Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #68

Opening what felt like the hundredth door, Erik stepped through and paused, his boots scuffing softly against the metal floor. Before him was a veranda, which granted a view of what could only be described as a workshop.

The air was thick with the sharp tang of oil and metal, underscored by the faint, ever-present hiss of steam escaping from the network of pipes lining the walls. Gears turned lazily overhead, their grinding adding to the symphony of mechanical life that echoed throughout the chamber.

Below the veranda, two massive stone slabs dominated the room. Resting atop them were dormant Dwarven Centurions, their hulking frames eerily lifeless. These enormous automatons, humanoid in shape but monstrous in scale, were known to guard the most vital secrets and treasures of Dwemer ruins.

The sight of them, inert and unresponsive, should have been reassuring. Yet, their sheer size and potential lethality sent a prickle of unease down Erik’s spine.

His gaze drifted to the cluster of Dwarven Spiders scuttling about the workshop floor. The small machines moved with a mechanical efficiency, their clawed appendages darting over the Centurions’ surfaces. One spider in particular caught Erik’s attention.

It stood at the chest of the nearest Centurion, extending a delicate, clawed mandible into an exposed cavity. A soft whirring sound followed, and the spider carefully retrieved a golden, spherical object—a core, perhaps.

The spider carried the core with single-minded determination to a nearby shelf, depositing it with a precise click. It paused there for a moment, as though assessing its actions, before picking up the very same object again. With equal deliberation, it returned to the Centurion and reinserted the core into the machine’s chest cavity.

It stepped back, mandibles twitching in apparent anticipation. But the Centurion remained lifeless, its great form unyielding and inert.

Undeterred, the spider repeated the process. Over and over, it retrieved the core, placed it on the shelf, then reinstalled it into the Centurion, as if caught in an endless loop of futile repairs.

Erik leaned against the railing, resting his arms on the cold metal as he observed the scene with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “They’re trying to fix the Centurions,” he murmured to himself. “They know what needs to be done, but they lack the right tools....”

He watched the spider pause, its claws hovering over the Centurion’s chest as if in confusion, before beginning the loop anew. “Still,” Erik added with a wry smirk, “their programming compels them to keep trying. Over and over. It’s almost... tragic. Almost.”

Despite the faint trace of humor in his tone, Erik couldn’t deny the strange intrigue the sight inspired. These Dwemer machines were marvels of ancient ingenuity, their design and durability beyond anything even modern mages could replicate.

And yet, they weren’t infallible. For all their sophistication, these spiders were stuck in a mechanical limbo, their logic circuits unable to account for the lack of necessary resources or the futility of their actions.

“They might be clever,” Erik muttered, straightening and adjusting the strap of Wyrmspire on his back, “but they’re not that clever.”

A soft bark from Geri brought Erik out of his musings. The corgi had trotted up beside him, his head tilted as he gazed down at the workshop below. He let out another bark, this one lower, as if voicing his own thoughts on the scene.

Erik glanced down at Geri, his lips curling into a grin. “Right?” he chuckled, giving the corgi an amused look. “If a hundred of these things hadn’t tried to kill me on the way here, I might’ve actually felt a bit sympathetic.” He shook his head, the grin lingering as he stepped back from the railing, adjusting Wyrmspire at his side. "But sympathy has never been my strong suit, has it?"

With a sharp snap of his fingers, the air around the railing shimmered with an ominous purple light. The ethereal glow pulsed for a moment, casting jagged shadows across the workshop below. One by one, skeletal archers materialized along the railing, each crafted with precision, their bones gleaming as though polished.

Their empty eye sockets burned faintly with magicka as they awaited orders, bows drawn taut, arrows already nocked.

The sound of the snap didn’t just summon the skeletons—it also drew the attention of the Dwarven spiders below. A cacophony of mechanical whirring filled the chamber as the spiders swiveled their sensory devices, their lenses locking onto Erik. The small constructs began scuttling toward the staircase at the far side of the room, their intent clear: to drive out or destroy the intruder.

Erik, however, remained unfazed. He crossed his arms and leaned casually against the railing, watching the unfolding chaos as though it were a staged performance. “Let’s see how this goes,” he muttered, a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

The skeletal archers moved as one, their coordination unnervingly precise. The bows creaked as they loosed the first volley of arrows, each tipped with a small, glowing soul gem.

The arrows streaked across the room, leaving faint trails of light in their wake, before finding their marks among the advancing spiders. Upon impact, the gems erupted in explosive bursts of raw magicka, sending shockwaves rippling outward. The dwarven constructs caught within the blasts were obliterated instantly, their parts scattering like shrapnel.

