Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #59

The Bannered Mare was unusually raucous tonight, but no table drew more attention than the one occupied by Erik Deathsong and Sanguine, the Daedric Prince of Revelry himself. Erik's laughter rang out, loud and unrestrained, his flushed face a clear indicator of just how much he'd indulged. He leaned back in his chair, nearly tipping it over, his gaze dazed but mischievous as he stared at the ceiling beams.

Recovering from his outburst, Erik sat upright—or tried to. His elbow slid off the table, forcing him to steady himself with a laugh that turned into a wheeze. Lifting his tankard, he took another swig, the warm burn of whatever enchanted concoction Sanguine had brought blending pleasantly with the fog in his mind.

He squinted at the prince, his words slightly slurred but filled with mirth. “That’s... that's a good one, but I’ve got one too.”

Sanguine, sprawled across the table with his head resting on his folded arms, looked equally worse for wear. His usually sharp eyes were glassy, and his grin stretched wide across his face.

“Oh, I don’t know, friend,” he drawled lazily, his voice carrying the singsong cadence of someone thoroughly enjoying themselves. “That last one was a killer. But go on, let’s hear what you’ve got.” He waved a hand in invitation, though the motion lacked coordination.

Erik smirked, leaning forward conspiratorially, only for his arm to betray him and slip off the table. He caught himself just before he fell flat, shaking his head as he chuckled at his own clumsiness. “Alright,” he began, his tone low and dramatic, as though about to unveil the greatest joke in Tamrielic history. “So… a Thalmor, a child molester, and a milk-drinker walk into a bar…”

Sanguine blinked slowly, his drunken mind clearly trying to keep up. “Yeah? What happens next?”

Erik grinned like a man on the verge of delivering a punchline for the ages. He paused for effect, letting the anticipation build before finishing with a triumphant flourish. “He orders some milk, of course!”

For a moment, Sanguine stared at him blankly, his brows furrowed in confusion. “What? What do you mean he—?” The prince’s eyes widened as realization dawned. A beat later, he threw his head back and let out a booming laugh, slapping the table so hard the tankards rattled.

“Bwahahahaha! Because it’s the same person!” His laughter was infectious, and Erik joined in, their voices carrying above the tavern’s usual din.

“Let’s see you beat that one,” Erik challenged, pointing at Sanguine with a drunken smirk.

Sanguine pushed himself up slightly, though his hand slipped on the table in a near-perfect imitation of Erik’s earlier mishap. With a resigned groan, he flopped back down, his cheek resting against the wooden surface. “Elf jokes, eh? Alright, friend, but you’re playing with fire now. I’ve got one, but it’s old. Ancient, even.”

Erik leaned in, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “Let’s hear it, oh mighty prince of comedy,” he teased, waving his hand in mock deference.

The tavern had reached a level of chaotic mirth that only the truly intoxicated could appreciate. Erik leaned heavily on the table, his head propped up on one hand, his flushed cheeks and lopsided grin betraying just how far gone he was.

Across from him, Sanguine wasn’t faring much better; the Daedric Prince of Revelry was sprawled out like a man who’d truly lived up to his title, his face pressed against the table, one hand loosely cradling the ever-present bottle of Endless Revelry.

“Alright,” Sanguine slurred, his grin practically splitting his face as he waved a finger lazily in Erik’s direction. “Listen closely, because this one’s a classic... absolute gem. There was this Ayleid king, right?”

Erik raised a curious eyebrow, his own grin widening. “Oh, this I have to hear.”

Sanguine lifted his head just enough to add some dramatic flair, though the effort seemed monumental in his current state. “So, picture this. The king’s in his fancy bedchamber, beddin’ his wife. You know, the whole deal: silk sheets, candles everywhere, the works. And—get this—his Nedic slave is off to the side, fanning him. Real power move, yeah?”

Erik let out a snort, leaning forward as though the closeness would help him understand the punchline faster. “Go on.”

Sanguine gestured grandly with his bottle, nearly spilling its enchanted contents as he continued. “So, the king beds his wife once and asks her, ‘Did you finish?’ And she says, ‘No.’”

He paused, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “Well, the king’s pride takes a hit, so he tries again. And again. After the third round, he asks her the same thing, and—” Sanguine mimicked a feminine voice, “‘No.’”

Erik burst out laughing, already anticipating something ridiculous. “So what’d he do? Just give up?”

