Riften’s Reluctant Wraith #20

Erik pushed open the heavy door of The Bee and the Barb, the familiar creak echoing through the inn. As he stepped inside, he sighed inwardly, already feeling the weight of the eyes on him. The lively chatter of the patrons died down almost instantly, the warmth of the room turning cold with tension. His fingers twitched at his side, resisting the urge to clench in annoyance as the stares burned into him, but he kept his expression neutral, unfazed.

Brynjolf, sitting in his usual shadowed corner near the fire, watched him with a cautious, calculating gaze. The Nord thief's usual swagger was absent, replaced with something more akin to wariness. Erik returned the look briefly but moved on, ignoring the silent question in Brynjolf's eyes. He had no time or patience for another confrontation today.

With purposeful strides, he crossed the room, his black boots making soft but deliberate thuds against the wooden floor. The tension in the room thickened with each step he took. Erik made a beeline for the counter, where Kereeva, the inn's Argonian innkeeper, was polishing a mug.

She glanced up, her eyes meeting his without the fear or hesitation he saw in the others. Kereeva had seen her share of rough customers, and Erik was just another in a long line, even if his reputation was a bit more... ominous than most.

"I'll have the same room as before," Erik said, his voice low and steady. "Send up a meal—anything fresh will do."

Kereeva raised an eyebrow but nodded, clearly recognizing the implied need for speed. "Alright. And for your... companion?"

Erik glanced down at Geri, who was wagging his tail in anticipation. The corgi let out an excited bark, ears perked and eyes bright, clearly understanding that food was involved.

"Something chewy for the mutt will do," Erik added with a faint smirk, motioning toward Geri.

Kereeva's lips twitched in what might've been the beginning of a smile. "Of course. Got some fresh mutton I'll send up for him."

Erik placed a few coins on the counter with a subtle clink of metal on wood. "Good."

Without waiting for more, he turned and headed upstairs, his black cloak trailing behind him. The patrons of the inn had resumed their hushed conversations, but he could feel their eyes following him. It was impossible to ignore the whisper of unease that passed through the room, like the ripple of a breeze through tall grass.

Halfway up the stairs, the voices grew louder. He heard fragments of conversation, his name drifting through the air in tense murmurs.

"Isn't that the guy folk are calling a wraith?"

Erik's steps faltered for a moment, barly resisting the urge to palm his face.

"...the same one who slaughtered the skooma gang on the docks..."

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to keep moving.

"I saw it with my own eyes at the fishery. He just... drew his sword, and shadows started swirling around him…"

"Not just shadows," another voice interjected, the man's tone hushed, as if he feared Erik could hear him. "They clung to anyone who got too close. I saw it too. Blood everywhere. I can still hear the screams when I close my eyes."

A wince crossed Erik's face. He hadn't intended to create such a spectacle in Riften, but it still turned out this way. The skooma gang had been too greedy for their own good, but they hadn't expected someone like him.

And with the Ebony Mail enhancing his abilities, his swordplay had been more lethal than even he had anticipated. The shadows—the power of Boethiah—had reacted, drawn to the bloodshed and carnage like moths to a flame.

Erik hadn't wanted to be noticed. Not like this. But a sword-saint's techniqye combined with the malevolent magic of the Ebony Mail was hard to hide, leading to the entirety of Riften hearing about the carnage.

As Erik reached his room, he pushed the door open with a slow creak, the dim light from the hallway casting a long shadow into the small space. He closed the door behind him, the latch clicking shut with a finality that echoed in the stillness. The weight of the day's events pressed down on him as he made his way to the bed, dropping down heavily on its edge.

Geri padded over and curled up at his feet, but Erik didn't spare the corgi a glance. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the quiet storm that brewed beneath his calm exterior. Reaching to his side, he unsheathed his sword with a metallic rasp, the blade gleaming faintly in the room's dim light, marred only by streaks of dried blood.

He set to work, methodically cleaning the weapon, his movements mechanical, almost meditative. The rhythmic strokes of the cloth across the blade helped him focus, but it did little to dull the irritation gnawing at the back of his mind.

He hadn't wanted to draw any attention to himself so quickly. Riften was already a powder keg of crime and corruption, and his goal was to slip in and out without making waves. But plans often crumbled under the weight of reality, and tonight had been no different.

The skooma gang. They hadn't even waited for him to leave before going after From-Deepest-Fathoms. The moment his back was turned, the thugs had descended on her like wolves to a wounded deer, their eyes gleaming with greed at the sight of the gold he'd handed her in exchange for the Lexicon. They hadn't cared who she was, only what she carried.