A second volley followed, then a third, each one punctuated by flashes of violet energy and the sound of metal splintering. The spiders had no time to regroup, no chance to retaliate. By the time the fourth volley struck, the chamber had fallen silent, save for the faint hiss of steam escaping from shattered pipes. Not a single spider remained functional.

Erik let out a satisfied hum, snapping his fingers again. The skeletal archers disintegrated into plumes of purple mist, leaving no trace of their presence. He stepped closer to the railing, his gaze falling on the two Centurions below. The massive constructs remained inert, their hulking frames untouched by the chaos.

Surtr and Helrath flanked him, the former radiating a faint heat as if eager for more destruction, while Helrath stood silently, ever the stoic guardian. Geri padded up beside Erik, giving the battlefield below a sniff before letting out a quiet bark.

Erik scratched his chin thoughtfully, his expression shifting from smug satisfaction to quiet contemplation. “I’ll have to take these back to Snowhawk Fort at some point,” he murmured, more to himself than his companions. “The Centurions, the spiders… there’s so much to learn here. Dwemer engineering might just have the answers to questions I haven’t even thought to ask yet.”

His gaze lingered on the dormant Centurions for a moment longer before he straightened, a glint of determination returning to his eyes. “But not today. Right now, I’m more interested in what’s waiting at the end of these ruins.”

He adjusted his robes and gestured for his companions to follow. With Geri trotting at his heels and the two skeletal warriors falling into step behind him, Erik descended the staircase, the promise of deeper mysteries propelling him forward.

...

Erik descended the gentle slope, his boots scuffing faintly against the ancient, uneven stone. The hallway ahead veered sharply to the left, its darkened corner obscuring whatever lay beyond. Before rounding it, a faint gleam on the floor caught his eye. He paused, frowning, and crouched to inspect the shadowy figure sprawled across the stone.

The figure was a man—a Nord, clad in tattered fur armor. Erik grimaced as he examined the body more closely. Though the corpse bore no signs of decay, it was clear this man hadn’t drawn breath in quite some time. Months, most likely. Ruins like these often had a strange, almost antiseptic effect on the dead, the cool air and lack of wildlife, the magic, infused to every stone, preserving their remains unnaturally well.

Erik, however, didn’t need such external clues. As a necromancer, he’d spent centuries studying the stages of death, the subtle cues that marked the passage of time on a lifeless body. Even now, the man’s pale, waxy skin and stiffened joints told him everything he needed to know.

“Drennen,” Erik muttered, recognizing the unfortunate Nord from the spectral echoes he’d encountered earlier in the ruins. He couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s always the skittish ones who die first.”

Memories of Drennen’s protests came to mind: his insistence that they turn back, his constant worry about traps and machines lurking in the dark. Erik let his gaze drift down to the dart lodged in the man’s throat, then to several others piercing his chest and limbs. Nearby, the culprit lay in plain sight: a pressure plate, jammed slightly askew. It didn’t take much imagination to piece together the scene.

Erik sighed, rising to his feet. “Looks like you were right to be afraid after all,” he murmured, casting one last glance at the fallen Nord. "Doesn’t seem like anyone listened, though.”

He reached for the magicka welling within him, a faint glow sparking around his fingers. A simple burst of flames would suffice—a small act of respect to a fellow Nord, even one who had perished so foolishly. Erik had no intention of leaving the man to lie here, forgotten in the cold silence of the Dwemer ruin.

But just as he began to weave the spell, a shout echoed from deeper within the hallway.

“Drennen!”

The shout echoed through the corridor, harsh and reproachful, the kind of cry born of frustration and fraying nerves. Erik’s steps slowed as he neared the end of the hallway. There, illuminated by faint Dwemer light, Drennen’s spectral form emerged, sprinting toward him in a desperate, panicked frenzy.

Erik tilted his head, observing the scene with detached curiosity. The translucent figures of the remaining group materialized behind the fleeing Nord. Fathoms, the Argonian who had been carrying the Lexicon, led the pack, her sharp features etched with irritation. The female Nord, Breya, trailed slightly behind, her expression a storm of worry and anger.

The male Argonian, calm as still water, brought up the rear, exuding an air of aloof authority.

“Let the field mouse run,” Fathoms hissed, her voice sharp and venomous, cutting through the tense silence. “Your pay will be double.”

Breya shot her a glare, her fists clenching at her sides. “My pay will be nothing if we die in here!” she snapped, her voice rising with barely contained fury.