Sanguine slapped the table, his bottle thumping against the wood. “Oh, not this king. No, sir. He gets a bright idea. He turns to his Nedic slave—you know, the guy fanning him—and orders him to bed the queen! Can you imagine? They trade places—king grabs the fan, slave grabs the wife.”

Erik blinked in mock astonishment, shaking his head as he let out a loud chuckle. “Well, that’s one way to solve a problem.”

“Oh, but it gets better.” Sanguine’s grin turned downright devilish, his bloodshot eyes sparkling with mischief. “So the slave does his thing, right? Gives it his all. And when they’re done, the king—still fanning like his life depends on it—asks his wife, ‘Did you finish?’ And this time,” Sanguine paused, practically vibrating with suppressed laughter, “she says yes.”

There was a beat of silence as Erik processed the story, his mouth twitching as he struggled to hold back his reaction. “And then?” he asked, his voice betraying his rising amusement.

Sanguine leaned forward, his expression one of barely-contained glee. “And then,” he drawled, drawing out the moment like a seasoned bard, “the king gives the slave the smuggest look you can possibly imagine and says, ‘See that, slave? THAT’S how you fan someone!’”

The tavern practically shook as Erik exploded with laughter, doubling over as he clutched his sides. “By the Divines, that’s terrible!” he managed between gasping breaths, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. His tankard tipped over in the commotion, spilling ale across the table, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.

Sanguine wasn’t faring much better. He slapped the table repeatedly, his face contorted in drunken joy. “You should’ve seen his face! The slave probably didn’t know whether to laugh or cry!” He hiccupped, his own laughter turning wheezy as he leaned back in his chair, looking immensely pleased with himself.

Their uproarious laughter drew a few wary glances from the other patrons, though most were too engrossed in their own revelries to pay much attention. Erik finally managed to straighten up, wiping at his face with his sleeve, though the grin never left his face. “Alright,” he said, his voice still shaking with amusement, “I’ll admit it—that one’s hard to top.”

Sanguine raised his bottle in a toast, his hand swaying unsteadily. “To Ayleid kings and their... exceptional fanning skills!” he declared, his voice slurring but full of enthusiasm.

Erik poured himself another cup with shaky hands, the sloshing of the liquid a testament to just how far gone he was. He raised it to his lips, letting out a low chuckle as he downed the drink in one long, messy gulp.

Setting the cup down with a clatter, he leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously under his weight. “Still,” he began, his words slightly slurred, “Ayleids and Nedes... this joke is probably thousands of years old.”

Sanguine shrugged, his ever-present grin somehow even wider. “Probably older than you,” he quipped, his voice carrying the smug lilt of someone who knew just how ancient Erik really was. He chuckled, swirling the wine bottle lazily in his hand. “The Nedes were an oppressed lot back then, had no place to vent their frustrations. So naturally, they came to ol’ Sanguine for a little… spice in their miserable lives.”

The Daedric Prince leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in his bleary eyes. “And that’s how that joke came to be. Among… well, let’s just say many other things.”

Erik squinted at him, his vision slightly unfocused but his smirk sharp. “I don’t see the appeal,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely with his empty cup. “It’s always the same with you Daedric Princes... you lot get your rocks off on the strangest things.”

Sanguine grinned devilishly. “Ah, but that’s rich, coming from you,” he countered, wagging a finger that wobbled in the air. “You, who’s been dabbling in necromancy and playing puppet master to walking corpses.” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you dare pretend to have the moral high ground.”

Erik snorted, shaking his head as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Yeah, but at least I want normal things... power, the respect I deserve, to have control over my own destiny. You, though...” He pointed at Sanguine, his grin sly. “You basically get your rocks off watching other people get their rocks off.”

Sanguine threw his head back and laughed, a loud, boisterous sound that had nearby patrons glancing over with a mix of amusement and mild concern. “Fair,” he admitted, wiping a tear from his eye. “But that’d only seem strange by your standards. Revelry, debauchery—it’s not just my job, you know. It’s me. I couldn’t exist without it, the same way you’d drop dead if you bled out.”

Erik grunted, reaching for the bottle with one hand and waving dismissively with the other. “Well, lucky for you, you don’t have to worry about bleeding out anytime soon. The way people are, you’ve got plenty to keep you going.” He took a swig directly from the bottle, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before adding with a grin, “You’re basically Dibella’s weird cousin.”

