Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #74

Isran’s face was a storm of emotions—anger, defiance, and frustration all warring for dominance. But resignation finally settled over him like a heavy shroud. His jaw clenched, and he exhaled sharply through his nose before muttering, “Talk.”

Erik smiled, a slow, toothy grin that carried all the smug satisfaction of a cat cornering a mouse. “Will do,” he said lightly, his tone almost jovial. He leaned forward on his skeletal “throne,” resting his elbows on his knees. “But this—” He gestured around with a lazy flick of his hand, indicating Isran’s bindings, Florentius pinned to the wall, and the eerie stillness of the room. “This is no way to have a conversation, is it?”

He let the words hang in the air for a moment, his grin widening ever so slightly. Then he tilted his head, the faintest glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Tell me, Isran. Will you play nice if I let you go?”

Isran responded with a low grunt, neither a yes nor a no. It was a sound full of grudging acknowledgment, the kind of noise a man makes when he’s cornered by pragmatism.

Erik shrugged, his expression one of mock sympathy. “I’ll take that as a yes. But do give me a moment.”

He stood up with fluid grace, his long cloak trailing behind him like a shadow as he approached the wall. With a casual flick of his wrist, a faint shimmer of magicka surrounded his hand. The lever embedded in the wall creaked and groaned as it moved under the influence of his telekinesis spell. The ceiling mechanism rumbled into motion, closing the gap that had allowed sunlight to pour in moments ago.

The blood magic shielding Erik from the sun dissipated with a faint hiss, the crimson energy dissolving like mist burned away by morning light. Erik turned back to Isran, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder.

“There,” he said, snapping his fingers. The skeletons binding Isran vanished into nothingness, their bony forms collapsing into piles of ash that scattered across the floor.

Isran rolled his shoulders and flexed his wrists, glaring at Erik but making no move to attack. His silence was a tacit agreement to the unspoken truce.

Erik’s gaze shifted to Florentius, still trapped against the wall by jagged tendrils of stone. His expression turned contemplative, though his smirk never quite disappeared. “And what about him?” Erik asked, gesturing lazily toward the priest. “Do you trust him not to try bashing my head once he's free?”

Isran glanced at Florentius, whose eyes burned with righteous fury behind the magical gag. The man was thrashing as much as his bindings allowed, straining against the stone with sheer zealotry. Isran winced at the sight, a rare flicker of discomfort crossing his face.

“Better keep him like that for now,” Isran admitted grudgingly. “I’ll explain everything to him later.” He turned back to Erik, his voice hardening. “You said you have intel. Speak.”

Erik’s gaze lingered on Florentius for a moment longer, his expression one of thinly veiled amusement. “How zealous do you have to be that even Isran doesn’t trust you around a vampire?” he mused aloud, though his tone carried more curiosity than mockery.

The thought stirred something in the back of Erik’s mind, a faint recollection dredged from the haze of his inherited memories. He vaguely remembered Florentius from the Dawnguard—an alchemist and priest known for his unwavering devotion to Arkay. Yet Erik’s memories of him were fractured, incomplete.

In his past life, Florentius had been little more than a footnote, someone Erik rarely interacted with during his playthroughs. He had almost always sided with the Volkihar vampires, drawn in by the allure of the Vampire Lord form.

That was then. This was now.

Erik turned back to Isran, his expression grim yet tinged with an air of subtle amusement. “The Volkihars will be on the move soon,” he began, his voice steady, measured. “They won’t be hiding in the shadows for much longer. They’re preparing for something, something big.”

He reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a folded piece of parchment, smoothing it out with deliberate care. The illustration on it was detailed, depicting an ancient goblet adorned with sinister engravings—dark symbols that seemed to writhe and pulse with malevolent energy.

Erik held it up for Isran to see. “They sent me to fill this,” he said, tapping a finger on the drawing. “The Bloodstone Chalice. They want it consecrated with the waters of the Bloodspring in Redwater Den.”

Isran frowned, stepping forward and snatching the parchment from Erik’s hand. His eyes scanned the intricate drawing, his brows furrowing deeper with every detail he took in.

After a moment, he looked back at Erik, confusion and suspicion mingling in his stern gaze. “What is this? Why do they want it filled? And why,” he added, holding up the parchment with a scowl, “are you showing me an illustration instead of the original?”