The male Argonian remained composed, his voice low and measured as though he were trying to settle the argument—or merely dismiss it. “Calm yourself, Breya. We are close to the Lexicon. I can feel it calling to us. We don’t need Drennen.”

Breya’s face twisted in frustration, but she said nothing more. Her gaze flicked toward the fleeing Nord, her worry warring with her desire for survival.

Before Breya could respond further, the scene abruptly dissolved into nothingness, the shimmering figures vanishing like mist before a strong wind. Erik stood with his hand raised, his magicka dissipating the memory before it could loop again. He sighed, shaking his head as the glow faded from his fingertips.

Turning his gaze back to Drennen’s lifeless body, Erik’s expression shifted. The cool detachment he had carried moments before melted into something far colder—disdain. He let the flames he had summoned in his hands flicker and die, snuffing out the intended act of cremation without a second thought.

“Live a coward’s life,” he muttered, his voice low and biting, “and rot in death. A warrior’s final rites are more than you deserve.”

With that, Erik turned sharply and continued down the corridor, his robes sweeping the dust behind him. Surtr and Geri followed without hesitation, but Helrath lingered. The deathknight’s glowing eyes regarded Drennen’s corpse with a thoughtful intensity, as if Erik’s words had stirred some unspoken deliberation within him.

Helrath tilted his head slightly, his skeletal form unnervingly still. Then, with a purposeful motion, he stepped over the body, his iron-clad foot landing just above the corpse’s outstretched hand. The deliberate act was subtle, but there was a weight to it—a silent echo of Erik’s judgment.

Catching up to Erik, Helrath fell into step behind him without a word. Erik didn’t look back, his mind already turning toward what lay ahead. The conclusion to the story of these explorers, and his goal, was just ahead. He could feel it.

...

Erik paused mid-step as three spectral figures flickered into existence before him, their translucent forms bathed in the faint, golden glow of Dwemer sconces. His lips pressed into a thin line, irritation tugging at his composure. Again, he thought, his hand twitching as if contemplating dispelling the scene outright. But curiosity, or perhaps morbid fascination, kept him rooted in place.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the cold, metallic wall, watching as the familiar silhouettes began their well-worn performance. The male Argonian stood at the forefront, his posture confident, borderline smug, as though he commanded the ruin itself.

Fathoms stood to his left, her scaled features betraying a blend of weariness and sharp cunning. Breya lingered at the back, her nervous energy practically radiating off her ghostly form as she glanced between the other two.

Their voices echoed faintly, tinged with the eerie hollowness of memory.

“We’re close now,” the male Argonian declared, his voice measured but tinged with an almost fanatical edge. He gestured to the grand door in front of them, his gaze locked on it like a predator stalking prey. “Can you feel the Lexicon calling out?”

Fathoms responded with a slow blink, her tail flicking in a subtle gesture of disdain. “Sure,” she drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Breya shifted uneasily, her fingers clutching her sword’s hilt. “So we get it and get out, right?” Her tone was sharp, her worry barely veiled.

The male Argonian didn’t even glance her way. “Once we have the Lexicon, we need to take it to its podium. I know what to do from there.” His tone grew more fervent, his eyes gleaming. “Soon, the Lexicon’s knowledge will be mine.”

“Ours,” Fathoms corrected, her voice slicing through his delusion like a blade. Her eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, her imposing figure casting a long shadow. “The Lexicon’s knowledge will be ours.”

The male Argonian’s smile didn’t falter, but the brief hesitation in his reply betrayed him. “Of course,” he said smoothly, turning his attention back to the door.

Breya’s frown deepened as she took a step back, her instincts screaming louder than her companions’ reassurances. “Something doesn’t feel right,” she murmured, almost to herself.

The male Argonian didn’t seem to hear—or didn’t care. He raised his hands and pressed them against the door’s intricate carvings. “We’re almost there,” he said, his voice growing distant and almost reverent. “I can hear the Lexicon. Come on, quickly!”

As the heavy doors groaned and began to part, Breya’s breath hitched. Her hand darted out, as if to pull him back. “Wait!” she called out, her voice breaking the mounting tension like a whip crack.

But the memory ended abruptly, the specters dissolving into thin air, leaving Erik alone once more. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of ancient machinery in the distance.

He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I swear,” he muttered, his voice laced with frustration, “if I have to watch one more round of that pompous lizard pretending to be some kind of chosen Dwemer scholar, I might actually resurrect him just to torture him once I find his scaly corpse...”