Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #58

Erik’s eyes narrowed as the figure pulled back his hood, revealing the face of a Breton man with a roguish grin and mischievous eyes. His annoyance barely veiled, Erik muttered, “Sam Guevenne. Sanguine. Or whatever you choose to go by these days…” His words trailed off, his tone flat with irritation. “Begone. I’ve neither the time nor the energy for your pranks.”

The disguised man, Sanguine—the Daedric Prince of revelry and debauchery—merely chuckled, his grin widening as if he were a cat who’d cornered an especially entertaining mouse. “So, you recognized me. Clever.” His voice was smooth and rich, tinged with mockery. “But aren’t you a little too quick to dismiss a Daedric Prince? The things I can give you… the things I can show you…” His tone dipped into something almost conspiratorial, like a snake tempting prey.

Erik scoffed, crossing his arms. “There’s nothing you can give or show me that I can’t take or see for myself.” He waved the Prince off with a flick of his hand. “Go find some other mortal to pester.”

Sanguine’s grin faltered for only a second, quickly replaced by an amused arch of his brow. “And here I thought we’d get along famously,” he drawled, swirling the bottle of wine in his hand as though it contained the secrets of the universe. “You certainly didn’t seem to have any trouble cozying up to Boethiah, that’s for sure.”

Erik’s jaw tightened, and he could feel a headache brewing. “How do you…” He stopped himself and sighed. “Of course you know.”

Sanguine smirked triumphantly, leaning on the edge of Erik’s table as though they were old drinking buddies. “Naturally. We may not get along, us siblings, but we do… gather on occasion.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And Boethiah simply couldn’t stop talking about her new toy. You made quite the impression, you know.”

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, his expression a blend of exasperation and resignation. If only sheer willpower could banish a Daedric Prince. “Typical,” he muttered under his breath. To the Daedra, mortals were little more than pawns, diversions in an endless game played across realms.

Yet, he couldn’t deny that this arrogance was why he had dared to deal with Boethiah in the first place. For all her cunning and treachery, she would ultimately see him as nothing more than a fleeting amusement, a brief distraction in her eternal schemes.

It was precisely that dismissiveness that would allow him to maneuver around Boethiah when she finally came demanding payment without being entirely ensnared. Without the memories of the ancient necromancer, Erik doubted he would’ve even attempted to bargain with her, let alone for something as coveted as the Ebony Mail. He sighed deeply, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Erik said at last, his tone dry and unimpressed.

Sanguine laughed, the sound rich and carefree, as though the entire exchange were the height of amusement. “For you? Oh, certainly not,” he said with mock sympathy. He leaned back casually, gesturing with the bottle of wine in hand. “Not many mortals can afford to have Boethiah’s interest, and as for our other brothers and sisters…” He trailed off, shaking his head in feigned lament. “Well, let’s just say some of them aren’t exactly thrilled.”

Erik raised an eyebrow, suspicion creeping into his expression. “What are you talking about?”

Sanguine’s grin widened, a glint of malice sparking in his eyes. “Molag Bal, for one. Oh, the look on his face when he found out you’d aligned yourself with Boethiah. It was priceless, let me tell you. Him and ol’ Clavicus—” Sanguine tapped a finger on the table for emphasis—“they’ve no love for your predecessor, and now here you are, picking sides with one of their rivals. Stirring the pot, as it were.”

Erik scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a dismissive wave. “As if they’d have left me alone either way. So why bother cozying up to them?” His tone hardened, and his eyes gleamed with a sharp edge. “At the end of the day, Boethiah is a treacherous schemer, yes. But she’s also a valiant warrior. There’s at least a semblance of honor to her methods—twisted as it may be. As for Bal and Clavicus…”

He let the words hang in the air, the disdain in his voice making his opinion clear.

Sanguine chuckled, swirling the wine in his bottle as though it held the answers to every cosmic mystery. “Ah, so you’ve figured it out, haven’t you? Honor among thieves and all that. But you should know better than most—honor only goes so far in our little family. Even dear Boethiah has her limits.”

Erik shot Sanguine a withering glare, his patience wearing thin. “And that’s exactly why I’m telling you to piss off. Dealing with one Daedric Prince is already one too many, and I’ve got a long list of reasons not to start a collection.”

Sanguine clutched his chest dramatically, his face contorting into an exaggerated mask of hurt. “Oh, come now, you wound me, Erik. You didn’t even let me finish! I promise you, this will be worth your while.” His lips curled into a sly grin, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Erik groaned, rubbing his temples. It was clear Sanguine had no intention of leaving, and even if Erik somehow managed to get rid of him today, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t come back—and likely at the worst possible moment. The trouble with Daedric Princes was that they didn’t take "no" for an answer, and the chaos they could unleash on a whim was rarely worth the gamble. The thought of leaving Sanguine unchecked made Erik wince.