Erik shrugged, his nonchalance infuriatingly casual. “Because,” he replied, “I gave the real article to someone else. Sent them to fill it for me.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, enjoying Isran’s reaction before continuing. “It’s an old artifact, ancient even by my standards. I’m not entirely sure of its origin, but it’s most likely tied to Coldharbour.”

“Coldharbour,” Isran repeated, his voice low and cold, as if the word itself carried a foul taste.

Erik nodded. “Once it’s filled with the Bloodspring’s essence, it allows vampires to receive a blessing. They call it the Blood of the Ancients. It strengthens their blood magic significantly.”

Isran’s frown deepened, his jaw tightening as he mulled over the implications. “So it’s an artifact to make the vampires even stronger,” he said, his tone heavy with disapproval. His eyes narrowed as he glared at Erik. “And you intend to hand it back to them?”

Erik chuckled softly, the sound dry and humorless. “When I fell the timing is right,” he said, standing and brushing off his cloak. The skeletal throne behind him crumbled into ash, dissipating as though it had never been there.

He stepped closer to Isran, his movements slow and deliberate, a predator’s grace evident in every step.

“If I don’t do it, someone else will, much more expediently at that..” Erik continued. “And if they do, my cover will be blown. That won’t be good for me—or for you, for that matter.”

Isran’s eyes flicked toward Erik, scrutinizing him carefully. The tension between them was palpable, a silent clash of wills.

Erik stopped beside him, leaning slightly closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But you’re asking the wrong question.” He straightened, gesturing toward the parchment still clutched in Isran’s hand. “You should be asking why they need this blessing.”

Isran’s eyes flickered with realization, a shadow of concern crossing his face. “Why do they need it?” he asked, his tone wary but laced with curiosity.

Erik’s smile returned, sharper now, the faint glint in his crimson eyes betraying a sense of grim amusement. “Well,” he began, his voice casual but laced with a foreboding edge, “I’ve already given them the Daughter of Coldharbour and an Elder Scroll. The next thing they’ll need is a Moth Priest to decipher it for them.”

Isran’s expression shifted, alarm sparking in his eyes as he processed Erik’s words. “Moth Priests,” he muttered, his voice tinged with urgency, “only reside in the Temple of the Ancestor Moths or the libraries of the White-Gold Tower.” His gaze narrowed sharply, his tone hardening as realization dawned. “Are you telling me they intend to invade the Imperial City? That they have the power to do something that bold?”

Erik shook his head, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “Even if they did have that kind of power, vampires aren’t that reckless,” he replied, his tone measured. “It would draw far too much attention, even from those who’d normally ignore them. No, Lord Harkon came up with something far more clever—and far more efficient.”

He let out a quiet sigh, as if weary from the weight of his own knowledge, and continued, “As we speak, they’re spreading rumors. Whispers of an Elder Scroll appearing in Skyrim.”

Isran’s eyes widened in understanding, his sharp mind already connecting the pieces. “And wherever an Elder Scroll appears,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “a Moth Priest is sure to follow.”

Erik nodded, the grim expression on his face underscoring the seriousness of the situation. “Exactly. They know the scroll is the bait, and the Moth Priest will be the prey. Once he arrives, they’ll use the blessing from the Chalice to scour Skyrim, overturning every stone, razing every village if necessary, to find him. And trust me,” he added, his tone darkening, “they will find him.”

Isran clenched his fists, frustration and determination warring on his face. “Damn it,” he muttered, pacing a few steps before turning back to Erik. “So what’s your play here, vampire? If you’re so aware of their plans, why haven’t you acted sooner?”

Erik’s expression turned grave, his usual air of cocky indifference replaced by something colder, more calculating. “Because timing is everything,” he said firmly. “If I return with the Chalice too quickly, it will only accelerate their plans. My delay buys you time—time you need to do what you do best, Isran.” He stepped closer, his crimson gaze locking onto the old Dawnguard leader’s eyes. “Recruit. Train. Prepare.”

Isran stared back at him, his jaw tight. “And what makes you think I can pull that off in time? You think they’ll just sit back and wait for me to build an army?”