'Stupid,' Erik thought to himself, sheathing the now-clean sword with a sharp click. He wasn't sure if he was more irritated with the thugs or with himself for underestimating their greed and recklessness.

He didn't care what happened to Fathoms—whether she lived or died was of no consequence to him. She was just a passerby, one whose expediency expired once he received the Lexicon. The gold he gave her meant even less. She could squander it on skooma, throw it into the Ratway, or use it to build a new life—none of it mattered to him.

But there were some things—principles—that could not be ignored. And Erik had never been one to apreciate theft, not of what he had given, no matter how little he cared for the recipient.

It was more than just pride; it was the arrogance left over from the old Erik Deathsong, the necromancer who had once seen himself as above the petty concerns of mortals. That arrogance had been tempered over time, but some things didn't die easily.

He'd felt compelled to act, and so he had. The thugs hadn't stood a chance. The first had fallen with a single stroke of his blade, barely having time to register the attack before Erik's sword bit through muscle and bone. The others had tried to flee, but it was already too late for them. Erik had cut them down with brutal efficiency, not a flicker of hesitation in his movements. And when it was done, he hadn't stopped there.

The rest of the gang, holed up in the nearby warehouse, had been next. Erik had carved through them like a shadow in the night, his sword a whirlwind of death. He hadn't needed to use magic—he'd wanted to avoid that, knowing full well that any display of sorcery would only draw more attention—but even without it, the slaughter had been impossible to miss. The Ebony Mail had seen to that.

The cursed armor had a way of making a spectacle out of violence. With every swing of his blade, the shadows had clung to him, thick and poisonous, tendrils of blackness snaking out to envelop anyone who dared approach.

The air had reeked of death and blood, and the docks had echoed with screams that would haunt the nightmares of Riften's citizens for days to come.

If it had been just the skooma gang, Erik could have tolerated the situation—an unfortunate mess, but manageable. However, his next source of irritation arrived in the form of an eager apprentice alchemist, a complication he hadn't anticipated. After dealing with the gang at the docks and clearing up the immediate threat, his next stop had been Elgrim's Elixirs, Riften's sole alchemy shop. Erik needed to replenish his dwindling stock of potions and ingredients—nothing unusual, just another routine stop. Or so he had thought.

That's when he met Ingun Black-Briar.

Elgrim, the aged master alchemist, barely lifted an eyebrow when Erik began his brewing, observing with a casual interest. He complimented Erik's technique, muttering something about how it was unlike anything he'd ever seen before, but didn't press further. His mind seemed too preoccupied with his own work to dwell on Erik's abilities.

Ingun, however, was an entirely different matter.

The moment Erik began crafting, her attention locked onto him as if he'd cast a magnetizing spell. She hovered over his shoulder, wide-eyed and eager, watching each step of his potion-making process with rapt fascination.

Every time he completed a refinement or added an ingredient, she bombarded him with questions, her voice a rapid-fire assault. "What was that herb you just added? Is it better to crush it finely or leave it coarse? I've never seen that method used before—how does it affect the potency?"

Erik answered with a curt nod or the briefest of explanations, his focus more on his task than on the young woman shadowing him. His patience was thin, and while her enthusiasm was innocent enough, it grated on him.

He didn't have time for an apprentice's curiosity, not when his mind was already occupied with more important matters, like the Lexicon and the growing number of eyes on him in this city.

With all the knowledge swirling in his mind—from necromancy to alchemy, magic to the arcane arts—someone like Ingun Black-Briar barely registered on his scale of interest.

The techniques and refinements he used were far beyond what most wizards or alchemists could grasp, and he knew full well that even the most prideful of Skyrim's master alchemists would abandon their airs in exchange for a glimpse of what he knew. Elgrim had noticed this, but his apprentice? She was far more affected.

Ingun's persistence was, frankly, an annoyance. But it wasn't her enthusiasm alone that troubled Erik; it was her family. The name Black-Briar carried weight in Riften—dangerous weight. Ingun was the daughter of Maven Black-Briar, the most powerful and ruthless woman in the city. She practically owned Riften, and anyone who crossed her or her family was swiftly dealt with.

Ingun's growing interest in him was harmless enough for now, but Erik knew the Black-Briars weren't the kind to let such things slide unnoticed. If Maven caught wind that her daughter had become so fascinated by a stranger—especially one with his reputation—there was a chance she might send her goons to sniff around. Or worse, she might take a direct interest herself.