Sanguine choked on a laugh, nearly dropping the bottle. “Dibella’s what?!” he howled, his flushed face turning even redder. “Oh, she’d fling you into Aetherius for eternity if she heard you say that.”

Erik grinned mischievously, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Well, she’s not here to stop me, is she?”

Sanguine laughed so hard he had to clutch the table for support, his shoulders shaking. “Oh, you’re something else, friend,” he wheezed, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m almost offended, but that’s too damn funny.”

Erik set his cup down with a loud clink, his mirth subsiding into a lopsided smile. “Anyway,” he said, the words coming slower now, each one weighed down by the haze of drunkenness. “This… this was surprisingly fun.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at Sanguine, at nothing in particular. “But let’s stop here and never do it again. Seriously.”

Sanguine leaned back in his chair with the casual ease of someone who already knew the ending to the story he was telling. He gestured lazily toward Erik, his grin spreading wider. "No one’s stopping you, friend," he said, his voice dripping with mock encouragement.

"You only need to lift that rear of yours from the chair, and you can be on your merry way." His eyes glinted with amusement, every word layered with meaning, as if daring Erik to defy him.

Erik scoffed, shaking his head as he braced both hands on the table. His muscles tensed, his determination flaring as he tried to push himself to his feet—but his body refused to cooperate. His legs felt like lead, and his arms trembled with a strange, foreign weakness. It was as though invisible chains held him firmly in place.

Sanguine watched with a slow, insidious grin, his expression a mixture of triumph and playful malice. “Erik, oh Erik,” he drawled, his tone almost pitying but laced with unrestrained glee. “I did warn you, didn’t I? I told you—you wouldn’t feel like doing much of anything after just one sip. Drinking yourself to Oblivion is a hard urge to shake once you’ve had a taste.”

Erik turned his head toward the Daedric Prince, his eyes narrowing in a mixture of suspicion and frustration. Sanguine chuckled, leaning forward now, his arms crossed over the table as he regarded Erik like a particularly entertaining puzzle.

“You see,” he continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone, “I knew you wouldn’t humor me outright. You wouldn’t bow. You wouldn’t beg. And you most certainly wouldn’t be tempted by promises of bliss alone.” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “But… ah, a slight to your pride? A well-placed challenge? It's why you bargained with Boethiah... while you're so comfortable hiding right under Molag's nose, and why you're dancing to my tune right now...”

Erik clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists as he focused all his willpower on moving. His mind was a storm, a cacophony of conflicting thoughts. The more he pushed himself to rise, the heavier his limbs felt. Sanguine’s voice droned on, like the whisper of a devil on his shoulder.

“You’re just as conceited and prideful as some of my siblings...” Sanguine mused, his grin widening. “A dash of arrogance, a pinch of defiance, and the tiniest spark of ego… that’s all it takes. And now look at you.”

Erik grit his teeth and tried again, veins bulging in his neck as he strained against the unseen force. But as he fought, the insidious magic of the drink began to take root deeper in his mind. Whispers crept into his consciousness, soft and enticing.

They promised untold pleasures—of rivers of mead flowing freely, of golden halls filled with music, of a thousand beautiful women dancing in his honor. Visions flickered before his eyes, vivid and intoxicating.

And then came the cruelest vision of all. Erik saw himself standing tall, his soul whole and powerful, his enemies bowing before him. Every goal he had ever set was within his grasp—no, achieved, and without the blood and tears he knew it would take in reality.

He faltered, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. What was the point of all the struggle? All the torment? Here, in this little corner of heaven, everything he could ever want was his. All he needed to do was stay and drink.

His resolve wavered, and with a sigh, he sagged back into his seat, the fight draining from him. The visions subsided, but their echo lingered, a bittersweet ache in his chest. He turned his gaze toward Sanguine, who was now watching him with a look of smug satisfaction, his head tilted ever so slightly.

Erik let out a rueful chuckle, his lips curving into a faint smile. “I must admit,” he said, his voice low and laced with exhaustion. “This drink… it’s stronger than I expected.” His eyes glazed over slightly, but somewhere in their depths, a flicker of his old defiance remained. He tilted his head, his tone taking on a mocking lilt as he added, “But…”

Sanguine raised an eyebrow, leaning forward eagerly. “But what, dear friend?” he purred, his grin returning full force.

Erik leaned back into his chair, the haze in his eyes slowly clearing as he fixed Sanguine with a steady, piercing gaze.

