Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #66

Hours had passed in a haze of constant motion, the clang of metal and the hum of magicka filling the halls of Avanchnzel as Erik and his companions fought through an endless gauntlet of Dwemer automata. Erik wiped sweat from his brow, his gauntlets glinting faintly in the dim, flickering light of ancient, self-sustaining lamps.

Now, he stood still, observing yet another memory unravel in the middle of a broad hallway carved from smooth, inscription-laden stone. This time, three spectral figures emerged, their translucent forms casting a faint, bluish glow on the walls. The sight of the familiar Nord mercenary pair, accompanied by the male Argonian from before, drew Erik’s attention.

The three figures stood in silence at first, their postures tense. The male Nord glanced nervously over his shoulder, his unease palpable. “I don’t like this,” he muttered, his voice carrying a tremor. “Feels like the walls themselves are watching us.”

The female Nord, less easily rattled, stood over a dormant Dwarven Sphere at her feet. Her piercing gaze swept over its unmoving form, her lips curling into a scowl. “Why are all these metal... things ignoring us?” she demanded, her tone sharp with suspicion. She nudged the sphere’s lifeless chassis with the toe of her boot.

The Argonian, ever composed, tilted his head as if listening for something only he could hear. His golden eyes, narrow and calculating, darted around the hallway before settling on her. “Avanchnzel is waiting,” he said softly, his voice smooth and enigmatic.

“Waiting for what?” the female mercenary snapped, her irritation flaring.

The Argonian let out a low sigh, his expression unreadable. “No one seems to know,” he replied. “Perhaps it waits for the return of the Dwemer. Perhaps it waits for the end of the world itself.”

His words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with a foreboding Erik barely resisted the urge to scoff at. He could tell with a single glance that the Argonian had no idea what he was talking about.

The female Nord grimaced, her scowl deepening as she retrieved the twin axes strapped to her back. The faint hum of enchantments along the blades echoed faintly in the still air. “Well, waiting or not,” she said, raising one of her axes, “best we deal with the ones we do see. Just in case.”

Without hesitation, she swung down with brutal force, cleaving into the dormant sphere. Sparks erupted as metal groaned under the weight of her attack. The memory abruptly dissolved at that moment, only to reset, the spectral figures reappearing at the start of their haunting dialogue.

Erik sighed, rubbing his temples as a low, distressed whine came from his side. Geri crouched low to the ground, his ears pinned back, the corgi’s wide eyes fixed on the specters.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Erik muttered. With a flourish of his hand, magicka swirled through the air in a golden haze, dispelling the spectral memory. The figures shattered into fragments of light, leaving the hallway silent once more.

Turning his attention back to the dismantled Dwarven Sphere at his feet, Erik knelt, his fingers brushing over its disassembled parts. Its destruction had been thorough; every joint, though separated, looked whole, its once-seamless chassis now scattered in pieces across the floor.

Each segment looked like it had been its own complete thing, not fragments of something else.

He picked up one of the sphere’s arms, turning it over in his hands. A small, intricately designed crossbow was mounted where digits might have been, the mechanism tarnished with age yet remarkably intact. Erik hummed thoughtfully, running his fingers along its surface.

Erik turned the compact Dwemer crossbow over in his hands, his expression a mix of curiosity and admiration. "Fascinating," he murmured, his fingers brushing over the smooth metal and intricate gears.

The craftsmanship was something that even the old Erik couldn't find anywhere but in ruins like this one, not that he bothered to visit many Dwemer ruins.

For all his knowledge of the arcane and the mundane, the Dwemer continued to baffle him, and that might have been the reason the old necromancer didn't show much interest in their legacies.

The small crossbow was mounted where the sphere's arm should have ended, a seamless blend of artifice and ingenuity. Its mechanisms, though ancient, showed no signs of wear that time should have inflicted. The fact that it had functioned for centuries, possibly millennia, without failure or degradation, was easily explained by the nature of Dwarven alloy, but everything else remained a mystery.

Erik’s mind began to wander, making connections between his craft and theirs. “These Dwemer creations—the spiders, the spheres, the centurions—they’re not so different from the undead,” he mused aloud, though his audience consisted of a flaming skeleton, a death knight, and a corgi.

None objected.

He adjusted his grip on the crossbow, tracing a finger along the delicate yet durable mechanism. “Other than Surtr and Helrath, my own undead are little more than inanimate objects animated by a will that isn’t their own,” he continued. “When I raise the dead, I bind a soul to a corpse. If the soul of the deceased lingers nearby, it’s a straightforward task: ensnare it, tether it to its former shell, and dominate it into servitude. If the soul has long departed, I can still draw a fragment of it from Aetherius, just enough to animate the body but not enough to restore its former self... not that's possible anyway...”