It didn't stop Erik from brushing Ingun off, though. Her relentless questions, her wide-eyed admiration—they were distractions, nothing more. He'd dealt with far worse in his time.

But now, he'd have to keep an eye on the Black-Briars, just in case. Their reach was long, and their influence even longer, but that didn't mean Erik feared them. If it came down to it, there was little in Riften—no, in all of Skyrim—that could stand against him.

Still, it was a complication he didn't need. A minor one in the grand scheme of things, but an irritation nonetheless. Erik had planned to stay in Riften for a few days, at most, to study the Lexicon.

Now, he had to consider the potential entanglements with the Black-Briars—entanglements that could grow troublesome if Ingun's curiosity developed into something more. He didn't intend to start any unnecessary conflict, but if it came to that, well… the Black-Briars would learn the error of their ways, as others had before.

Erik's thoughts about the Black-Briars were abruptly interrupted by a knock on the door. He blinked, shaking off the creeping thoughts of potential complications, and stood up from the bed. He slid his sword back into its sheath, its blade now clean and polished, before making his way to the door.

When he opened it, Kereeva, the inn's Argonian proprietor, stood there with a tray of food. She flashed him a polite but cautious smile, setting the tray down without a word. Erik returned the nod. "Thank you," he said simply.

"Fresh, as requested. And something chewy for the mutt," Kereeva replied, her gaze briefly darting to Geri, who wagged his tail enthusiastically. She left without further conversation, and Erik shut the door behind her.

After setting Geri's meal on the floor, Erik watched as the Corgi eagerly attacked it, his tail wagging with excitement. Satisfied that Geri was content, Erik placed his own meal on the small table near the window. He glanced at the food—bread, cheese, some roast venison—but his appetite was barely there. His mind was already drifting to something else.

The Lexicon.

He reached into his satchel and pulled out the ancient, intricately carved Dwemer artifact, feeling its cold weight in his hand. Its surface was a blend of shimmering metal and dull stone, pulsating faintly as if it were alive. The moment his fingers wrapped around it, a barrage of whispers surged into his mind.

Erik stiffened, the sheer force of the voices crashing into him like a tidal wave. They were everywhere at once—loud, jumbled, incomprehensible. Dozens—no, hundreds and thousends of voices—speaking all at once in a language too alien for most minds to comprehend.

Even Erik, with all his power and experience, felt the disorienting effect as they swirled through his consciousness, each word colliding with the next. It was like being trapped in a storm of thoughts, none of them making any sense.

'Unnerving,' he mused to himself, marveling at the chaotic flood that threatened to drown his mind. Even for someone well-versed in the arcane and used to dealing with ancient, dangerous magic, this was disconcerting.

How had Fathoms managed to hold on to this thing without losing her sanity? The fact that she'd survived its influence for as long as she had was a testament to her resilience, though perhaps also her obsession.

Still, Erik wasn't so easily overwhelmed. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and focused. His will sharpened like the edge of a blade as he directed his magicka into the Lexicon, probing it, feeling its ancient power respond to him. He pushed through the cacophony of voices, filtering them out, searching for something—anything—that made sense.

Slowly, the whispers began to change. The torrent of voices didn't stop, but they started to fade, one by one, as Erik concentrated. His magicka flared again, sinking deeper into the Lexicon, and the chaotic mass of words shifted. He could feel the ancient knowledge stored within, waiting to be unlocked, but it was buried beneath layers of confusion.

One by one, the whispers dwindled, their intensity lessening as Erik honed in on a singular thread. It was like plucking a single note out of a symphony of discord. Gradually, the chaos quieted until only one voice remained.

It was clear now—distinct. The voice spoke in Dwemris, the ancient language of the Dwemer, its tone cold, mechanical, as if it had been locked away for centuries, waiting for someone to uncover it.

Erik's eyes narrowed in concentration as he listened, translating the words in his mind. The voice spoke of intricate smithing techniques, discussing the process of crafting Dwemer armor and weapons with a level of detail that no living blacksmith could replicate. It described the manipulation of materials—ebony, quicksilver, moonstone—and how the ancient Dwemer had bent these elements to their will, forging creations of unparalleled strength and durability.

As the voice continued, Erik moved swiftly to his pack, retrieving a blank journal and quill. He began writing down everything he heard, his hand moving almost of its own accord as he transcribed the knowledge being funneled into his mind. Each word, each instruction was carefully recorded, piece by piece, until entire paragraphs of ancient technique filled the pages.

The Lexicon pulsed faintly in his hand, as if recognizing that its secrets were being unraveled.

...

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