Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #62

The Bee and the Barb was alive with its usual bustling energy, the murmur of voices blending with the clinking of tankards and the occasional burst of raucous laughter.

Erik sat at a corner table, his back to the wall, nursing a flagon of spiced mead. At his feet, Geri happily gnawed on a generous chunk of venison, his small tail wagging in contentment. The warm glow of the hearth cast flickering shadows across the room, and Erik allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation.

His tranquility was interrupted when a cloaked figure stepped into his line of sight. The figure moved with deliberate purpose, weaving through the crowded tavern without drawing undue attention. Erik tensed slightly, his hand instinctively brushing against the hilt of Wyrmspire resting by his chair. The noise in the room seemed to grow louder, almost unnaturally so, as the figure approached, masking their arrival.

The figure stopped before him, pulling back their hood to reveal the familiar face of Brynjolf. His sharp features were set in a faintly amused expression, his piercing eyes betraying a mixture of curiosity and caution.

Without preamble, he slid a worn journal onto the table between them.

“I was surprised to hear you know Enthir,” Brynjolf began, his voice low, yet clear enough to cut through the din. “Even more surprised to hear he’s working for you now.”

Erik leaned back, his lips curling into a knowing smile. “I found myself in need of someone with Enthir’s... unique talents. He took to the offer I made him quite readily.”

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking toward the journal. “Quite the talent scout, aren’t you?”

Erik ignored the jab, his attention shifting to the journal. Its leather cover was cracked with age, the corners worn from years of handling. He placed a hand on it, fingers brushing lightly over the surface as if weighing its significance. “This is...?”

Brynjolf nodded. “Gallus’s journal. Written entirely in the ancient Snow Elf language.”

Erik’s expression remained impassive as he opened the journal, flipping through its pages with casual disinterest. The delicate script flowed across the parchment in intricate, almost lyrical patterns.

To most, it would be an indecipherable relic of a forgotten age, but to Erik, it was as familiar as the Nordic runes carved into the walls of Skyrim’s crypts.

He skimmed the text for a moment before speaking. “I can decipher it easily enough... The question is, will you take my word for it?”

Brynjolf’s relaxed demeanor shifted, his brow furrowing in thought. “That’s what I’ve been asking myself,” he admitted, his tone edged with skepticism.

Erik chuckled, the sound low and rich. “At least you’re not entirely foolish.”

Before Brynjolf could retort, Erik reached into his cloak and retrieved a small notebook, its pages bristling with annotations and diagrams. He placed it on the table with a theatrical flourish.

“These are my personal notes on the Falmer language,” Erik explained, tapping the cover. “Every rune, every grammatical quirk, and every nuance I’ve uncovered. If you’re willing to put in a bit of effort, you’ll be able to decipher Gallus’s journal yourself.”

Brynjolf reached for the notebook, his hand hovering just above the table, but Erik smoothly slid it away before his fingers could brush the cover. The necromancer’s expression shifted into one of playful warning, his piercing gaze locking onto Brynjolf.

“Easy there,” Erik said, his tone light but laced with a subtle edge. “This is the kind of knowledge mages would kill to possess. They’d guard it even more viciously than their lives. I like you, Brynjolf, but not that much.”

Brynjolf’s hand withdrew with a frustrated sigh, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Go figures,” he muttered, folding his arms across his chest. “So, what’s it going to cost me?”

Erik leaned back in his chair, his fingers idly drumming against the notebook. He adopted an exaggerated expression of contemplation, as if genuinely pondering the question. “You owe me quite a bit already,” he mused, his voice calm and measured. “Frankly, I’m not even sure you can pay the debt you’ve racked up.”

Brynjolf’s patience frayed at the edges, his brow furrowing as he leaned forward. “Let’s not beat around the bush,” he snapped. “You clearly want something, or we wouldn’t be having this little chat. Out with it.”

Erik’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he rolled them theatrically. “You’re rather boring for a thief, you know that? No flair, no finesse,” he teased, lifting his flagon to his lips for a slow, deliberate sip. Lowering the mug, he set it down with a soft clink and sighed. “But fine. If you want to get straight to business, I’ll humor you.”

The playfulness faded from his tone, replaced by the weight of cold, calculated intent. “I want you to take over the guild once Mercer Frey is out of the picture. And I want you to remember your debt to me. Every coin, every favor, every moment wasted. When you sit in that big chair, I expect you to answer to me.”

Brynjolf stared at him, his expression blank save for the faintest twitch of his jaw. “You want influence.”

“I want more than influence,” Erik corrected, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I want to be the guild’s Maven Black-Briar—no, I want more pull than her. Every shadow cast by the Thieves Guild will answer to me when I call. You’ll see to it.”

A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the hum of the tavern’s noise and the crackle of the hearth. Brynjolf finally let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re suspiciously confident that Mercer Frey’s the one behind Gallus’s death,” Brynjolf said, his tone almost accusatory. “What happened to the games, eh? No more leading me by the nose, letting me come to the conclusion myself? You’re laying it on thick, Erik.”

Erik’s smirk returned, faint and enigmatic. He leaned back once more, his fingers steepling as he studied Brynjolf with the air of a man already holding the winning hand.

