Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #64

Heading toward Riften’s gates, Erik strode through the dimly lit streets with Geri trotting dutifully behind, his small paws pattering softly on the cobblestones. His mind drifted to all manner of thoughts, but his posture remained calm, almost casual as if the world itself couldn’t shake him.

He was nearly at the city’s exit when a familiar, surly voice cut through the air.

“Hold on.”

Erik slowed, his sharp eyes narrowing as Maul stepped into his path, his imposing frame blocking the way. The man’s face, perpetually etched with arrogance, betrayed just a hint of unease as he crossed his arms.

“Lady Maven wants to speak with you,” Maul said, emphasizing the title as if it were a royal decree.

Erik exhaled a slow sigh, his patience already thinning. “I have something to take care of outside the city,” he replied evenly. “Tell Maven I’ll see her when I’m done.”

Maul’s frown deepened, and his eyes flashed with indignation. “That’s Lady Maven,” he snapped, leaning forward. “And you don’t keep her waiting.”

Erik tilted his head slightly, his gaze fixed on Maul as if studying an insect daring to challenge him. Without a word, he resumed walking, brushing past the man like he wasn’t even there.

The dismissal was more than Maul’s pride could handle. His jaw tightened, and his hand drifted toward the hilt of his blade. Before the steel could clear the scabbard, Erik stopped in his tracks, his eyes flicking back to the movement like a hawk sighting prey.

Maul barely had time to blink before Erik’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. It wasn’t a sudden or aggressive gesture—just a simple touch, as if Erik were steadying him. But the pressure was anything but ordinary.

Maul’s legs trembled, his knees buckling under an unseen force that felt like the weight of the city itself.

His breath hitched, and a cold sweat broke out across his brow. The casual ease of Erik’s expression only made the moment more terrifying.

“I just saw someone cleaning the floor here this morning,” Erik said softly, his tone conversational, almost friendly. “No need to dirty it with your blood.”

The words hung in the air like a blade poised above Maul’s neck. Erik held his grip for a moment longer, just enough to drive the point home, before releasing him with a light pat on the shoulder.

Maul stumbled back slightly, his legs shaking as the pressure vanished. He glared at Erik, but his hand stayed far away from his weapon now.

Erik smiled faintly, his expression almost amused as he turned and continued on his way.

Geri paused, looking up at Maul with what could only be described as a smirk in dog form. The little corgi let out a single bark, high-pitched and sharp, before scampering after Erik. To Maul’s ears, the sound was mocking, a final insult layered atop the humiliation.

Maul’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white with rage. He felt the burn of eyes on him and turned to see a small crowd of passersby gathered nearby, their gazes darting between him and Erik’s retreating form.

“What the hell are you looking at?!” Maul barked, his voice booming.

The crowd scattered immediately, as if his anger had sent a physical shockwave through the air. Muttering curses under his breath, Maul leaned heavily against the pillar where he always loitered, his pride bruised and his mood sour.

Erik, meanwhile, didn’t so much as glance back. The day was just getting started, and there was much to do.

...

Erik stood atop a wide circular platform, its surface weathered and half-buried in the snowy mountainside. The air was frigid, crisp with the sharp tang of frost, but it carried the faint metallic scent of steam wafting from the nearby pipes. Before him stretched a breathtaking vista—a forest of amber and gold, the autumnal canopy shimmering beneath the cold blue sky. Ruined Dwemer pillars, adorned with intricate geometric patterns and arcane symbols, jutted up from the earth like the bones of a forgotten age.

Not far from where he stood, the gaping maw of a cave beckoned, framed by ancient stonework and a dull, bronze pipe jutting from the wall. The pipe hissed, expelling clouds of hot steam that mingled with the frosty air, a stark reminder of the Dwemer's mastery over both magic and machinery.

In Erik’s hand rested the Lexicon, its surface cool to the touch despite the faint hum of energy it emitted. Its intricate carvings and glowing runes pulsed rhythmically, as if alive. Erik turned it over in his hands, the artifact catching the light and refracting it into a dim, ethereal glow. The sight stirred memories of the peculiar Argonian woman who had sold him the relic.

From-Deepest-Fathoms. Her name lingered in his mind. At first, he thought nothing of her. She was just someone he needed to bribe with a few golden coins to get what he wanted, and for the most part, she was.

