Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #67

Crouching beside the heavy, rusting gate that barred the small storage chamber, Erik carefully maneuvered the slender pin in the keyhole. His other hand steadied the handle of the knife he had jammed into the lock’s slit, the blade acting as an improvised tension wrench.

He tilted his head slightly, his ear waiting for the faint click that signaled progress. Patience, he reminded himself, letting out a slow breath. This isn’t a fight. It’s finesse.

After a few moments of delicate adjustment, the sound he’d been waiting for reached his ears—a subtle, satisfying click. A grin spread across Erik’s face, the flicker of success igniting his confidence.

But the victory was short-lived. As he began to rotate the knife, there was a sudden snap. The pin in his hand broke clean in two, the jagged end lodging itself inside the keyhole. Erik froze, staring at the now useless fragment in his hand as the lock reset with a mocking clunk.

"Of course," he muttered, his voice dripping with irritation. He released the broken pin, watching it fall to the ground where it joined an embarrassing pile of similar failures. A deep sigh escaped his lips, his patience fraying at the edges.

Before he could curse the lock—or himself—two ghostly figures shimmered into existence beside the gate. The spectral forms of the female Nord and an Argonian, From-Deepest-Fathoms, appeared as if summoned by Erik’s frustration. Their semi-translucent shapes glowed faintly, their presence both eerie and irritatingly familiar.

The Nord woman shook her head in exasperation, her arms crossing over her chest. “I told you we should’ve hired a thief,” she said, her voice carrying a judgmental bite.

Fathoms turned to her, his spectral brow furrowing. “We are thieves, you fool,” She retorted with a hiss. “We’re here to steal the lexicon!”

The Nord woman rolled her ghostly eyes. “And yet, not one of us can pick a blasted lock.”

The pair glared at each other for a moment before they vanished as abruptly as they had appeared, leaving behind an uneasy silence. Geri, who had begun to edge behind Erik’s robes at the sight of the ghosts, let out a low whimper before relaxing as the air cleared.

Erik, however, was anything but relaxed. His eye twitched with barely-contained annoyance. The memory felt like a deliberate mockery, as though the spirit haunting these ruins was trying to ridicule his failed attempts to unlock the gate.

“Very funny,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the now-vacant space where the spirits had stood. Straightening up, he brushed the dust from his robes and raised a hand toward the stubborn gate.

He extended his palm toward the lock, his fingers curling slightly as he channeled a pulse of magicka. His lips moved in a soft, deliberate incantation. “Unlock.”

The lock emitted a sharp, metallic click that echoed through the chamber. With a groan of old, protesting hinges, the gate swung open slowly, revealing the storage room within.

Erik smirked, dusting off his hands with exaggerated flourish. He cast one last glance toward the space where the specters had vanished and scoffed. “You should’ve hired a mage,” he said, his voice tinged with smug satisfaction.

With that, he adjusted the folds of his robes and strode away, leaving the now-open storage room behind without a backward glance.

As Erik walked away from the storage room, his pace steady and deliberate, the echo of his boots against the metallic floor reverberated through the ancient corridors. Behind him, Surtr’s fiery form cast long, flickering shadows against the walls, while Helrath’s cold, bone-clad presence seemed to sap the warmth from the air. Geri trotted along, the little corgi letting out a confused bark that broke the silence.

Without breaking stride, Erik glanced over his shoulder, speaking dryly. “I didn’t care about the storage or what’s inside it in the first place…” His tone was light, but there was a slight edge of irritation as he added, “I just thought it’d be fun to unlock the door.”

Geri barked again, the sound sharper this time, almost as if the dog were calling him out. Erik rolled his eyes, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Shut up,” he muttered, though there was no real malice behind the words.

Truthfully, Erik wasn’t entirely sure who he was trying to convince—Geri, the others, or himself. The sting of failure still pricked at his pride, a faint reminder that his skills, impressive as they were, had limits.

But as his irritation began to fade, a deeper realization settled over him. This was the first time he had explored a ruin entirely on his own since leaving Snowhawk Fort.

That place, once his stronghold and sanctuary, was etched into his mind with painstaking clarity, thanks to the memories of the other Erik—the ancient necromancer whose body he now inhabited. Snowhawk had been familiar, almost mundane, in its predictability.

Forelhost, however, had been different. There, the stakes had been high, the mission critical. He’d barely had a moment to appreciate the gravity of exploring such a storied location, let alone reflect on what it meant. The focus had been on accomplishing a goal, not discovery.

