Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Ask your average citizen—a farmer or merchant or whatever—about necromancy, and you’ll get a vague, unsatisfying response.
It might be they’ve heard tales of bonewalkers and zombies haunting dark caves in the wilderness—sallow corpses with rotting flesh hanging from blackened bones. Or maybe some traveling, hack wizard brought a chicken back to life in front of them for a Septim or two.
Children’s stories and parlor tricks. That is the average understanding of my dark art.
It is like a farmer grasping a handful of dirt in his hand and saying that he understands the forces that raise mountains into the clouds, and bury civilizations beneath the sea.
So when I began kill the citizens of Tel Mithryn on their feet—sending a death-rattle down each spine with little more than a glance in their direction—and resurrect them immediately as my servants, there was some confusion.
It must be some joke, they thought. Some trick. Some cruel game their husband or wife or friend was playing on them.
But there was no trick. There was only me.
One by one I turned them all, filling their eyes with the purple glow of the underworld.
I spared no one. Not even the children.
If Neloth was as powerful as Akavarin told me, I would need every available soul at my beck and call.
I turned the citizens of that quiet, mushroom city into my own private army of darkness, and then ordered them to charge the tower of Tel Mithryn. I could feel the wizard in there, as I’m sure he felt me below. Polluting his gentle creations with the putrid smell of death.
My minions rushed forward in a hazy cloud of purple. Breaking down the door and cramming themselves into the small vestibule. They were jettisoned up the wizard’s magical passageway like a drunk vomits up stomach bile.
I waited below as they began to attack Neloth. Watched through their eyes as he defended himself. What else was he to do? They wanted to tear the very limbs from his body.
Akavarin was right, he was strong.
Lightning filled the tower. Thick blasts of electricity sawing into the mushroom walls and burning through my army. I heard their screams. Tasted the strange, charged flavor in my mouth. Smelled the scent of cooked flesh and burnt hair filling the air.
He laid waste to dozens of my minions, but each bolt of lightning sapped more of his strength. And they kept coming—filling his halls and rooms with smoking flesh.
I heard Neloth screaming, too. For these were his people. There is nothing quite like the cries of a man forced to kill those that he has loved. Such passion. Such rage. I admire the song every time it touches my ears.
When I felt the wizard’s imposing strength begin to ebb—his magicka burned down and exhausted by the slaughter I forced upon him—I entered the tower.
Smoke was everywhere. Charred limbs and sizzling bits of flesh.
My poor children.
I found Neloth in his chambers, struggling to draw even the faintest of sparks from two fingers as my last two resurrections closed down upon him. I glided across the room, ready to call them off if Neloth was truly spent.
But I was pleasantly surprised.
He pulled a staff from beneath his bed and unleashed a blinding ball of lightning. It incinerated my two zombies and then barreled onwards towards me. Probably would have burned the very fibers of my bones down to nubs.
If I had still been standing there.
I slipped into the outer realm—my body momentarily losing its corporeal nature—and the bolt of lightning flew past, exploding out the entire side of Neloth’s mushroom tower. I breathed in the moist, damp scent of the netherworld, enjoying its dark, twisted ways, and then rematerialized behind the wizard’s searching eyes.
I snatched the staff from his trembling hands and smashed him across the face with it.
He raised a hand to me—even managed to fill it with one last churning ball of lighting that may have had the strength to singe away my eyebrows. But with a flick of my wrist I killed every bit of flesh he had in his arm. Melted his skin down to a puddle on the floor.
“Gaaaaaaaaaah,” he cried. Dropping to his knees and writhing on the floor.
I assumed the wizard would be strong. Loyal to his master, this Divayth Fyr. And I had no desire to waste time.
So, I melted down both of his legs, too, and fused his bones to the floor.
His screams were loud, and certainly filled with agony, but the animal cries of pain were nothing compared to the sounds he had made earlier while incinerating the citizens of Tel Mithryn. I was not interested in his own pleas for survival. I just wanted answers.
“This can last for a few more minutes, or it can last for an eternity,” I said, speaking slowly so that his panicking mind would be able to process the information. “The choice is yours.”
Neloth gritted his teeth and tried to pull himself up from the floor with his last remaining arm. There was a popping sound as his thigh-bone separated from floor.
I fused the bone back onto the floor and pulled a chair from the corner into the center of the room. Sat down and stretched out.
“Don’t prolong this debasement. Just answer a few simple questions.”
He looked at me with his burning red eyes. Blinked once. Most of the fire seemed to have gone out of them.
“Ask, demon-spawn,” he spat.
“Why has Divayth Fyr returned?” I asked.
I saw the instinct to lie flicker through his eyes. The false stories weave their way around his tongue. Then he looked around the room at the mounds of corpses that surrounded him, and I saw the truth take bloom inside of him.
“Because he did not find what he was looking for beyond the eastern continent of Akavir. Not exactly, anyway.”
“What did he find?”
Neloth grunted. “Tell me, when you cross over to the netherworld and make your sinful pilgrimages to the night-lands, what do you use to navigate?”
“I’m asking the questions,” I said. Balling up my fist and bending a few of his ribs backwards.
He groaned and wretched up some vomit. Begged for me to stop.
“This is the answer!” he gasped. “What do you use?”
I considered this. He was dead anyway, there was no reason to guard the sacred knowledge of the Morthathi Covenant from him.
“A strand of silk, dipped in a newborn’s soul.”
Neloth smiled. There was some blackened blood between his teeth. I found it unpleasant to look at.
“Of course you do. Silk.” He even laughed a little, but stopped from the pain it caused him.
“What did he find?” I asked, raising my hand and threatening to bend more ribs.
“A better way,” Neloth said quickly. “He found a map. A true map. Not a shoddy bread-crumb trail made from the blood of infants.”
“Where is he going now?”
Neloth shrugged as best he could in his condition.
“He was only here for a short time, and he did not leave an itinerary.”
“Not good enough.”
The wizard swallowed a few times and then looked into my eyes. There was a resignation there, and a fear. The great fear all mortals carry when they know their end is near. It seemed more potent on him, somehow. Perhaps because he was so old.
“Hermaeus Mora. Whatever Divayth is after, Mora is involved. That’s all I know.”
“What does Divayth want with the Demon of Knowledge?” I asked.
“The same thing everyone wants with him. To know more.”
It didn’t fit together. Mora was powerful, but he had little and less dealings with my order.
“How is the Morathi Covenant involved?”
Neloth laughed again. “All those years, all those lifetimes, and Akavarin still doesn’t get it, does he? You filth aren’t involved, you’re in the way,” he hissed.
His eyes rolled back in his head. His soul weakened. I reached out with my mind to pull him back, to dig more answers from him, but the wizard’s magic had regenerated just enough for a final spell. He couldn’t defeat me in life, so he ran from me into death. I couldn’t follow the path of his soul.
The room shuddered. I was left alone with the cool wind and the stink of burning flesh.