Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #60

Erik pushed open the heavy doors of Jorrvaskr, the familiar warmth of the mead hall washing over him. The scent of roasting meat and the hum of conversation greeted him, but before he could take another step, a blur of fur and energy barreled toward him.

The small figure leaped with surprising force, and Erik instinctively caught it midair. “Geri!” he exclaimed, holding the wriggling corgi aloft. The little dog yipped excitedly, his stubby tail wagging furiously. Erik chuckled and ruffled the soft fur on Geri’s head. “You missed me, didn’t you? Good boy.”

As he set Geri down, Aela the Huntress approached, her arms crossed and a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “The mutt’s been surprisingly useful,” she remarked, nodding toward Geri, who now circled Erik’s boots like an overexcited whirlpool.

Erik raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the dog. “Useful? I suppose you've had a fruitful hunt, then?”

Aela snorted, shaking her head. “Nothing too impressive, just some hares and a deer you mutt sniffed out for me.” She gestured toward the firepit in the center of the hall, where the deer carcass was being roasted, its rich aroma filling the air.

Erik tilted his head and gave her a mock-impressed look. “Nothing impressive, huh? Most hunters struggle to catch a few hares and a deer in a month, let alone in one hunt.”

Aela shrugged, her expression as nonchalant as ever. “That’s why I’m not ‘most hunters,’” she replied, her tone laced with pride.

Erik chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough. So, what’s the decision? Or do I need to wrestle Vilkas for answers?”

Aela’s smirk faded, her expression turning more serious. “Kodlak wants to speak with you.”

That gave Erik pause. He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “The Harbinger himself? Why?”

She nodded. “He’ll explain everything. Follow me—I’ll take you to him.”

Without another word, Aela turned and led the way through the hall. Erik followed, with Geri trotting happily at his heels. The lively chatter of the Companions faded as they descended into the living quarters beneath Jorrvaskr. The stone walls were lined with trophies—mounted animal heads, ancient weapons, and shields that told stories of hunts and battles long past.

The air here was quieter, more somber, carrying an air of tradition and gravity.

Aela stopped in front of a wooden door at the end of the corridor and glanced back at Erik. “He’s inside,” she said simply, her tone softer now.

Erik gave her a brief nod, sensing the weight of the moment. As he reached for the door handle, he felt Geri nudge his leg, offering a small, inquisitive bark. Erik glanced down and smirked. “Don’t worry, boy. I can handle a chat with the Harbinger just fine...”

With that, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving the faint sounds of the hall behind as the heavy door swung shut behind him.

The Harbinger’s quarters were humble yet laden with history, a testament to the man who presided over the Companions. The room was small, its stone walls decorated with trophies more impressive than those in the hallways outside. Mounted on one wall was the skull of a massive troll, its jagged teeth bared in a permanent snarl.

Across from it, a Daedra’s heart pulsed faintly within a glass display case, its unnatural essence preserved with some unknown enchantment. Beneath Erik’s boots, a thick bear-hide rug stretched out, its black fur worn smooth from years of use.

The furnishings were sparse—a sturdy bed with a plain woolen blanket, a small wooden table with a single chair, and a few shelves lined with old tomes and more modest trophies.

Kodlak Whitemane sat in the chair, his imposing frame relaxed yet commanding. An old Nord with a long mane of white hair, partially braided on one side, he radiated the quiet strength of a seasoned warrior.

His beard, thick and grizzled, flowed down to the base of his neck, matching the heavy ancient Nord armor he wore—a dark steel relic that looked both practical and ceremonial. His eyes, sharp and thoughtful, followed Erik as he entered the room.

“Come in, Erik,” Kodlak said, his voice deep and resonant, though softened by the wisdom of years. He gestured to the lone chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

Erik nodded, stepping forward and easing into the seat. He rested Wyrmspire carefully against the side of the table, its strange, otherworldly gleam catching the dim light of the room. Geri, who had followed silently, lay at Erik’s feet, his ears perked.