Erik’s voice cut through the tension, steady and firm. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t stand a chance. The Volkihars will crush you like a bug—every last one of you—if they catch wind of what you’re up to. If they even suspect you’re more than a minor nuisance.”

Isran’s glare darkened, but he remained silent, knowing that Erik wasn’t finished. Sure enough, Erik’s smirk widened, his fangs just barely visible. “But,” he continued, his tone lighter, almost mocking, “lucky for you, you’re beneath their notice for now. They won’t see you as a threat unless you make yourself one. And that,” he added with a knowing glint in his eyes, “gives you time.”

Isran’s shoulders sagged under the weight of Erik’s words, but the fire in his gaze didn’t dim. “Time for what?” he snapped. “To scrape together a ragtag band of misfits? To gather recruits, knowing full well that every one of them will be slaughtered?”

He shook his head bitterly, his frustration spilling over. “I don’t even believe it’s possible. I’ve brought in a few people—sure. But they’re just people with grudges. A farmer whose family was killed by vampires. A hunter who lost his pack. No real soldiers. No mages of any worth. And even if I could gather more…”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his beard. “By the time anyone understands how dangerous the Volkihars really are, it’ll already be too late.”

Erik leaned back slightly, his expression cool and calculating, as if he’d been waiting for Isran to arrive at this exact point. “Then it’s a good thing,” he said with a sly smile, “that you don’t have to wait for people to figure it out.”

Isran’s frown deepened, suspicion creeping into his gaze. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s another threat,” Erik replied, his smile sharp and deliberate. “One you can use as a rallying cry. Something that will let you gather forces without drawing the attention of the Volkihars.”

Isran crossed his arms, his tone laced with skepticism. “And what threat would that be, vampire?”

Erik’s grin widened as he leaned in slightly, the flickering light casting eerie shadows across his face. “Tell me, Isran. Have you heard the rumors about the dead rising along the shores of Haafingar?”

Isran rubbed his chin, his expression pensive. “I’ve heard some talk,” he admitted. “They say strange undead creatures have been seen wandering the beaches near Solitude. Supposedly, they’ve been traced back to an old, abandoned fort…” He trailed off, his brows furrowing as if trying to recall something. “A place the Thalmor once used as a prison. At least, that’s what the stories say.”

Erik’s voice dipped lower, taking on a conspiratorial tone as he leaned slightly closer to Isran. “Not just stories,” he said, the words laced with an unsettling calm. “The fort, the undead, the Thalmor conspiracy—it’s all true.”

He trailed off, letting the weight of his words hang in the air before a sly grin spread across his face. “And here’s the best part,” he continued, his voice almost dripping with amusement. “There’s going to be more undead popping up all over Skyrim soon. Some will be exterminating bandits all over Skyrim, while others will be harassing travelers and towns. They won't harm the innocent, but they'll create enough of a spectacle that any hot-blooded Nord will want to grab an axe and bash their heads...”

Isran’s expression shifted rapidly—from alarm to shock, and finally to seething anger. “You raised those undead,” he growled, his voice barely controlled. His fists clenched at his sides, but he managed, just barely, to hold back his fury. “And now you’re planning to raise more? To unleash them across Skyrim, just to create panic! What's more, you want me to lie, to use a pandemonium of your making to gather recruits just so I can throw them at the vampires later...!”

Erik didn’t flinch under Isran’s glare. If anything, he seemed to relish the reaction. Raising his hands in mock surrender, he admitted, “Guilty as charged.” His grin widened as he added, “But you need to look at the bigger picture here. And technically, you wouldn’t be lying.”

Isran’s jaw tightened, his eyes blazing with barely suppressed rage. “Lying about what?”

“What are vampires if not undead?” Erik replied smoothly, gesturing with casual ease. “And as you so astutely observed, I am a vampire. A Volkihar vampire, no less—turned by their precious Daughter of Coldharbour herself.”

He stepped closer, his tone growing sharper, more deliberate. “Think about it, Isran. This is the perfect excuse to direct your recruits’ anger toward the Volkihars. All you’d be doing is telling them the truth—just not the whole truth.” Erik chuckled, the sound low and unsettling. “And conveniently, the Volkihars wouldn’t have a clue about any of it. Not until it’s too late.”