Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #57

The rhythmic clang of hammer against metal rang through the crisp morning air as Erik worked the Skyforge, carefully refining the final edge of an ebony katana. The weapon gleamed in the early light, dark and sharp, with a subtle gleam running down the edge like liquid midnight.

Erik inspected his work, his fingers running along the blade with a practiced touch as he nodded, satisfied. He placed the katana on the workbench beside an imposing warhammer, its ebony surface flecked with silver engravings, the design intricate yet fearsome—a weapon designed to channel immense strength.

Eorlund Gray-Mane, the master of the Skyforge, stood nearby with his arms crossed, watching Erik with a critical but appreciative eye. After a thoughtful hum, he shook his head and gave Erik a faint smile. "Watching you work is as awe-inspiring as ever, Erik. But these… they’re not for you, are they?"

Erik turned, a grin tugging at his lips. It was no surprise Eorlund would pick up on this; few understood the nature of weapon-crafting as keenly as he did. Erik gave an appreciative nod, knowing Eorlund had witnessed him forge Wyrmspire, the weapon he'd crafted with himself in mind. These weapons were different in purpose, tailored for another hand, another heart.

“These turned out even better than I expected,” Erik admitted, his eyes gleaming with pride as he admired the katana and warhammer. “I might’ve kept them if they suited me better.” He chuckled, and his gaze wandered over the impressive warhammer. “But no, they’re gifts. One for a talented young mercenary, and the other… for someone who, well, might be inclined to use this very hammer to bash my head in again.”

A vivid image of Isran’s scowling face flashed through Erik’s mind—Isran waking in Dimhollow Crypt alone, piecing together how and why he was still alive. Erik’s grin widened as he imagined the rage in Isran’s eyes when they crossed paths next, the fierce Dawnguard leader likely ready to beat him within an inch of his life, if not worse.

Eorlund let out a low sigh, his gaze trailing from Erik to the warhammer. “Something tells me I’d be better off not knowing the full story behind that one.”

Erik laughed, setting down his tools. “It’s nothing serious, just a difference of opinion.” He tried to sound innocent, but the glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement. “We may not have parted on the best terms. I pulled a harmless little prank on him—no big deal, just left him to stew a bit in Dimhollow Crypt.”

“Dimhollow Crypt? I don't know what that is, but it sounds like one of those ancient burial sites...” Eorlund raised a bushy eyebrow, barely suppressing his own smirk. “That… that hardly sounds like a ‘harmless’ prank, Erik.”

Erik shrugged, lifting the katana in one hand to admire the balance, then sheathing it in an ornate scabbard he’d crafted to match the weapon’s elegance. “He’ll survive,” he said with a chuckle. “He can handle himself. I have no doubt I’ll pay for it, but he'll have to look at the bigger picture...”

Eorlund gave him a dry look. “Just don’t come crying to me when he decides to settle the score with that warhammer.”

Erik grinned, strapping the sheathed katana and the heavy warhammer onto his pack, their weight hardly a burden for the necromancer’s powerful frame. “Believe me, Eorlund, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Eorlund sighed, a mix of curiosity and confusion flickering across his face as he watched Erik prepare to leave. Though he sensed layers of complexity behind Erik’s intentions, he resisted the urge to dig further. Instead, he gestured around the forge with a frown. "Where's that mutt of yours, anyway?" he asked, noticing Geri’s absence—a fact that had gone unnoticed in his earlier fascination with Erik’s work.

Erik gave a dismissive shrug, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation. “Aela decided to go hunting, and I told her to take him along. The little rascal’s been getting fat, no thanks to the bones he’s been stealing from the skeletons. He needs the exercise.”

Eorlund chuckled, glancing off toward the hills surrounding Whiterun. “Well, Aela will make sure he gets plenty of that.”

With a nod, Erik turned toward the sloping path leading down from the Skyforge. “There’s still time before I can meet with the Companions. Until then, I’ll see if the court wizard is willing to let me borrow his enchanting table.”

“Suit yourself,” Eorlund replied, though his eyes followed Erik with a mixture of respect and the kind of curiosity that wouldn’t be easily dismissed.

He watched the necromancer disappear down the path before shaking his head and returning to his own work, his thoughts lingering on the secrets and ambitions that Erik seemed to carry like another set of weapons.

Erik moved down to the Wind District, his footsteps taking him past the Gildergreen, its leaves a burst of vibrant colors against the sky. The people of Whiterun bustled around him, yet his presence drew more than a few glances.

He walked with purpose, the scabbarded katana and warhammer on his back marking him as someone distinct, someone set apart from the typical warriors and travelers who roamed Skyrim’s cities.

