Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #61

The crackling of the bonfire filled the quiet night, its light flickering across the rugged landscape. Kodlak sat cross-legged on the ground, his heavy armor set aside for the night, leaving him in a simple woolen tunic. In one hand, he held a bottle of mead, the other resting lazily on his knee.

His grizzled features seemed softer in the firelight, his white hair and beard almost glowing against the shadows. He looked at ease—an elder warrior who had earned the right to savor such moments of peace.

Across from him, Erik reclined against a fallen log, Geri curled up at his feet. The small corgi dozed contentedly, his ears occasionally twitching at the fire's pops and crackles. Erik's gaze lingered on Kodlak, a small smile playing at his lips.

In the game, Kodlak was the embodiment of wisdom and quiet strength—a mentor figure who guided the Companions and, in some ways, the Dragonborn. He had been a beacon of restraint, constantly steering others away from crossing the thin line between noble warrior and common cutthroat.

Yet here, seated by the fire with his trusted axe at his side and a bottle of mead in hand, Kodlak was more than just the wise harbinger Erik had imagined. The warmth of the fire brought out his jovial nature, a side not often glimpsed in Jorrvaskr's solemn halls.

Out in the wild, he felt freer, almost transformed into a cheery old warrior, the kind who might regale you with battle tales before challenging you to a friendly spar.

Erik’s thoughts wandered as he observed the man. Kodlak's death in the game had always felt... bitterly ironic. His life’s purpose was to guide others toward honor and wisdom, yet it was recklessness—Aela's and the Dragonborn's—that led to his untimely demise.

The knowledge that he now shared a fire with Kodlak, that this living, breathing man could still laugh and drink under the stars, left him feeling a strange sensation he couldn't quite grasp. Still, it was by no means bad.

"So... Erik," Kodlak said, his voice rich and steady as he took another sip of his mead. "You must have a lot of stories to tell. Why don’t you share a few with me?"

Erik blinked, pulled from his musings. He met Kodlak's expectant gaze, the old man’s blue eyes twinkling with curiosity.

“I do have a lot of stories,” Erik replied, raising an eyebrow. “Though I’m not sure which ones would interest you.” He trailed off, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

The truth was, most of the stories that came to mind weren’t the kind you’d share around a fire. The memories of Erik Deathsong—necromancer, skald, and terror of Tamriel—were filled with rituals, dark bargains, and battles fought in the shadows. Tales of consorting with Daedra and vampires weren’t exactly the kind of thing a man like Kodlak would appreciate.

His own experiences, while fascinating in their own right, weren’t much better. He could talk about his desperate attempts to survive after waking in this strange new world or the sheer terror of fighting the skeletons of Snowhak Fort for practice. But even those stories were marred by the grim realities of his choices—dabbling in necromancy, striking deals with forces best left alone for most people.

Kodlak watched him with quiet amusement, taking another drink as Erik hesitated. “No need to look so serious, lad,” the harbinger said. “It doesn’t have to be a tale of glory or heroics. Sometimes the simplest stories are the most telling.”

He glanced down at Geri, the little dog snoring softly at his feet. An idea sparked, and he chuckled. “How about the time I took on a Dragon Priest in Forelhost, while this little terror took on a Dremora Lord and bunch and atronachs?”

Kodlak raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “A Dragon Priest, a Dremora Lord, and atronachs you say? Now that’s a tale I’d like to hear.”

The fire crackled softly as Erik recounted his adventure in Forelhost. He carefully omitted the less pleasant details but painted a vivid picture of the battle against the dragon priest’s fanatical cultists.

Kodlak listened intently, his weathered features lit by the warm glow of the flames, occasionally nodding or grunting in appreciation at the more harrowing moments.

As Erik reached the story’s climax, detailing his final battle with Rahgot and his clever use of the environment to gain the upper hand, a wry smile tugged at his lips. A passing thought amused him: though his initial priority upon arriving in Skyrim had been to fix his shattered soul, he was steadily weaving himself into the land’s power structure.

The Thieves Guild, bolstered by Maven Black-Briar, was within his sphere of influence. The Dark Brotherhood now answered to him after he had taken over from Astrid and her misguided leadership. And here he was, sharing stories by a fire with the Harbinger of the Companions, forging bonds of mutual respect.

