled on the ground, its torso and lower half separated in grotesque symmetry. The severed body lay still, the faint glint of dried blood marking the path it had slid down after its death.

Erik tilted his head, his gaze narrowing with grim satisfaction. His lips pulled into a crooked grin. “Rotating blade trap,” he muttered to himself, nodding knowingly. “One of the most obvious, yet somehow one of the deadliest.”

He stepped forward, careful not to trigger the pressure plates, his movements precise and deliberate. Geri trotted along behind him, nose sniffing at the musty air, ears perked and alert. Helrath followed at his flank, his heavy footfalls rattling the floor, while Surtr's faint glow cast flickering, dancing shadows along the walls.

Erik’s eyes flicked to the corpse once more, his grin widening with dry amusement. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” he muttered under his breath.

The sight of the mangled Argonian struck a chord of familiarity—he recognized him as one of the specters from the earlier visions. The one constantly putting on airs, feigning knowledge of the Dwemer as if he were a scholar. He could practically hear the arrogant tone in the Argonian's voice.

“Guess you finally got that 'knowledge' you were after,” Erik said, smirking down at the corpse. He stepped neatly over the dismembered body without a second glance, his tone turning mockingly thoughtful. “At least I don’t have to listen to that self-important lizard pretend to know everything anymore.”

He froze mid-step, eyes narrowing as a slow realization dawned on him. “Unless...” he muttered, turning to glance behind him at the hallway he’d come from. The faint echoes of footsteps, distant whispers of phantom voices, hung in the air.

He shook his head, jaw tightening. “Unless his spirit’s the one haunting these ruins, playing out those damned visions.” His eyes darted around the dimly lit corridor, looking for any sign of a shimmer or glow. Nothing.

He scoffed, letting the flames on his palm flicker to life for a moment. “If that’s the case, I’ll make good on my promise and snuff him out for good.” The fire danced for a moment longer before he let it fade.

Helrath chuckled softly behind him, his hollow voice like the rumble of distant thunder. “I'd like... to see...that...” the deathknight mused, stepping casually over the dismembered Argonian.  

His hollow eye sockets lingered on the corpse for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze distant, contemplative.

Geri sniffed at the Argonian's severed lower half, letting out a quick sneeze before bounding after Erik. “

Smart dog,” Erik said with a grin, watching as Geri hopped gracefully over a loose gear on the floor. “You know better than to linger around idiots.”

The next door was ahead. Thick, brass-plated, and adorned with intricate, interlocking Dwemer carvings that hummed faintly with residual magicka. Erik approached it, running his fingers along the edge, feeling for any signs of a trap.

No runes. No magicka triggers. Simple enough.

With a firm shove, he pushed it open. The air shifted immediately, rushing past him as if it had been sealed for centuries. The clang of metal echoed louder this time, and the familiar hiss of leaking steam filled the air.

His eyes narrowed. The passage beyond was cramped, an awkward, narrow corridor lined with broken gears and rusted pipes. Steam hissed from cracks in the walls, filling the air with fog-like wisps. The pipes crisscrossed like tangled roots, some jutting out just far enough to make walking a chore.

Erik ducked and weaved through the cramped space, brushing past a hanging chain that rattled as it swung.

The glow from Surtr’s flames illuminated the passage in flickering orange light, casting warped shadows on the walls. The air felt thicker here, heavier. This close to the ruin’s heart, the ancient machinery's pulse was almost tangible—a low, mechanical thrum like a beast in restless slumber.

Geri pressed forward ahead of him, darting under a low-hanging pipe, his ears twitching as he sniffed the air. Erik didn’t need to ask what he smelled.

They emerged from the cramped passage into a vast chamber, and Erik immediately felt a pang of disappointment.

His eyes swept across the room, expecting grandeur—towering machinery, spinning gears as wide as wagons, maybe even a glowing Aetherium core humming with ancient power. Instead, the space was cold, quiet, and oddly barren.

At the heart of the room stood a podium—a small, unassuming pillar barely taller than his waist.

The craftsmanship was undeniably Dwemer, with sharp angles and geometric carvings that glowed faintly with residual magicka. But the platform atop it was empty, clearly meant to hold something that was no longer there.

“Hmph,” Erik muttered, tilting his head in mild disdain. “All this buildup, and this is it? I've seen more impressive broom closets.”

But his eyes didn’t linger on the podium for long. His gaze drifted to its flanks, where two Dwarven Centurions stood like ancient sentinels of brass and iron. One of them was slumped on the ground, shattered beyond repair.