However, as he began dwelling into the Lexicon, as he began to pry its secret and understand the toll it put on his mind, he couldn't help but admire her, if just a bit. She must have had the relic for months at least, and if he didn't take it, she'd hold onto it for years.

And yet she didn't break. She wouldn't break. Not completely anyway, and that was enough to win Erik's respect.

As for the Lexicon itself, it had proven very useful. Through it, he had unearthed fragments of the Dwemer’s lost secrets: smithing techniques that allowed him to forge Wyrmspire, enchantments rooted in logic rather than raw magical force, and the faint whispers of something greater—an understanding of their magical engineering, a discipline that merged the arcane with the mechanical.

And yet, the memories within the Lexicon were maddeningly incomplete.

Erik sighed, running his thumb over one of the glowing runes. The Lexicon was not a tome or a guide; it was a vessel for memories. Images, impressions, and scraps of thought had flooded his mind when he first attuned to it, but they were like pieces of a shattered mosaic—beautiful in isolation but incomprehensible as a whole.

The knowledge he had gained was invaluable, but it felt like staring at a treasure chest locked with an unyielding puzzle. He needed more.

In the game, he recalled, the Dragonborn had no use for the Lexicon beyond fulfilling Fathoms’ request: returning it to Avanchnzel.

Doing so granted a passive blessing, one that enhanced smithing and made Dwemer armor more effective. A small, meaningless boon.

But in this world, the real world Erik’s reasoning went deeper. He wasn’t chasing a simple buff to his skills. He hoped—needed—to unlock more of the Lexicon’s secrets. If returning it to its place in Avanchnzel could restore or stabilize the memories it contained, then the trip would be well worth the effort.

Erik glanced at the cave entrance ahead, the faint hum of Dwemer machinery resonating faintly from within. His lips curled into a determined smirk.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” he muttered, putting the Lexicon away.

At his feet, Geri let out a short bark, his stubby tail wagging as he padded forward toward the cave. The corgi’s enthusiasm brought a momentary smile to Erik’s face.

“Easy there, boy,” Erik said, his voice tinged with amusement. “The Dwemer were many things, but hospitable isn’t one of them. This place will have guardians and traps...”

As if in response, a low metallic groan echoed from within the cave, followed by a faint clanking sound. Erik’s smile faded as his hand instinctively moved to Wyrmspire’s hilt.

“Stay close, Geri,” he muttered, stepping forward. The corgi obediently fell into step beside him, his ears pricked and alert.

The cave’s entrance yawned open before Erik, its walls tight and uneven, the air inside damp and heavy with the earthy scent of decay. Withered roots dangled like gnarled fingers from the ceiling, their twisted forms casting thin, claw-like shadows against the faint blue light of glow shrooms further down the passage. The tunnel sloped downward in a gradual descent, the rough stone underfoot crunching faintly with each step.

Erik adjusted his grip on Wyrmspire, the weapon strapped securely at his side, as his eyes scanned the dim surroundings. The Lexicon hummed faintly from its pouch, as though it could sense its proximity to its rightful resting place. Geri padded quietly beside him, his ears swiveling at every faint drip of water or distant scuttle of unseen creatures.

"Stay sharp, boy," Erik muttered, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

The tunnel eventually opened into a vast clearing, and Erik stopped at its edge, his breath caught for a moment by the sight.

The cavern before him was massive, its ceiling arching high above like the interior of a natural cathedral. Glow shrooms clung to the walls, their bioluminescence giving the place an otherworldly hue.

At first glance, the space appeared untouched by civilization—a natural hollow carved out by time and erosion. But as Erik’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, the subtle signs of Dwemer influence became apparent.

Suspended from the ceiling was a grand chandelier, unmistakably Dwemer in design. Its bronze frame gleamed faintly, even through a layer of age-old grime, and its carefully engineered structure illuminated the cavern with an even, golden glow.

Below it, a series of pipes crisscrossed the walls, snaking their way toward a massive bronze door at the far end of the chamber. The door stood imposing and inscrutable, adorned with intricate engravings and surrounded by vents hissing faint clouds of steam.

But what truly caught Erik’s attention were the figures below.

Four spectral shapes moved in the clearing, their forms faintly glowing with an eerie, reddish light. They flickered like dying embers, but their features were distinct enough to discern their identities.

Erik immediately recognized From-Deepest-Fathoms, her spectral form. Beside her stood a male Argonian, his stance proud and authoritative. The other two were Nords—a man and a woman, their spectral bodies radiating a faint hostility toward one another.

