Echoes of the Deathsong #2

The young man sat slumped on the necromancer's throne, his head resting heavily in his hands as he tried to sift through the flood of memories that were now his. The chamber was silent, save for the faint crackle of the torches that lined the walls.

The body of the necromancer, Erik Deathsong, lay crumpled on the cold stone floor beside him, a lifeless heap of tattered robes and ancient bones.

Erik Deathsong. The name echoed in his mind, reverberating with a weight of nearly two thousand years of history. He struggled to piece together the fragments of Erik's life, each memory a shard of a broken mirror reflecting a different aspect of the man who had once been one of the most feared necromancers in all of Tamriel.

Erik had been born into a clan of fierce warrior Nords when the world was still young, a time when the Nords fought to dominate the entirety of Tamriel. But from a young age, Erik had been different. His insatiable curiosity and natural disdain for the rigid traditions that bound his people had set him apart, leading to his estrangement from the clan.

For a time, Erik had served as a skald, traveling from Nordic hold to Nordic hold, chronicling the deeds of heroes, gods, and monsters. He had witnessed countless battles, sung of the valor of the fallen, and recited the ancient sagas that defined his people.

But the more he saw, the more disillusioned he became with the fleeting nature of life. The tales of heroism and glory began to ring hollow in his ears, overshadowed by the inevitable march of death that claimed even the greatest of warriors.

It was then that Erik turned his gaze to the darker aspects of the world, seeking a way to cheat death and attain the immortality that eluded all mortals. His search took him far beyond the borders of Skyrim, into the crypts of High Rock, the deserts of Hammerfell, and the depths of Black Marsh. Along the way, he learned from various dark practitioners, absorbing their knowledge and honing his craft.

But it was in the ancient ruins of an Ayleid city that Erik made his most significant discovery. Hidden within the crumbling stone walls of that long-forgotten place was a tome on necromancy, a book filled with secrets of soul trapping, reanimation, and communication with the Ideal Masters. It was a treasure trove of forbidden knowledge, and Erik devoured it with a fervor that bordered on madness.

The memories of Erik's descent into darkness were the most vivid, the most haunting. The young man could feel the necromancer's obsession growing, could see the countless hours Erik had spent in dimly lit chambers, poring over ancient texts, experimenting on both the living and the dead.

He could feel the power that Erik had wielded, the legions of undead that had obeyed his every command, and the fear that his name had inspired throughout Tamriel.

And yet, despite all his power, Erik had remained a prisoner of his own ambition, forever chasing the elusive dream of true immortality. He had extended his life far beyond its natural limits by transferring his soul into younger bodies, a process he had perfected over the centuries.

In those days, countless years ago, Erik Deathsong was akin to a god of death, feared by all. His power was unmatched, and his name was spoken only in whispers. He acted as he pleased, and none dared to bar his path.

But nothing lasts forever, and even the greatest of tyrants must face their downfall. Erik's glory days came to a bitter end just as he was on the verge of achieving his ultimate goal: immortality through lichdom.

Erik had committed countless evils in his pursuit of power, and those sins had not gone unnoticed. Enemies he had made over the centuries—priests of Arkay, vengeful spirits, rival necromancers, and even some of the Daedric Princes—began to converge upon him.

The whispers of his impending lichdom reached the ears of those who would see him destroyed, and soon, Erik found himself besieged by more enemies than he could count. They tore through his sanctuaries, dismantled his plans, and very nearly ended his life.

For the first time in his existence, Erik was humbled. The mighty necromancer, who had once thought himself invincible, was brought low. But even in the face of defeat, Erik refused to give up on his goal. Feigning his own death, he retreated into the shadows, wounded and weakened, but still determined.

In those dark days of hiding, Erik Deathsong learned the value of patience. He realized that brute force alone would not grant him immortality. He needed to be smarter, more cunning.

So, he waited. He used his almost limitless time to plan every move, to eliminate every variable, to ensure that when he finally acted, nothing would stand in his way.

No longer did he slaughter every priest of Arkay in a desperate search for one pure of heart to complete his ritual. Instead, he watched from afar, observing their movements, their rituals, waiting for the right moment to strike. When the time came, he would find his pure-hearted priest without raising suspicion.

No longer did he annihilate entire clans of Forsworn to plunder their storehouses for the rare materials he needed. Instead, he studied the hagravens they venerated, learning their secrets, preparing to bargain with them. He would obtain what he needed without unnecessary bloodshed—at least not until it was necessary.

No longer did he destroy entire colleges of magic in a blind search for the tools of his dark craft. Instead, he waited, watching as artifacts of power resurfaced over the centuries. He knew that patience would eventually bring those tools into his grasp.

And so, Erik bided his time. Centuries turned into millennia, but he did not waver. Slowly but surely, the stars aligned in his favor. The pure-hearted priest, the rare materials, the magical tools—everything he needed for the ritual of lichdom was within his reach.

But just as Erik prepared to take over another vessel, just as he was ready to finally ascend to the immortality he had craved for so long, the Ideal Masters intervened. With power beyond even his understanding, they annihilated his soul, devouring it for reasons that remained unclear to him even as he perished miserably, his goal so close, yet so far away.