Its chest cavity had been split wide open, exposing the inert, rune-etched inner workings. A pool of black, oil-like fluid had long since dried around it like congealed blood.

The second Centurion remained upright, rigid as a statue. Its head hung forward, its eyes dim, lifeless. For now.

Near the broken Centurion lay a Nord woman’s corpse. Her body was twisted awkwardly, half-propped against the machine’s remains. Her face was obscured by a steel helm, but Erik could see that her arms were still clutching a sword and axe, fingers frozen in a death grip. A warrior’s death.

He stopped for a moment, gaze lingering on her battered form. There were no signs of retreat, no hints that she had tried to crawl away or beg for mercy. She had faced the Centurion head-on and fought to the bitter end.

Erik gave her a slow nod, a gesture of respect from one Nord to another. “Brey, was it? Well fought...” he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of old custom. No matter where he stood now—necromancer, exile, or outcast—he would not deny respect to a warrior who died on their feet. “I'm sure you've found your way to Sovngarde.”

His eyes returned to the podium, and his fingers moved instinctively. From within the folds of his cloak, he retrieved the Lexicon.

The moment it touched his palm, the metal cube began to hum with life. Glowing blue runes flared to life on its surface, shifting and realigning with each pulse of magicka. The sound it made was faint but familiar—a soft chime like clockwork ticking just out of sync.

But that wasn’t all. As soon as the Lexicon's glow intensified, faint whispers brushed the edge of his mind. Words. No—memories. Not his own. Visions of bronze hands moving with inhuman precision, of metal giants building empires underground, of words in a language too old for even him to know. It was a song of purpose and finality, of cycles starting and stopping endlessly.

The Lexicon throbbed against his skin, as if eager to return home.

“All in good time,” Erik muttered, curling his fingers tightly around it. The whispers faded to a dull murmur, still present but no longer clawing at his mind. He turned his gaze toward the intact Centurion.

The moment his eyes met its hollow, unlit gaze, something changed.

A low hiss echoed through the room, followed by the sharp clank of a locking mechanism being undone. Steam shot out from the Centurion's back in a sudden, violent burst.

The glow of magicka sparked to life in its eyes—red like molten iron fresh from the forge. The joints of its arms and legs groaned as they moved for the first time in centuries. Brass limbs creaked and shifted, gears grinding against one another as its massive frame shuddered forward.

“Of course,” Erik muttered with a roll of his eyes. He shifted the Lexicon into his belt pouch, his free hand moving to grip Wyrmspire.

The Centurion let out a loud, echoing hiss of steam like the snarl of a dragon. The air filled with the sharp tang of oil and metal. It took one heavy, earth-shaking step forward, the ground beneath Erik’s feet trembling from the impact. Its gaze locked onto him, eyes burning like embers.

“I might’ve been in the mood to play with you,” Erik muttered as he stepped forward, his patience fraying. He didn’t draw the blade from Wyrmspire’s hilt. He didn’t need to. Instead, he raised the staff-like weapon with both hands, his eyes narrowing. “But all these damn visions have thinned my patience.”

Magic surged through his fingers, and behind him, three blazing magic circles flickered into existence. They hovered like halos, each one larger than the last, spinning slowly as faint arcs of lightning jumped between them. The air grew heavy with the sharp tang of ozone, the rising tension of a coming storm.

Erik’s eyes flashed with the same intensity as the storm gathering behind him. His fingers tightened on Wyrmspire.

“Bend. Break. Shatter.” His words were as sharp as the crack of thunder.

The circles flared to life, electricity surging in violent arcs. Bolts of lightning shot out in rapid succession—sharp, blinding lances of white-blue light that struck with the sound of cannon fire.

Each impact lit up the room in blinding flashes, the glow of Surtr’s flames momentarily drowned out by raw, destructive energy.

Bolt. Bolt. Bolt. Lightning rained down like a storm of judgment, crackling and sparking with raw intensity.

The Centurion stumbled under the assault. Its arms flailed, gears seizing up, metal limbs jerking with spasms of uncontrollable motion. Its red eyes flickered as if blinking in confusion.

Steam poured out of cracks forming along its back, a loud hiss accompanying every shudder of its frame.

It pressed forward, each step a battle against its own failing systems.

“You just don’t know when to die, do you?” Erik said, his teeth bared in a snarl. The lightning storm intensified, the circles spinning faster, flinging out arcs of wild energy that tore chunks of brass from the Centurion’s armor.