“Fine,” Erik said at last, his tone heavy with resignation. He gestured at Sanguine with a dismissive wave. “But make it quick. I’ve got enough on my plate without adding your nonsense to the mix.”

Sanguine’s grin widened like a cat cornering a particularly plump mouse. “That’s the spirit! I knew you’d come around.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “All you’ve got to do is share a few drinks with me, and I’ll reward you with a little something special—a rather fetching staff, if I do say so myself.”

Erik’s expression immediately darkened, his frown deepening. “Let me guess—Sanguine’s Rose? No thanks. I can summon Dremora without needing your shiny bauble.”

Sanguine chuckled, wagging a finger in mock admonishment. “Ah, but not like this, my friend. You’ve got to think bigger.” He leaned back, lazily swirling the wine in his bottle as though savoring his own cleverness. “You see, my Rose isn’t just any old summoning staff—it’s a multi-purpose tool fit for a man of your, shall we say, ambitious nature. A daedra for every occasion, plucked straight from my delightful realm.”

Erik raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched into his features. “Multi-purpose tool? You’ve got my attention, but you’re still going to have to do better than that.”

Sanguine’s smirk grew, his tone turning theatrical. “Picture this: you’re in the middle of a fight. Things are looking dicey, the odds stacked against you. One swing of the Rose, and BOOM! You’ve got yourself a Xivilai Knight, bristling with weapons and ready to cleave your enemies in two.”

Erik folded his arms, unimpressed. “I’m listening.”

Sanguine held up a hand, his grin turning mischievous. “But wait, there’s more! Let’s say you’re not fighting for your life but facing a far more dire situation—an empty stomach. Swing the Rose again, and POOF! You’ve got yourself a dremora Chef, ready to whip up the most exquisite omelet Tamriel has ever seen.”

Erik leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he studied Sanguine with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. He had to admit, the Daedric Prince’s pitch was unexpected. In the game, the Sanguine Rose was straightforward—a staff that summoned a Dremora warrior to handle the dirty work. Practical, efficient, and frankly, a crutch in his earlier playthroughs.

He’d leaned on it heavily back then, marveling at how easily it trivialized threats. That reliance, however, had come back to bite him when he faced a boss wielding Command Daedra. Watching his summoned ally turn against him had been a harsh lesson in hubris and over-reliance on quick fixes.

But this... this was different. Reality, unbound by code and mechanics, added layers to things he’d taken for granted in the game. The Sanguine Rose wasn’t just a tool for summoning—it was a wildcard, a gateway to unpredictable possibilities. He wasn’t sure whether to be intrigued or annoyed by the shift.

Erik sighed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “A Dremora chef, huh? What’s next, a scamp butler to tidy up the dinner table?”

Sanguine laughed, the sound rich and infectious, drawing a few curious glances from other patrons in the tavern. “Not impossible,” he said with a mock-serious tone, “but I wouldn’t let those filthy little creatures near my meals. Do you know what gets stuck under their nails? It’s enough to make even Namira shudder in disgust.”

Despite himself, Erik chuckled, shaking his head. “Tempting, but still nothing out of my reach. I don’t need a knight to fight for me, and chefs and butlers can be hired with gold.”

Sanguine’s grin didn’t falter, and the gleam in his eyes hinted at something more substantial. “Oh, you drive a hard bargain, friend. But I came prepared for someone as... discerning as you.”

Erik raised an eyebrow, folding his arms. “Is that so?”

Sanguine leaned in, his voice lowering just enough to force Erik to focus on him despite the lively noise of the tavern. “Remember what I said about remedies for broken souls?”

That made Erik pause. His casual demeanor hardened into something more guarded. “I remember,” he said slowly, though his tone betrayed a flicker of interest.

Sanguine’s smile widened, his victory written across his smug face. “Play along with me,” he said, lifting the bottle of wine in his hand, “and I’ll leave you this little treasure.”

He held the bottle high, and as he did, the scent of its contents seemed to seep into the very air around them. It was rich and intoxicating, a heady blend of spices and sweetness that tugged at the senses like a siren’s call.

The laughter and chatter in the Bannered Mare grew louder, more boisterous, as if the wine’s mere presence amplified the revelry. Nearby patrons clinked mugs with more enthusiasm, and the bard’s lute seemed to strum with an extra flourish.

Erik clenched his jaw, steeling himself against the wine’s allure. The faint pull of its enchantment played at the edges of his mind like a soft melody, but he refused to be led by it.

His voice was firm, though laced with a hint of sardonic humor. “And what exactly would I do with a bottle of wine, Sanguine? Seems hardly worth the hassle. Besides”—he gestured to the tankard of mead before him—“I prefer the local brew. Mead suits me just fine.”