And now, the young man sat on Erik's throne, the weight of all that knowledge, those memories, and those unfinished plans pressing down on him like a leaden shroud. Erik's centuries of patience, his cunning, his dark wisdom—all of it had been transferred to him in an instant.

The young man chuckled bitterly, shaking his head as he muttered to himself, "I guess I'm Erik Deathsong now."

The absurdity of it all was almost too much. A legacy of darkness and power that he neither wanted nor needed had been forcefully taken from one man and dumped onto him. The Ideal Masters—whatever their reasons—had made their choice, and there was no undoing it. He didn't understand their motives, but then, who could ever truly fathom the whims of beings like them?

Though Erik Deathsong had hidden away for centuries, his name fading into obscurity, the idea that his enemies might still be out there wasn't entirely far-fetched. The man had made many enemies—powerful ones—who might still seek vengeance, even after all these years.

And now, despite the change of bodies, the annihilation of Erik's soul, and the transfer of only memories, those enemies might very well still come for him. After all, memories were powerful things, and in the world of magic, they could carry more weight than flesh and bone.

As for the original owner of this body, the one who had become the vessel for his soul, the young man had no idea who he had been or where he had come from. Those memories were lost, perhaps forever, to the void. Maybe they had been devoured by the Ideal Masters along with Erik's soul, or maybe they had simply been erased by the brutal transition.

Either way, it didn't matter now. That person was gone, and in his place stood a new Erik Deathsong—or rather, someone who would have to bear that name, whether he liked it or not.

Shaking his head, he muttered, "None of this matters," before delving once again into the depths of Erik's memories, trying to piece together his current situation.

He found himself in the basement of Fort Snowhawk, a desolate fortress in Hjalmarch, west of Morthal. In the game, he remembered this place as a necromancer's den, a grim location where battles between the Imperials and Stormcloaks raged above while dark rituals took place below. Now, it was his domain—occupied by himself and an army of undead, created by the original Erik Deathsong.

The year was the 198th of the Fourth Era. He wasn't certain of the exact date when the events of Skyrim would begin, but he knew it couldn't be far off. Ulfric Stormcloak had already made a name for himself by retaking the Reach and Markarth from the Forsworn with his militia over two decades ago. By his estimate, it was only a matter of time—perhaps three to four years at most—before Alduin would appear in Helgen, and with him, the Dragonborn.

He let out a long sigh, the weight of his situation pressing down on him. If he were to survive in this world, he needed to use these precious years wisely. Establishing himself, carving out a foothold, and gathering power were his top priorities. There was no getting rid of his identity as Erik Deathsong, so he might as well embrace it and see how far it could take him. After all, he didn't have many other options.

"Might as well start by taking control of the undead in Fort Snowhawk," he muttered to himself, already thinking about his next move.

Standing up from the cold stone throne, he made his way to the exit of the ritual room. The heavy wooden door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit hallway. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and decay, the faint flicker of torches casting long shadows along the walls.

As he stepped into the corridor, he was greeted by the sight of skeleton warriors patrolling the hallway. Their empty eye sockets seemed to fixate on him for a moment, their bony heads turning in eerie unison as he entered their line of sight. Then, without a sound, they resumed their patrol, recognizing him as a guest and not an intruder.

These weren't the fragile, naked skeletons wielding ancient, rusty weapons that he remembered from the game. No, these undead were something else entirely. Each skeleton wore a set of steel armor that gleamed ominously in the torchlight, the metal unmarred by time or battle.

Their weapons were equally impressive—well-forged swords, axes, and shields that would make any Nord warrior green with envy. A palpable aura of malice radiated from them, as if the very essence of death clung to their bones.

He couldn't help but feel a strange mix of awe and dread as he observed them. These undead weren't just mindless husks; they were formidable warriors, brought back from the grave and bound to a will stronger than their own. The original Erik Deathsong had clearly poured a great deal of time and power into creating these soldiers, and now, they were his to command.

Somewhat excited by the idea, Erik puffed up his chest and stepped toward the nearest skeleton warrior. With a grand flourish, he raised his hand, reaching toward the skeletal figure.

His magicka began to course through his veins, the ancient necromancer's memories guiding him as he prepared to cast the spell and take control of these undead soldiers.

"Subjugate undead," he intoned, his voice echoing in the dim hallway. The magicka surged around him, the rags he wore fluttering as if caught in a strong wind. The torches lining the hall flickered, then extinguished altogether, plunging the space into darkness save for the eerie glow of his spell. It seemed as though the spell was about to succeed, and Erik could feel the power of the ancient necromancer's magic bending the undead to his will.

But suddenly, his vision began to blur, a wave of dizziness crashing over him. The spell wavered, his concentration slipping through his fingers like sand. Before he could process what was happening, his legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the cold stone floor, consciousness slipping away.

The skeleton warrior, the target of his spell, paused and looked down at Erik with an almost human-like confusion. It tilted its bony head, the eerie empty sockets staring at him as if trying to make sense of the scene.

After a moment, the skeleton used the blunt side of its axe to scratch its head, as if pondering the situation. But then, with a shrug that sent a rattle through its bones, it decided to ignore the fallen figure and continue its patrol as if nothing had happened.

The hallway returned to silence, the only sound the soft clank of the skeleton's armor as it moved away, leaving Erik unconscious on the ground, surrounded by the shadows of Fort Snowhawk.

...

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