The only major factions left were the College of Winterhold and the Bards College. The latter held little interest—he wasn’t exactly looking to sing songs and tell tales in taverns. But the College of Winterhold? That was another story entirely.

Hidden knowledge, untapped power, and artifacts of immense value were buried there. He’d find his way to Winterhold soon enough. After all, Erik Deathsong had always been a scholar of the arcane, even before his fall.

“And that,” Erik concluded, leaning back against the log with a satisfied grin, “is how I dealt with Rahgot and his cultists. They were fanatics to the end, but it made the victory all the sweeter.”

Kodlak let out a low whistle, stroking his thick white beard thoughtfully. “Quite impressive,” he said, his deep voice tinged with admiration. “Forelhost is no easy place to conquer, even for the most seasoned warrior. It’s good to be young, to have the strength and will to take on such challenges.”

Erik chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “What about you, Kodlak? I’m sure you’ve got your own share of stories. You weren’t always the wise, patient Harbinger sitting by the fire, were you?”

Kodlak grinned, his expression softening with nostalgia. “No, lad, I wasn’t. Wisdom is earned, often through many foolish decisions. But yes, I’ve my own tales, even from before I joined the Companions.”

Erik leaned forward, intrigued. “Oh? Let’s hear it, then. I imagine you’ve seen and done things that would put my little adventure in Forelhost to shame.”

The old Nord chuckled, the sound deep and hearty. He took a long swig of mead, savoring it before setting the bottle down beside him. “This was many years ago,” he began, his voice rich and steady. “Before I set foot in Whiterun, I found myself in Hammerfell. The sands there stretch farther than the eye can see, and the sun blazes like a relentless forge.”

Erik watched Kodlak closely, noting the glint in the man’s eyes as he spoke. This wasn’t just a story—it was a memory Kodlak cherished, a piece of his younger self that still burned brightly within him.

“I was young, brash, and eager to prove myself,” Kodlak continued, his hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke. “There was a village under siege by a gang of Redguard marauders. They were ruthless, striking with the precision of desert vipers and disappearing before the villagers could muster a defense. I stumbled upon the place during my travels, and the sight of their suffering lit a fire in my belly.”

He paused, taking another drink of mead, his gaze distant. “I offered to help, of course. Back then, I had no claim to honor or tradition, only a desire to test my mettle. The villagers were wary but desperate. Together, we laid a few clever traps, fortified their homes, and waited.”

“And?” Erik prompted, his curiosity growing.

Kodlak’s grin widened. “And when the marauders came, they walked right into our trap. It wasn’t an easy fight—those Redguards were skilled swordsmen—but by Shor, I learned the value of cunning that day. A dozen marauders fell, and the rest fled into the sands. The villagers celebrated like I was some sort of hero...”

“ Back then... I was inclined to believe them. Though now, I know better. We won the day, but if anything had gone wrong, then it would have been those marauders celebrating our deaths... I was a fool, a youngster with more guts than sense.”

Erik chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe, but the world needs fools with guts—otherwise, nothing would ever get done.”

Kodlak laughed, raising his bottle in a mock toast. “Perhaps you’re right, lad. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that a man must temper his bravery with wisdom. Otherwise, he risks becoming just another name on a forgotten grave.”

Erik nodded thoughtfully, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. As much as he wielded power and pursued his plans, he couldn’t afford to let arrogance or recklessness consume him, like what happened recently with Sanguine.

The night deepened, the stars above twinkling like distant beacons. The two men continued their conversation, sharing stories and philosophies until the fire burned low.

...

The wilderness of the Rift was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant birdsong as Erik and Kodlak approached the makeshift camp. Situated in a clearing not far from the winding river between Heartwood Mill and Riften, the camp had an air of rugged practicality. Tents were pitched in neat rows around a central fire pit, with makeshift racks holding weapons and drying meats. The faint scent of smoke and leather mingled with the earthy aroma of pine and damp soil.

Kaiden, the camp's leader, was standing near the fire, his broad shoulders hunched as he sharpened his katana. He straightened as Erik and Kodlak entered the clearing, his dark eyes lighting up with recognition. Clad in steel armor, Kaiden had the bearing of a seasoned warrior, though his youthful face betrayed a certain enthusiasm that even hardship hadn’t dulled.