Erik leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed yet radiating an air of undeniable authority. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, just inches from the notebook that Brynjolf’s eyes couldn’t help but dart toward.

“Subtlety has its place,” Erik began smoothly, his voice a low murmur that carried just enough weight to demand attention.

“But not always. Sometimes, straightforwardness is the key to moving pieces exactly where they need to be. You already suspect Mercer’s treachery—no, let’s not mince words. You know it, Brynjolf. You feel it in your bones. All you’re missing is the evidence, the final piece to topple his little empire of lies. So, why should I waste time playing coy when the truth is already staring you in the face?”

Brynjolf’s jaw tightened as Erik’s words sank in. His sharp eyes flicked down to the notebook resting beneath Erik’s hand, then back up to the necromancer’s face. “So this is leverage, aye?” he asked, his tone dry.

“A gift,” Erik corrected, his lips curling into a smirk that bordered on predatory. “One that keeps giving—just like me.”

Brynjolf let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat. “You’ve got some nerve, Erik. I’d love nothing more than to tell you to shove that ‘gift’ where the sun don’t shine.” He paused, his eyes narrowing in thought.

“But, like you said, I’m already in your debt. And what’s more…” His voice trailed off, and his gaze hardened. “I’ve seen what you’re capable of. Forelhost wasn’t just some story you spun to impress Maven or the court. The things you did there? That’s not the kind of power you argue with. And I sure as Oblivion don’t want your Dark Brotherhood cronies hounding me or the guild. We’re thieves, Erik. Businessmen. Not warriors.”

Erik’s smirk remained, unmoving, a picture of calm confidence. He didn’t offer a rebuttal, didn’t defend himself, nor did he react to the barb. His silence only seemed to irritate Brynjolf, who leaned forward, his brows drawing together in frustration.

“What?” Brynjolf snapped, gesturing irritably. “No reaction to one of your assassins running their mouth and spilling Brotherhood business outside your little circle? What kind of leader lets that happen?”

Erik rolled his eyes, the motion slow and deliberate, as if Brynjolf’s comment wasn’t worth the energy. “Please,” he said, his tone dripping with disdainful amusement. “Those assassins wouldn’t sneeze without my permission. I gave the order to leak the information.”

He lifted his mug, taking a sip before setting it back down with an air of finality. “The Brotherhood’s reputation may have dulled over the years, but the weight of its name still carries enough power to smooth over most of my dealings. Fear is a currency, Brynjolf, and I’m wealthy in it.”

Brynjolf shook his head, a wry chuckle escaping him. “Whatever you say. Seems to me you’ve got all the answers.” He gestured to the notebook. “So, what? You give me that, and in return, I help you pull the strings of the guild from the inside? Can’t say I like it, but I don’t see much choice, either.”

Erik leaned back in his chair, a rich, amused laugh rumbling from his chest. He gestured with his drink, swirling the amber liquid lazily. “You make it sound like I’m dragging you into some eternal doom, Brynjolf. But in time, you’ll see—I’m not the worst master out there. In fact, you’ll find me better than most.” He paused, his smirk softening into something almost reflective. “Who knows? You might even grow to like me.”

Brynjolf let out a noncommittal grunt, clearly unimpressed, his expression still tense with mistrust. Erik shook his head, his smile growing sharper.

“Now,” Erik continued, setting his mug down with a deliberate clink, “this is normally where we’d seal the deal with a good, firm handshake.” He leaned forward, his piercing gaze locking onto Brynjolf’s. “But there’s just one more demand I need to make.”

Brynjolf’s brows furrowed even deeper, irritation flashing across his face. “What more could you possibly want?” he asked, his voice low and strained with exasperation. “My soul, maybe?”

Erik’s laughter came again, louder this time, drawing a few curious glances from the other patrons before the ambient hum of the tavern swallowed the moment.

“Your soul?” Erik repeated, amusement dripping from every syllable. “Let’s be honest, Brynjolf—your soul’s only yours for so long. None of us gets to keep it forever, do we? But no, I’m not interested in that.”

He turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes scanning the room. Then his gaze settled on a hooded figure sitting at a table nearby, their posture too stiff, their movements too measured to belong to a simple tavern-goer.

They were pretending to eat, but their subtle glances toward Erik and Brynjolf betrayed their true purpose. Erik’s grin widened, a predator who’d caught a trespasser in his domain.

“Actually,” Erik said, his tone now carrying a playful edge, “what I need requires the agreement of your companion over there.” He inclined his head toward the figure, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “The one who’s been listening in on our conversation for quite some time now. Don’t be shy—why don’t you join us, Karliah?”

The tension in the room shifted like a current in the air. Brynjolf stiffened, his eyes darting toward the cloaked figure Erik had addressed. For a moment, the figure didn’t move, their stillness a calculated effort to assess the situation. Then, with deliberate grace, the hooded figure rose, pushing back their chair with barely a whisper of sound.

The tavern’s background noise seemed to swell, as if compensating for the silence that now hovered over their table. Karliah stepped forward, her movements smooth and measured, the hood of her cloak casting deep shadows over her face. As she reached their table, she pulled back her hood, revealing her sharp features and piercing violet eyes.