The process was second nature to him now, as intuitive as breathing—or at least, as breathing used to be. To others, it might seem like arcane mumbo-jumbo, but to Erik, it was as simple and logical as adding one and one to get two. There was a clarity to necromancy that the living rarely appreciated.

“But these...” He gestured to the scattered remains of the sphere around him, his voice tinged with both frustration and awe. “These creations are something entirely different. They don’t rely on souls—not truly. They use Soul Gems as a power source, yes, but not for the soul or the will inside.”

He frowned, tapping the crossbow lightly against his palm. “That energy I can understand—it’s a conduit, a reservoir of magicka—but how does it sustain them for thousands of years, even after the Dwemer vanished? More importantly, how do they move with such purpose?”

He set the crossbow down carefully on a nearby chunk of the sphere’s chassis, crossing his arms as he stared at the remnants of the automaton. “They’re automata, not living, not undead. They’re robots. Somehow, the Dwemer programmed them to carry out their will. To patrol, to guard, to maintain. But it’s more than that.” His brow furrowed, deep in thought.

“These machines don’t just follow orders—they adapt. They make decisions. Look at the worker spiders. They’re designed for maintenance, yet they can shift seamlessly into combat if they perceive an intruder.”

The implications were staggering. Erik had encountered countless enemies in his centuries of life—some living, some dead, some beyond categorization—but this... This was something else entirely. The Dwemer had not simply created tools; they had created agents, constructs capable of judgment, even limited autonomy.

“And after all this time, they’re still functioning,” Erik muttered, almost to himself. His eyes narrowed as he considered the mechanisms that must drive them. “No necromantic ritual sustains them. No constant flow of magicka. What did the Dwemer discover that the rest of us have yet to grasp?”

Behind him, Surtr’s flames crackled, the flickering light casting dancing shadows on the walls. Helrath remained motionless, his empty eye sockets staring ahead as if lost in thought—or perhaps simply waiting for Erik to finish. Geri, ever the contrast to the grim company, sat patiently beside Erik, his tail wagging softly.

Erik sighed, shaking his head. “The more I think about it, the less I understand,” he admitted. He glanced down at Geri, who looked up at him with curious eyes. “Let’s just hope whatever answers this place holds are worth the time I'm putting into this...”

...

The door groaned as Erik pushed it open, revealing a room that seemed alive with motion. Gigantic gears turned with slow, deliberate power, their metal teeth grinding together in rhythmic precision. Steam hissed from hidden vents, curling into the air like ghostly tendrils. Pipes lined the walls and ceiling, some of them dripping condensation, others groaning under the strain of whatever ancient machinery still churned within the ruin.

The dim, golden light from flickering Dwemer lamps cast long, shifting shadows, giving the room an eerie, mechanical heartbeat.

Erik took a single step inside before a sharp clang echoed through the chamber. His instincts screamed, and he jerked his head just in time to avoid a deadly projectile. A bolt whizzed past, grazing his cheek, its metallic hiss like the whisper of death.

He stilled, feeling the sting of the wound and raising his hand to his face. His thumb brushed against the warm slickness of blood.

“Hm,” he mused, holding the thumb before his eyes as the gash on his cheek knit itself back together, leaving smooth, unblemished skin in its wake. The healing came quickly, almost casually, a reminder of his undeath.

He flicked the blood away, his gaze narrowing as he turned toward the source of the attack.

From a shadowed corner, a click and a faint hiss marked the arrival of his assailant. A Dwarven Sphere wheeled into view, its body gleaming in the low light. At first glance, it didn’t seem particularly unique compared to the other automatons Erik had encountered in these ruins—still the same polished brass exterior, the same compact frame. Yet, there was something subtly different about it. It seemed smaller, lighter, and its movements were eerily precise.

Intrigued, Erik reached over his shoulder and drew Wyrmspire. The blade hummed faintly as it left its sheath, the intricate Draconic runes along its length catching the light. He raised the weapon, its weight familiar and comforting. “Leave this one to me,” he said, his tone sharp and confident.

Behind him, Helrath and Surtr stepped back in silent obedience, the former’s hollow eyes watching with calm detachment while the latter’s flaming skull flickered with interest. Geri, however, barked in apparent approval, his stubby tail wagging as he trotted a few steps closer, then sat down as though settling in for a show.