Now, though, as he wandered through the winding halls of the Dwemer ruin, the weight of the moment began to sink in. Erik couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of it all. Once, he’d been a gamer—a Skyrim addict, devoting countless hours to exploring these very halls through a screen. And now, here he was, living the experience in a way that was both exhilarating and surreal.

Despite the memories of the old necromancer—thousands of years’ worth of knowledge, experiences, and transformations—Erik still felt the pull of who he had been. He might wield necromantic power and carry the weight of a long-dead Nord’s legacy, but he was also still the guy who found the novelty of this moment irresistible.

That drive, that curiosity, was what had pushed him to try unlocking the storage in the first place. It wasn’t about the loot or the utility—it was the thrill of discovery, the satisfaction of doing things that were only possible through a screen. Sadly, he had no talent for it.

As if sensing his reflective mood, Geri let out another bark, this time softer, almost questioning. Erik glanced down at the dog, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?” he murmured, the irritation giving way to something closer to amusement.

Surtr and Helrath, ever silent, followed at a measured pace, their presence a reminder of Erik’s dual existence. On one hand, he was the ambitious necromancer, heir to a legacy of death and power. On the other, he was still a man fascinated by the simple wonder of exploring the unknown.

...

Erik continued his descent into the ruin, navigating the labyrinthine hallways with measured precision. The dim glow of his magelight cast long, eerie shadows against the metallic walls, the soft hum of Dwemer machinery providing an ever-present reminder of the ruin’s ancient, alien nature.

He ascended and descended staircases worn smooth by centuries, his boots occasionally scuffing against scattered debris. Every few turns brought him face-to-face with the ruin’s silent guardians—dwarven constructs bursting to life in clouds of steam and grinding gears.

Finally, Erik found himself in a spacious chamber at the end of a long hallway. The air was thicker here, tinged with the metallic scent of old oil and ancient machinery. Ahead, the way forward was blocked by a pile of collapsed debris, jagged stones and twisted metal forming an impassable barricade.

To the right, an open door revealed a small makeshift camp.

A weathered tent stood beside a dormant bonfire, the charred wood within long since cooled. Several bedrolls were scattered haphazardly around the firepit, the remnants of an ill-fated expedition.

As Erik approached, four spectral figures materialized around the fire, their translucent forms flickering like images from a broken memory.

The first to speak was a male Nord, his voice tinged with awe. “This place is huge.”

Beside him, an Argonian nodded, his voice calm and analytical. “It is large, indeed. I did not anticipate Avanchnzel’s size or the time required to uncover the entrance. A few hours’ sleep, and we should be ready to continue.”

The Nord shifted uncomfortably, glancing around the shadowy chamber. “Maybe we should turn back. I don’t want to sleep here.”

The Argonian tilted his head, his tone growing sharper. “Drennen, you do understand that the Lexicon at the bottom of this place holds the accumulated memories of centuries of Dwemer.”

A female Nord chimed in, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Not to mention our pay.”

“So?” Drennen shot back defensively, folding his arms.

The second Argonian, a female Erik immediately recognized as From-Deepest-Fathoms, hissed with irritation. “So we’re not turning back, you fool.”

The female Nord chuckled darkly. “Besides, you’re not afraid of a few sleeping metal men, are you, Drennen?”

The conversation dissolved into silence, the figures flickering briefly before looping back to the beginning. Erik grimaced, already tired of their spectral argument. With a wave of his hand, he sent a pulse of magicka through the room, dissipating the apparitions in a burst of pale light.

Geri, who had just begun to lower himself into a crouch at the sight of the ghosts, let out a soft whine of relief.

Erik sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he surveyed the campsite. “With that many flags in one conversation, it’s a wonder Fathoms managed to get out of here alive,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Without waiting for a response from his companions, he eased himself down onto one of the bedrolls, the fabric dusty but still serviceable. The faint smell of mildew clung to it, but he didn’t care. “We’ll stop here for a bit,” he said, addressing the two skeletons and Geri. “You three can go ahead and do whatever you want, but don’t go too far. Be back in less than an hour.”

Surtr and Helrath exchanged a glance—or what Erik assumed was the skeletal equivalent—before wandering off toward the darker corners of the chamber, their respective auras of fire and frost casting strange, shifting lights on the walls.

Geri, ever the loyal companion, hesitated for a moment before trotting after them, his small frame disappearing into the shadows.

Erik leaned back, resting his head against the slightly lumpy bedroll. He didn’t need the rest, not really, but the quiet moment felt oddly indulgent. Closing his eyes, he allowed the sounds of the ruin—the distant hiss of steam, the occasional groan of ancient machinery—to lull him into a state of relaxation.

For now, at least, the ruin seemed content to let him breathe.