“Erik,” Kaiden called, stepping forward with a grin. “You're finally here. Good to see you....”

Erik returned the grin, clasping the younger man’s forearm in greeting. “Good to see you too, Kaiden. You’ve done well here.”

Kaiden glanced over at Kodlak, his expression turning curious. “And who’s this?”

Erik gestured toward the older Nord, who stood with his hands resting on the head of his axe, an air of calm authority about him. “Kaiden, meet Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions. Kodlak, this is Kaiden, the leader of the mercenaries I told you about.”

Kaiden extended a hand, which Kodlak grasped firmly. “Harbinger, huh? That’s quite the title,” Kaiden said with a touch of awe. “I’ve heard stories about the Companions. It’s an honor.”

Kodlak smiled warmly, his thick beard parting slightly. “there's no need for formalities, lad. Erik speaks highly of you, and looking at you, I can tell you show promise....”

Kaiden’s grin widened, and he gestured toward his tent at the edge of the clearing. “Come on, let’s talk inside.”

The tent was modest but sturdy, its interior sparsely furnished with a small table, a few chairs, and a cot pushed against one side. Maps and parchments were scattered across the table, along with a half-empty bottle of mead. Kaiden motioned for them to sit, taking a seat himself across from Erik and Kodlak.

“I’ve brought Kodlak here to oversee your training,” Erik began without preamble. “He’ll whip you and your men into shape, teach you what it means to fight as warriors, not just sellswords. The details are for you two to discuss, but I trust Kodlak’s judgment completely.”

Kaiden nodded, glancing between Erik and Kodlak. “Understood. We’re eager to learn. There’s only so much I can teach on my own.”

Erik leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes studying Kaiden. “Good. Now, catch me up. How have things been here?”

Kaiden rubbed the back of his neck, a mix of pride and fatigue in his voice. “Things have been going well, thanks to the funding from Iona and the contracts Maven Black-Briar’s been sending our way. Clearing out those bandit dens plaguing her trade routes has earned us some goodwill—and coin.”

Erik smirked. “So far, so good. Anything else?”

Kaiden hesitated for a moment, then sighed. “Well, the men have no experience fighting beasts. We’ve been avoiding those kinds of contracts.”

Erik turned to Kodlak, his grin widening. “See? What did I tell you? They’re no threat to your business. Bandit hunting is one thing, but taking on beasts? That’s where the Companions shine.”

Kodlak chuckled, shaking his head. “Aye, you’ve made your point.”

Erik’s attention shifted back to Kaiden. “Is that all, or is there something else I should know?”

Kaiden’s expression darkened slightly. “There is one other thing. There’s a tribe of orcs nearby. They’ve got a stronghold somewhere in the area. They didn’t take kindly to us setting up camp here, and there’ve been some... altercations. Nothing serious yet, just some brawls when we cross paths in the wilderness, especially while hunting.”

Erik frowned, tapping his fingers against the table as he tried to recall the details of the nearby stronghold. The name escaped him, but the memory of its significance in Skyrim’s lore didn’t. It was the place where the Dragonborn would trigger Malacath’s quest and obtain Volendrung.

The thought of the orcs and their Daedric patron didn’t interest him in the slightest—he had bigger plans than getting involved in their squabbles.

He waved a hand dismissively. “Ignore the orcs as long as it stays at the level of brawls. If it escalates, let me know, and I’ll handle it personally.”

Kaiden nodded, relief evident on his face. “Understood.”

Erik rose from his chair, signaling the end of the discussion. “Good. Kodlak will take it from here. Trust him, Kaiden—there’s no better teacher for what you need to learn.”

As they left the tent, Erik glanced over his shoulder at Kodlak. “This one’s got potential,” he said quietly. “If anyone can mold him into a leader worth following, it’s you.”

Kodlak chuckled softly, his weathered face creasing with a smile. “We’ll see, Erik. We’ll see.”

The sun dipped lower in the sky as Erik mounted his horse, Geri trotting at his side. Kodlak lingered by the campfire, already discussing plans with Kaiden.

Erik took one last look at the camp before riding off, satisfied that he had planted another piece on the board in his growing game of influence across Skyrim.