Kodlak leaned back, studying Erik with an appraising gaze. “I’ve heard much about you,” he began, his tone even but curious. “From the youngsters, and even Eorlund. It seems you’ve made quite an impression.”

Erik smirked faintly. “I do try to leave a mark wherever I go.”

Kodlak chuckled, a deep rumble that filled the small room. “Aye, so it seems. Let me be clear: I view you as a friend of the Companions. Your deeds speak for themselves, and you’ve earned our respect. But…” He paused, his expression growing more serious. “I can’t agree to your request, much as I might like to.”

Erik tilted his head, his smirk fading. “And why is that?”

Kodlak folded his hands on the table, his brow furrowed. “The Companions are respected across Skyrim, it’s true. But at the end of the day, we are a mercenary guild. Not so different from the Fighters Guild of Cyrodiil, save for our traditions and ancestry. That heritage has allowed us to dominate mercenary work here, but…”

He sighed, his voice tinged with regret. “Another mercenary band, one well-trained and organized, could pose a threat to our livelihood. Coin doesn't flow endlessly in Skyrim, and neither do monsters...”

Erik leaned back, a dry chuckle escaping him. “I thought you’d say that.” He shook his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Honor and tradition are well and good, but even the Companions have to keep food on the table. Thousands of years of survival don’t come from fighting for ideals alone.”

Kodlak’s gaze softened slightly, though his expression remained firm. “You understand, then, why I cannot sanction something that might jeopardize our place in Skyrim.”

Erik lingered a moment longer, crossing his arms as he regarded the Harbinger. “I understand your concerns, Kodlak,” he began, his tone steady, respectful but firm. “You’re worried about the Companions’ future, and rightly so. But I think you might be misunderstanding something.”

Kodlak raised an eyebrow, his expression curious. “Oh?”

“These mercenaries,” Erik said, his voice lowering, the weight of his words filling the small room, “they’re not just sellswords. Most of them were prisoners of the Thalmor—broken men and women, stripped of their dignity, their purpose, and their pride. I freed them, gave them a chance to fight for something greater. They’re not warriors in the sense you’re used to. Not yet. They’re... lost souls, looking for direction.”

Kodlak’s features softened slightly, though his gaze remained guarded. “You’ve given them a second chance at life. A noble endeavor.”

Erik nodded. “A chance they wouldn’t have had otherwise. But I’m not asking the Companions to train mercenaries. I want warriors—true warriors. Men and women who carry themselves with honor, strength, and purpose. Like you. Like your Companions. You don’t have to worry about them competing with your contracts. I have another purpose in mind for them....”

Kodlak sighed, leaning back in his chair. His gaze turned distant, thoughtful. “I don’t doubt your intentions, Erik. And I can’t help but sympathize with those under your employ. But—”

“But,” Erik interjected smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, “as someone responsible for the continuity and thriving of the Companions, you can’t make such a decision lightly.”

The Harbinger met Erik’s gaze, his eyes twinkling with reluctant amusement. “You’re perceptive.”

“I have to be,” Erik said with a shrug. “But like I said, there’s no need to worry about competition. In fact, Kaiden—their leader—would no doubt jump at the chance to join the Companions. It’s not a bad deal for either of you. You’d gain a capable warrior, and he’d gain the mentorship of some of the finest fighters in Skyrim.”

Kodlak rubbed his chin, mulling over Erik’s words. “Kaiden, you say? A leader among these men you’ve freed?”

Erik nodded. “He's of Akaviri descent, a man with potential. Strong, resourceful, but raw. He could learn a lot from you.”

Silence hung between them as Kodlak weighed the proposal. Finally, he let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “It’s a reasonable compromise,” he admitted. “Still, we'll need to see what this Kaiden is made of before I make a decision... and I trust your word that these mercenaries won’t interfere with the Companions’ work.”

“They won’t,” Erik assured him.

Kodlak’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Then we have a deal, though I was hoping to rope you in, rather than this Kaiden you speak of...”