Sanguine’s smirk widened, his expression that of a predator sensing weakness. “Ah, but this isn’t just any bottle of wine.” He held it aloft, letting the light of the tavern’s hearth dance through the deep crimson liquid. “This, my dour friend, is the Bottle of Endless Revelry. As the name suggests, it’s bottomless—a gift that keeps on giving.”

Erik raised a skeptical eyebrow but remained silent, allowing Sanguine to continue his pitch.

“The contents are nothing short of divine—literally,” the Prince added with a wink. “This wine smells, tastes, and feels exactly as you want it to. As you need it to. Whatever your heart desires, whatever your soul aches for, this bottle delivers.”

Erik snorted, unimpressed. “Sounds like something an oil-snake merchant would say.”

“Ah, but wait, there’s more!” Sanguine countered, raising a finger theatrically. “This isn’t just a bottle to drown your sorrows or liven up a feast. No, the liquid within is tailored to you—especially brewed to solve your... shall we say, unique problem. Albeit temporarily.”

That caught Erik’s attention. He leaned forward slightly, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “Go on.”

Sanguine’s grin turned sharper, almost predatory, as he gave Erik a slow, appraising look. “Your soul is a mess even with Mannimarco's bauble, and Molag's so-called gift... good job keeping it so well hidden by the way...” he said bluntly, his tone carrying a strange mix of amusement and pity.

“Anyways... your soul's fractured. Barely holding itself together. Looking at you, I’d wager you can still cast a decent repertoire of spells—expert level, perhaps. Maybe even scrape the bottom rung of master magics on a good day.”

Erik said nothing, but his narrowed eyes were all the confirmation Sanguine needed.

“But,” Sanguine continued, holding up the bottle like it was a sacred relic, “take a sip of this, and all your magic-related troubles would vanish. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “For a couple of hours, you’d have access to power you haven’t touched since your little... mishap with the Ideal Masters.”

Erik frowned, the weight of the Prince’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. He knew his limits all too well—limits he hated. While he had inherited the knowledge and memories of Erik Deathsong, the fractured state of his soul made tapping into that potential a frustrating, often painful endeavor. He could cast powerful spells, yes, but the strain on his broken essence left him drained far too quickly.

It wouldn’t be long—perhaps a year or so—before he could mend his soul and unlock his full strength. But until then, he was vulnerable, even with his undead minions and newfound swordsmanship.

Tamriel was no forgiving land. Its dangers were many—dragons, daedra, rival necromancers, and worse. Threats could come at any moment, in any form, and in any place. The idea of bridging that gap, even temporarily, was dangerously tempting.

Erik leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as he regarded Sanguine with a guarded expression. “And let me guess,” he said, his tone dry, “there’s some conveniently hidden downside you’ve neglected to mention. What happens when the wine wears off? Do I wake up in Oblivion missing a limb? Or maybe my soul is even more broken than before.”

Sanguine laughed heartily, the sound carrying above the din of the Bannered Mare like the toll of a bell that demanded attention.

“I was just about to get to that, but no—it’s nothing like losing a limb or waking up in Oblivion,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. His tone shifted, becoming almost conversational. “No tricks. No traps. You’ll be exactly as you were before taking a sip of this bottle.”

Erik’s brow furrowed in skepticism, his fingers drumming lightly against the wooden table. “But?” he prompted, his voice sharp with distrust.

Sanguine’s grin widened into something wicked, his crimson eyes glinting with amusement. “Ah, there’s always a ‘but,’ isn’t there? Very well, since I wouldn’t want you crying to me later, let’s break it down in simple terms.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret too scandalous for mortal ears. “This bottle contains the good stuff. Imagine untold bliss. Imagine endless revelry. Imagine debauchery the likes of which Nirn has never seen before.” His tone dripped with decadent promise, each word a tantalizing whisper of forbidden delights.

Erik raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “So, a drug, basically?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Sanguine countered, shaking his head with mock indignation. “This isn’t some alchemist’s cheap poison. This is the pinnacle of indulgence—pure, unfiltered revelry distilled into liquid form.”

He tilted the bottle, letting the light catch the wine’s shimmering surface. “Just one sip, and you’ll feel it. Power surging through you like never before, every spell effortless, every barrier between you and mastery torn asunder.”

His tone darkened, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips. “But—and here’s the fun part—you won’t feel like using it. Oh no. Instead, you’ll feel like sitting in some dim, empty corner, bottle in hand, drinking yourself into oblivion. Why bother conquering the world when you’ve already found paradise in a glass?”

Erik stared at him, his expression morphing from incredulous to exasperated. “And you expect me to drink from this thing after telling me all that?” His voice was laden with disbelief, his patience clearly wearing thin.

Sanguine leaned back, resting his arms on the chair as if settling into the inevitable victory he saw before him. “Oh, I don’t just expect you to, friend. I know you will.”