Erik smirked at the dog’s antics but turned his full attention to the advancing automaton. The Sphere closed the distance with mechanical efficiency, the gears within its body whirring as it wheeled forward on its single track. Erik inched toward it, measuring its movements, his grip tightening on Wyrmspire.

The instant it came within range, he struck. His blade arced through the air, aimed with precision at the Sphere’s arm. To his surprise, it raised the arm to meet his blow. Mounted at the end of the appendage was a compact crossbow, one he recognized immediately as a standard part of the Sphere's design.

'That arm is as good as gone,' he thought. Between his raw strength and Wyrmspire’s enchanted edge, no ordinary Dwemer alloy could withstand the strike.

But then, the arm shifted.

Blades slid and rearranged themselves around the crossbow with startling speed, forming a shield just before Wyrmspire connected. The impact sent a shower of sparks flying, the clang of metal against metal reverberating through the room.

Erik’s brows shot up in surprise as the Sphere’s arm didn’t buckle. Instead, a blast of steam hissed from its joints, and it pushed back, forcing Wyrmspire away with a burst of unexpected strength.

Despite the flicker of surprise, Erik didn’t let himself lose focus. His sharp eyes caught the Sphere’s other arm moving, the metallic joints hissing as steam burst from the gaps. A blade extended with a precise, almost predatory elegance from beneath its digits.

It was a vicious, serrated weapon, designed for puncturing and slashing with brutal efficiency.

As the arm lunged toward him, blade gleaming in the dim light, Erik’s instincts took over. His body shifted, feet sliding into a stable stance as he swung Wyrmspire upward in a swift arc. The clash of metal on metal rang out like a bell, the force of his strike deflecting the Sphere’s attack. Sparks danced between them, and the automaton recoiled slightly—but not for long.

Before Erik could counter, the Sphere’s shield-arm came hurtling toward his face, a compact brass wall aimed with deadly precision. He ducked under it at the last moment, feeling the rush of air as it passed over his head.

Without hesitation, he pivoted to the automaton’s flank, aiming to exploit its exposed side, where the shield couldn’t intervene.

But the Sphere had other plans. Its torso rotated with a smooth, mechanical whir, gears spinning as it realigned itself. The shield-arm swung up with perfect timing, deflecting Erik’s blade once more in a dazzling display of sparks.

The Sphere’s movements were deliberate, almost eerily intelligent.

“Clever thing,” Erik muttered, his voice low and edged with both frustration and amusement.

The automaton pressed the attack, its blade arm lashing out again. Erik barely managed to twist away, stepping back to avoid the strike. He jumped backward, widening the gap between them to reassess. As he steadied his breath, his eyes scanned the Sphere with a mix of irritation and newfound respect.

It stood there, silent and unrelenting, steam hissing softly from its joints. Its motions were calculated, efficient—no wasted energy, no hesitation. For all the times he’d fought Dwemer automatons, this one was proving to be a cut above the rest.

A grin tugged at Erik’s lips. “Well,” he said, his tone edged with humor and resolve, “that’s what I get for underestimating you.” He rolled his shoulders, the tension easing from his stance as he adjusted his grip on Wyrmspire.

His voice dropped into a murmur, more to himself than his companions. “I won’t make the same mistake again.”

He lifted his blade slightly, the blue gleam in his eyes intensifying. “Hahvok Vahltiid Rah!” he intoned, his words laced with power.

The Dragon runes along Wyrmspire’s blade flared to life, their fiery glow cutting through the dim light of the room. The air around Erik seemed to shift, as though charged with the latent energy of his shout. The Sphere paused for the briefest moment, almost as if analyzing the change, but Erik didn’t wait for it to act.

The faint whistle of wind filled the air, and in an instant, Erik disappeared, his form dissolving into a blur of motion.

He reappeared behind the Sphere in a flash, his movements impossibly fast, his blade already poised. The automaton began to turn, but it was too late. Erik’s voice was low and calm, almost reverent, as he whispered again, “Hahvok Vahltiid Rah.”

With a single, precise motion, he sheathed Wyrmspire. The moment the blade slid into place, a resonant click echoed through the room, followed by a sudden, deafening silence.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the Sphere shuddered violently, its gears stalling and its joints locking. Faint cracks of glowing energy spiderwebbed across its frame, and with a final, pitiful hiss of escaping steam, the automaton collapsed.

Its pieces fell to the floor in a cascade of metallic fragments, dismantled entirely.