Erik blinked, caught off guard for the first time in the conversation. He narrowed his eyes, then chuckled, shaking his head. “So that’s what this has been about, eh? Buttering me up, leading me to that conclusion on my own?” He smirked, pointing a finger at Kodlak. “One doesn’t grow so old as a warrior without having the wits for it, I see.”

The Harbinger laughed, a deep, hearty sound. “Guilty as charged. The thought did cross my mind.”

Erik leaned back, his smirk fading into something softer. “I’m honored by the thought, truly. But... I doubt I’d fit in here. My path’s too far from yours... Kaiden, on the other hand, will fit right in...”

Kodlak studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Perhaps. But you’ll always be welcome at Jorrvaskr.”

The two men exchanged a nod of mutual respect before Erik broke the silence. “So, who do you intend to send to meet Kaiden?”

The Harbinger’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’ll go myself.”

Erik blinked again, surprised for the second time in the same conversation. “You? Personally?”

“Aye,” Kodlak said, standing and resting his hands on the table. “It’s been far too long since I’ve trained a pack of green recruits. I think I could use the exercise.”

Erik chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re full of surprises, Harbinger. Just don’t let them give you too much trouble.”

Kodlak grinned. “They’ll learn quickly enough not to.”

...

As Erik and Kodlak emerged from the depths of Jorrvaskr into the golden glow of the late afternoon sun, their strides were steady, though carrying vastly different weights. Kodlak walked with the purposeful grace of a seasoned warrior, his heavy steps speaking of confidence and authority.

Erik, on the other hand, exuded an air of calculated detachment, his every motion deliberate and controlled, the faint shimmer of the Ebony Mail clinging to him like a second skin. Geri padded at his heels, ears perked and tongue lolling, the tiny canine seemingly oblivious to the quiet tension in the air.

Unnoticed by the two men, a shadow moved at the periphery of the plaza. A figure leaned casually against a weathered stone wall, shrouded in mystery. Her slender frame was cloaked in tight, blackened leather armor, its surface faintly glinting with hidden patterns under the shifting sunlight. A cowl obscured much of her face, save for her piercing eyes—a rich, dark red with seemed to glint like embers. They were fixed on Erik with unyielding intensity.

Her gaze lingered on the blackened sheen of the Ebony Mail, the artifact radiating an oppressive aura she could feel even from her concealed position. The faint hum of its latent power made her fingers twitch, her leather-clad hand brushing the hilt of a dagger at her side. Beneath her calm exterior, tension coiled like a spring.

Erik and Kodlak exchanged a few words at the edge of the steps leading down to Whiterun’s main square. Kodlak let out a booming laugh, clapping Erik on the shoulder. Erik replied with a smirk, his hand gesturing absently as if dismissing whatever jest Kodlak had shared. Geri barked once, wagging his tail as if urging the two to keep moving.

The hidden figure’s gaze never wavered, her body taut and poised like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike—or flee. Her breathing slowed as she measured the distance between herself and the Ebony-clad Nord. Each passing second felt like an eternity.

Finally, Erik and Kodlak turned toward the gates. The ashen-haired mage adjusted the strap of his satchel, the faint glint of the Mail’s intricate design visible with the movement. Geri trotted beside him, his stubby legs working overtime to keep pace.

As they passed through the gates, disappearing into the streets beyond, the woman’s shoulders slumped, and she exhaled audibly, a sound halfway between relief and exhaustion.

Her fingers left the dagger's hilt, the tension in her body easing only slightly. She let her head tilt back against the wall, staring at the fading sunlight with a mixture of frustration and lingering apprehension.

“Wearing her gift and parading around... as I thought this man is dangerous...” she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible beneath the murmur of the market below. “Boethiah always leaves a mark.”

For a moment, her hand hovered near her belt, where a small token rested—a crude, blackened medallion etched with Daedric symbols. She hesitated, fingers brushing it lightly before letting them fall. Turning on her heel, she melted into the shadows of Whiterun’s alleys, her movements swift and silent as a ghost.