He turned toward the steps leading up to the Cloud District. The path ascended like a winding spine to the highest point in the city, where Dragonsreach loomed.

Built to imprison a dragon in ages past, the fortress seemed to watch over Whiterun, casting long shadows over the city below. Its towering walls held both the court of Jarl Balgruuf and the residence of Farengar, Whiterun’s wizard, whose enchanting table Erik had set his sights on.

As Erik climbed the steps, a slight smile touched his lips. His trip to Whiterun served more than one purpose. While the Skyforge had been his first destination, he also had business with the Companions—a commission, simple in its nature, yet unusual enough to have left them scratching their heads.

What Erik had asked of the Companions was a straightforward task: he wanted to hire one or two of them to help train the mercenaries currently under the command of Kaiden in Riften.

It was a well-funded request, one the Companions could accomplish with ease and low risk, especially considering the generous payment Erik had offered. Refusing might seem foolish under ordinary circumstances, yet Erik understood why it had given them pause.

The Companions were, after all, a mercenary band in their own right, albeit one bound by honor, tradition, and the spirit of Ysgramor. To take up his offer would mean training another company, one that could easily transform into future competition.

Though Erik had no intention of competing with the Companions over monster extermination commissions, he knew they would weigh the decision carefully before giving him an answer. To Erik, though, the request was a means to an end—a way to strengthen Kaiden’s forces without raising too much suspicion or drawing on more unsavory alliances.

Of course, there was another reason he’d come to Whiterun, one less formal but all the more tantalizing. The thought of Aela flitted across his mind, vivid and electric. He could almost see her now, her striking features illuminated by the glow of sunlight filtered through the window as she lay on the inn's bed.

The memory of the night they’d spent together lingered, a tantalizing distraction as he neared Dragonsreach. Seeing her again might be a secondary purpose, but it was a welcome one, adding a touch of warmth to his otherwise calculated plans.

He crossed the small wooden bridge that led to Dragonsreach, the hall’s ancient walls towering above him, radiating a sense of power and history. Two guards flanked the entrance, their stern eyes tracking him as he approached. As he stepped closer, one of the guards moved forward, blocking his path with a firm hand raised in greeting.

“State your name and business,” the guard said, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

Erik offered him a polite smile, keeping his tone light but unmistakably confident. “My name is Erik Deathsong. I’m here to see the court wizard.”

The guards exchanged a look, their expressions unreadable, yet a silent message passed between them, a flicker of uncertainty.

After a moment, the first guard cleared his throat and spoke again, his voice slightly lower. “Sir Farengar Secret-Fire isn’t here, I’m afraid. He left Whiterun several days ago and has yet to return.”

Erik’s brow creased as he registered the words, a flash of irritation crossing his features. 'Again?' he thought, suppressing a scowl.

As Erik turned to leave Dragonsreach, a faint suspicion flickered in the back of his mind. According to his memories, Farengar Secret-Fire was an eccentric sort, the kind who would rather be holed up in his study surrounded by tomes and relics than venturing into the outside world.

Farengar fancied himself an intellectual of rarefied taste and, more importantly, a scholar far too absorbed in his arcane research to dirty his hands with actual fieldwork. For him to be absent once when Erik had come to use the enchanting table—well, that might have been pure coincidence. But twice?

Erik’s stride slowed as he considered this, his thoughts drifting back to when he’d first come to the Skyforge to finish Wyrmspire. He hadn’t thought much of Farengar’s absence then, chalking it up to the mage’s typical flakiness.

But now, for Farengar to be outside doing fieldwork of all things… something was off.

His mind traced over each memory carefully, trying to pinpoint any connection. Could it be that Farengar simply didn’t want to see him? Erik shook his head, finding the idea almost laughable. They’d never met before, and while Farengar might have heard his name by now, that alone wasn’t reason enough to avoid him.

In fact, it would have only made him eager to meet Erik.

Erik had been rather busy ever since leaving Snowhawk Fort for the first time, but most of his actions remained obscure, and not known to many, by his own choice. If Farengard had heard of Erik, then it could only be for clearing Forelhost of its undead scourge, and vanquishing Rahgot, the dragon priest.

It was a deed bound to capture the attention of anyone with an interest in Skyrim’s ancient history.

And for Farengar, with his near-obsessive fascination with dragons, dragon priests, and anything of the mythic past, the news would likely be as tantalizing as a dragon sighting itself. Erik mused that if Farengar had any sense, he’d be here now, eager to hear every detail of Rahgot’s defeat. The fact that he wasn’t spoke volumes.