The ghostly scene played out like an echo of the past, a fragment of memory trapped within the walls of Avanchnzel. Erik crouched low, his eyes narrowing as he observed the interaction.

The male Nord, his spectral form jittering slightly, looked around uneasily. His voice was taut with anxiety as he spoke "I don't like this place. It feels like we're being... watched."

The female Nord, her tone sharp and dismissive, crossed her arms over her chest. "It's a simple job, Drennen. We get in, we steal the Lexicon, and we leave. Don’t get jumpy."

Fathoms turned toward the pair, her posture stiff with irritation. "If you two cannot handle this, we can find others to hire."

The male Argonian, calm and commanding, raised a hand to diffuse the tension. "Enough. Their services will be more than adequate. Let us continue."

The spectral figures flickered, their forms twisting briefly like smoke caught in a draft, before resuming their positions. The loop began again, their conversation replaying word for word.

Erik watched in silence, piecing together the context. These four had come here seeking the Lexicon, the very one he carried now.

Their spectral state suggested that their venture had not ended well, but Erik knew better than to assume they all died. He'd met Fathoms himself, and although he couldn't remember the entirety of the quest he completed in the game nor every nook and cranny in this dwarven ruin, he saw the place from another perspective.

These visions, the spectral echoes of Fathoms and her companions, weren't the spirits of the departed, but memories of them, memories that belonged to someone whose spirit lingered in the dwarven ruin for whatever reason, perhaps trapped here, or simply refusing to pass on.

"I see them too, boy," Erik murmured dismissively. "They're just echoes... lingering memories...."

Erik’s attempt at reassurance seemed to have little effect on Geri, who continued to growl softly, his ears pinned back and his tail low. The sight of the usually bold corgi cowering at the faint glow of ghosts brought a smirk to Erik’s face.

This was the same fearless creature that had around Snowhak Fortress like he owned the place then proceeded to gnaw on an undead skeleton’s arm, chewed gleefully on the twitching legs of dead frostbite spiders, and stood firm against Daedra summoned by a Dragon Priest. Yet here he was, unnerved by spectral echoes.

"You’ll face down all manner of monsters, but a few harmless ghosts have you shaking in your paws?" Erik teased, crouching briefly to ruffle the corgi’s fur. Geri responded with a disgruntled huff, casting a wary glance at the glowing figures below.

Erik let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Alright, I’ll tell you what... I’ll call Helrath and Surtr. Maybe they’ll keep you safe from the big, bad, spooky ghosts."

The instant Erik mentioned their names, Geri perked up, his ears standing at attention and his tail wagging with an enthusiasm that bordered on comedic. He watched eagerly as Erik snapped his fingers with a flourish, summoning his skeletal companions.

From the shadows, two distinct figures emerged, their spectral flames cutting through the dim light. Surtr, his form cloaked in vibrant, fiery energy, strode forward first, his hollow eye sockets glowing like miniature suns. The air around him shimmered with heat, and the soft crackle of his flames echoed faintly in the cavern. Helrath followed, his Coldharbour-infused essence manifesting as a chill that seeped into the air. His spectral armor glinted dully, its edges frosted with a thin layer of ice.

"Happy now?" Erik asked, raising an eyebrow as he observed Geri’s immediate shift in attitude. The corgi bounded forward to greet Helrath, licking at the skeleton knight’s armored ankle with the enthusiasm of a dog greeting a long-lost friend.

Helrath paused, staring down at the corgi in what could only be described as bewilderment. Slowly, he raised a bony hand to scratch the back of his helmet, his glowing eye sockets flicking between Erik and Geri in apparent confusion.

Erik rolled his eyes. "Don’t you start too," he muttered, waving a hand dismissively at Helrath’s silent questioning. "He’s your problem now, deal with it."

Geri barked happily in agreement and pranced over to Surtr, circling the flaming skeleton once before falling back into step beside Erik. Surtr merely let out a faint, crackling sound that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, deep and resonant like logs shifting in a roaring fire.

"Come on, then," Erik said, turning toward the slope that led down to the cavern floor and the imposing bronze door. "We've got a Dwarven ruin to explore..."

With that, he began his descent, his steps purposeful and steady. Behind him, his odd entourage followed in perfect formation: Geri, still wagging his tail, and the two skeletons, their spectral flames casting dancing shadows across the cavern walls.