The machine lurched forward, its raised arm clanging down in a wild swing. Erik stepped back, barely out of its reach, the weight of the blow smashing a dent into the stone where he’d just been standing. Sparks and shards of stone flew into the air.

“Close,” Erik muttered. His eyes flared with renewed intensity. The air around him buzzed with unseen energy, sharp and biting. His fingers crackled with residual electricity, his breath misting in the cold aftershock. “But not close enough.”

The Centurion raised its head, locking eyes with him one last time. Its arms jerked forward, but it never reached him.

The next bolt of lightning struck with a resounding crack, blasting through its chest. The hole it left behind hissed with molten metal, steam shooting from the breach like the exhaust of a dying engine. Its gears stopped. Its arms sagged. Its eyes went dark.

With one final, sluggish step, the Centurion collapsed face-first, crashing down just a few inches from Erik's boots. Its brass head landed with a loud clang, echoing through the chamber like the toll of a bell.

The steam slowly dissipated, fading into the dim air of the chamber. Erik exhaled slowly, letting his muscles relax.

With the battle ended and the acrid tang of burnt metal still lingering in the air, Erik turned his gaze toward the podium. The Lexicon in his hand pulsed eagerly, the etchings along its surface glowing with a rhythmic light that matched the hum echoing in his mind. It was calling him, a song of purpose and belonging that stirred his thoughts.

But his gaze shifted to the fallen Nord woman. Her body lay sprawled atop the shattered centurion, her arms still wrapped tightly around her sword and axe, even in death.

Erik’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer than he intended. His fingers tensed around the Lexicon. His eagerness pressed on him, but so did another.

He exhaled deeply and tucked the Lexicon back into his cloak. "No true son of Skyrim walks past a warrior unhonored," he muttered to himself.

Stepping toward her remains, he extended a hand, embers flickering to life in his palm.

Flames danced eagerly along his fingers, hungry for release. "The world and I might forget your name and deeds," he said solemnly, his voice echoing in the still chamber, "but they will be sung in Sovngarde. Such is the privilege of a warrior who dies with honor."

He knelt, gaze steady on her weathered face, and raised his hand to offer her one last kindness. Flames coiled like serpents around his palm, their light casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. "Go to the Hall of Valor. Feast well."

But just as he moved to release the fire, a sharp voice echoed through the chamber.

"Stop!"

The word rang out like a shout from a mountaintop, sudden and desperate. It wasn't an echo. It had weight, urgency, and presence. Erik froze, his eyes darting to the edges of the room. "Who speaks?" he barked, eyes narrowing into sharp slits.

No answer. No footsteps. No figures emerging from the shadows.

His heart steadied, but his scowl deepened. "Reveal yourself."

Silence.

His brow furrowed in suspicion. He knew that voice had not been his imagination. Slowly, he extended his hand and muttered, "Detect Undead."

His fingers curled as he wove the magicka into his eyes. His pupils flared with a faint glow, and the world shifted. The cold, lifeless stone now pulsed faintly with the aura of old deaths, lingering echoes of forgotten struggles. But among them, one presence stood out.

There she was.

The same Nord woman. The one lying dead at his feet. But now she stood a few paces from her own corpse, translucent, pale blue light clinging to her figure like frost on a windowpane. Her armor bore the same cracks, the same battle-worn marks, and her hands still gripped her weapons, though the weight of them seemed forgotten. Her eyes, however, were different. They were sharp, aware. Haunted.

"You." Erik’s eyes narrowed, his breath a cold mist in the still air. "You should have crossed the Whalebone Bridge by now. Why are you here?"

The woman blinked, her face twisting in something between bitterness and grief. "Whose to say that I would have?" she said quietly, her gaze lowering to her own corpse. "I died here with no renown. No song will be sung for me. No banner will bear my name." Her voice cracked like brittle ice.

Erik's lips pressed into a hard line. "The songs of the living are of no consequence." He motioned to her weapons, still clutched in her hands. "You died with honor, weapon in hand. That is enough for any Nord to enter Sovngarde and have their name sung. That is the right of honor."

Her gaze shifted from her corpse back to him. There was something hollow in her eyes. Not the emptiness of a broken spirit, but something worse — disbelief.

"Is it?" she asked, her voice hollow but sharp. Her mouth twitched into a faint, bitter smile. "Then tell me, necromancer, why I felt no pull. No light. No song. No call of Shor's Hall."