Lost in thought, Erik found himself wandering through the bustling Plains District. The market square was lively with merchants hawking their wares, the air thick with the mingled scents of freshly baked bread, roasting meats, and the faint, familiar metallic tang of sharpened weapons.

He weaved through the crowd, barely taking in the surroundings as he walked, until the inviting glow of the Bannered Mare’s sign brought him out of his reverie. Deciding it was as good a place as any to ponder this riddle, he pushed open the door and stepped into the warmth of the tavern.

The Bannered Mare was bustling, filled with the hum of chatter and laughter as townsfolk and travelers alike gathered to trade stories and unwind. Erik claimed an empty table near the back, away from the noise but within earshot of the room’s murmuring energy.

He settled into his seat, leaning back as he let his thoughts circle back to the absent wizard. There was no logical reason for Farengar to actively avoid him. If anything, his presence should have drawn Farengar like a moth to flame.

Before Erik could delve deeper into his thoughts, a warm voice brought him back to the present. The tavern's waitress approached his table, a worn but friendly smile on her face. "What'll you have?" she asked, her hands deftly gathering empty tankards from nearby tables.

Erik gave her a nod. “A tankard of mead will do, thank you.” She flashed him a quick smile and disappeared toward the bar, leaving Erik to his musings. As his gaze followed her through the crowd, he let his mind drift back to Farengar’s alleged absence.

'Maybe it's not Farengar himself who didn't wish to see me, but someone else might be trying to stop me from meeting him...'

Farengar himself, Erik thought, was hardly someone of any great consequence. While the court wizard had a fair knowledge of Skyrim’s arcane arts and dabbled with relics and ancient texts, Erik knew him for what he was: a scholar content with a cloistered life, tucked safely away in Dragonsreach.

Nothing in their encounter would have been remarkable save for the use of an enchanting table. No, Farengar was hardly a threat to anyone or anything beyond Whiterun’s walls.

Then why the sense of looming unease? The feeling itched at him like an echo, something faint but insistent, warning him that he was missing a detail—a small, crucial thread in a larger web he’d yet to see. Erik leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment as he considered it from a fresh angle.

Erik was stirred from his speculations by the waitress, who placed a frothing tankard of mead in front of him. He offered her a nod of thanks and took a sip, the warmth of the mead seeping into him as he continued to puzzle over the situation. He’d learned well from Erik Deathsong’s memories that some of the most vital conflicts and secrets began with the smallest, seemingly inconsequential events.

A court wizard's alleged absence might mean little—or it could mean the roots of a larger plot had begun to take hold. Though it might be nothing, he couldn't afford to simply brush it off, not when he could feel something was at play.

Erik took a slow sip of his mead, lost in his thoughts. 'If someone doesn’t want me in Dragonsreach,' he mused, 'it likely has nothing to do with Farengar himself.'

No, this was about something—or perhaps someone—else entirely.

The realization pieced together a clearer picture: other than Jarl Balgruuf, only one other thing of significance lay in Dragonsreach, hidden from almost every eye in Skyrim. The Ebony Blade, a relic of Mephala, concealed within the keep’s walls. But surely no one should even know of its presence there now; Erik’s findings and memories told him as much.

And that left only one other person of importance: Jarl Balgruuf.

Erik’s eyes sharpened with realization. Someone doesn’t want me meeting with Jarl Balgruuf. But who? And why? Whoever it was, they would need considerable sway to instruct the guards to lie about Farengar’s whereabouts. His mind began to turn, examining every potential lead and player in Whiterun who might stand to benefit.

Just as he felt the answer was within reach, an unexpected voice sliced through his contemplation.

“You there—you look like someone who can hold their drink. Care to prove it?” Erik’s gaze shot up, ready to unleash a string of curses fit to singe nine generations of his interrupter’s ancestors, both figuratively and literally.

But the words caught in his throat as he took in the sight before him.

A hooded man, draped in travel-worn garb, stood at his table. In his hand, he held a bottle of wine that seemed to exude an intoxicating allure. The faintest whiff of the liquid’s aroma escaped the bottle, curling into the air like a spell.

Images swirled in Erik’s mind—visions of opulent halls, laughter and song, feasts under moonlit skies. The wine seemed to carry with it the whispers of a thousand long-forgotten revelries, each one more lavish than the last.

The stranger’s grin widened as he tilted the bottle toward Erik, as though it held not merely a drink, but a challenge. “What do you say? A friendly competition. And if you win… I’ll even throw in a little something for your effort, something I'm sure you need... a remedy for a broken soul, one might say...”