The faint smirk on his lips grew into something sharper, more dangerous. ”I'll tell you what..." he echoed mockingly, his voice low and resonant. He straightened his posture as best he could, his hands gripping the edges of the table with knuckles whitening. “You think I’m as conceited as your sibling siblings? That's cute...”

Sanguine’s grin faltered, just slightly. He leaned back, his head tilting in curiosity, though his eyes gleamed with an undercurrent of wariness. Erik continued, his tone hardening with every word.

“You’re right about one thing, though. I am arrogant. But not in the way you think. You tempt me with visions of bliss, of power, of indulgence. Do you think I’ve spent my life chasing after things I thought I couldn’t have? Everything I have, it took it for myself...”

Erik shook his head, his laughter harsh and humorless. “Everything you’ve shown me—all of it—I’ve always known that it was within my reach. Power, pleasure, glory. They’re not temptations to me. They’re inevitabilities I can bring to reality with my own hands...”

Erik planted his hands firmly on the table and pushed himself upward, his muscles trembling under the strain of his refusal to yield. His magicka surged, the might of his mended soul, albeit temporarily, bearing down on all present.

The dark, pure, unfiltered magicka was almost tangible, spreading the rattling of bones and the shrieks of long-dead souls, painting illusions of legions of the undead in the minds of the tavern's patrons.

His voice rose, his words cutting through the room like a blade. “I don’t doubt myself, Sanguine. I never have. That’s why I don't need your fantasies... and it’s why your little game has already failed. I don’t need you, or this drink, or even your damnable gifts. The delusions you offer are far beneath me.”

Sanguine raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face. Erik didn’t stop, his voice now a thunderous boom echoing through the Bannered Mare. “You’re a god, a prince of Oblivion. And yet here you are, reduced to parlor tricks and drunken dares to win a scrap of attention. That’s all this is to you, isn’t it? A way to make yourself feel important. Revelry? Debauchery? At least Dibella’s followers pretend to have purpose. You’re just a cosmic voyeur.”

Sanguine’s grin returned, but it was strained now, forced against Erik’s searing words. “So you say, but--” he began, but Erik slammed his hand onto the table, a pulse of magicka crackling outward like a shockwave. The room trembled.

“You think this will bind me? Foolish nonsense!” Erik snarled. His magicka erupted in a brilliant burst, the force rippling outward in a wave that swept through the tavern.

The drunken patrons, barely clinging to awareness, were thrown from their chairs, collapsing to the floor in a chorus of startled groans as they lost consciousness. Even Sanguine’s smug expression flickered as he felt the power surge wash over him.

With a final heave, Erik pushed himself to his feet, his body trembling from the strain of his temporarily mended soul. The effort was immense, but his pride burned brighter than the ache in his limbs.

He reached across the table and seized the bottle of Endless Revelry, his grip firm and unyielding. He glanced at Sanguine, his smirk returning. “Thanks for the drink,” he said, his voice dripping with mock courtesy.

Turning on his heel, Erik strode toward the door, his boots thudding against the floorboards. The tavern was silent now, save for the sound of his footsteps. He had only taken a few steps when Sanguine’s voice, calm and unbothered, called out from behind him.

“Wait.”

Erik paused and slowly turned. But the chair Sanguine had occupied was empty. In the daedric prince's place lay a staff— entwined vines crowned with a bloom of crimson petals.

The Sanguine Rose. Erik’s eyes narrowed, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. “You’re not as clever as you think,” he muttered to the empty room, though he knew Sanguine could hear him wherever he was. He stepped forward, plucking the staff from the seat.

Examining it briefly, he felt the faint pulse of daedric energy within, a reminder of Sanguine’s reach. With a soft sigh, Erik tucked the staff under his arm and walked toward the door, the bottle of Endless Revelry still in his grasp. As he pushed open the door and stepped into the cool night air of Whiterun, he couldn’t help but smile faintly to himself.

Sanguine’s games weren’t over, not by a long shot. The Daedric Prince had planted a seed of temptation, a lure that would no doubt resurface when Erik least expected it. But Erik wasn’t worried.

The bottle in his hand was a tool, just like anything else. And if Sanguine thought Erik would dance to his tune, he had severely underestimated the necromancer.

With the Sanguine Rose in hand and his soul still aching from its temporary surge of power, Erik strode into the night, ready for whatever the Prince of Debauchery had planned next. If nothing else, Erik thought with a smirk, 'it’ll be entertaining.'