Chapitre 322: New Skyrim Fic!
Hello everyone.
Today I'm posting to promote a new fic. Again.
This is based on the Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim, and it's very much a necromancer fic. So, if you like Skyrim, and you like some good old necromancy, this this just might be the thing for you.
The name of the fic is, Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer.
As the name suggests, it's a story that showcases just how terrible and powerful necromancers are in the Elder Scrolls universe as opposed to barely raising two measly zombies in the game at a Master level.
You can find the fic by simply writing its name on the search bar (not on this account, since it's published in a different one)
If that's not enough to tickle your fancy, then here's the first chapter. You can read through it and figure out if it's interesting or not.
I'll be waiting to see you all on my other account.
A Vessel for the Damned #1
The dim glow of the computer screen was the only light in the room, casting long shadows over the cluttered desk. The sounds of clattering keys filled the air as the young man hunched over his keyboard, furiously clicking away.
His eyes were glued to the screen, his face a mask of concentration, mixed with growing irritation.
"Are you kidding me?" he muttered, his voice thick with frustration. On the screen, his Dragonborn character was sprinting through a dank, ancient tomb, the dark stone walls lined with crumbling urns and eerie carvings.
Two undead minions clumsily swung their swords at a towering Draugr Deathlord that barred the way forward. The creature's glowing eyes and massive battle-axe made it an intimidating presence, but his undead servants were proving to be little more than a mild annoyance to it.
"Level 100 Conjuration, all the perks unlocked, and this is what I get? Two lousy zombies that can barely scratch this thing?" He shook his head, his irritation boiling over.
The undead thralls staggered around the Deathlord, their sluggish movements and weak attacks doing little to stop its relentless advance.
With a few quick clicks, he tried to kite the Deathlord away, casting a flurry of spells in desperation. But his stamina was nearly gone, depleted from his focus on magicka above all else.
His character staggered, then slowed, finally running out of breath as the Deathlord's axe came crashing down. The screen flashed red, and with a final, resounding thud, his Dragonborn fell to the ground, dead.
"Ugh, this is so underwhelming," he groaned, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. "I love this game, but they friggen dropped the ball with necromancy. Two zombies? Really?"
He clicked through the menus, loading his last save. "Okay, one more try," he muttered, determined to give it another shot. But as the loading screen lingered, an odd sensation washed over him. His head began to spin, the room around him blurring slightly. He tried to blink it away, but the dizziness only intensified.
"What the…?" he mumbled, reaching out to steady himself, but his hand slipped off the mouse, and his vision darkened. His head slumped forward, landing on the keyboard with a dull thud.
The last thing he was aware of before everything went black was a muttered, "So fucking lame... lame…"
...
When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't in his room. The cold, hard surface beneath him was a far cry from his cushioned chair, and the faint smell of damp stone and burning torches filled his nose.
Panic surged through him as he tried to move, but his limbs were bound tightly to a stone slab. His heart pounded in his chest as he strained against the restraints, but they held firm.
"Where… where am I?" he whispered, his voice echoing off the stone walls. The room around him was dark, the only light coming from a series of flickering torches mounted on the walls.
Strange symbols were etched into the stone, glowing faintly with an eerie, otherworldly light.
He tried to remember how he got here, but his mind was a haze of confusion. The last thing he could recall was playing Skyrim, grumbling about necromancy, and then… nothing.
Now he was lying in some medieval dungeon, bound to a stone slab, with no idea how he got here.
The sound of footsteps echoed through the chamber, growing louder as they approached. He strained to see who was coming, but the angle of his head and the darkness made it impossible.
A figure finally stepped into view, clad in tattered black robes that billowed around him like shadows given form. The man's face was hidden beneath a deep hood, but there was an unmistakable aura of power around him, something ancient and malevolent.
Necromancer.
"You're awake," the necromancer's voice was low and raspy, filled with a cold malice that sent a shiver down the young man's spine. "Good. It's always more satisfying when they're awake."
"W-where am I? What do you want with me?" the young man stammered, his voice trembling as he tried to make sense of the situation.
The necromancer didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his robes and pulled out a long, ornate dagger, its blade glinting menacingly in the torchlight. "You are nothing but a change of garments," the necromancer said, his voice dripping with disdain. "A means to an end."
Before the young man could react, the necromancer plunged the dagger into his side, the cold steel biting deep into his flesh. He cried out in pain, his body arching against the restraints, but the necromancer paid no heed. He began to chant in a language the man couldn't understand, his voice growing louder and more intense with each word.
The room seemed to darken as the necromancer's spell took hold, the symbols on the walls glowing brighter, pulsing in time with the rhythm of the chant. The young man's vision blurred again, but this time it was different—his consciousness was being pulled away, dragged into a dark, twisted void.
...
Waking up, he found himself in yet another strange place. Still bound to the stone slab, he looked up and saw a bleak and cloudy sky, raining lightning on the ground. There was no sun in the sky, but instead a single moon and a huge black circular void.
The landscape around him was barren and dry, with only dead trees and bushes scattered throughout the realm, as well as plant-like growths that seemed like a mixture between a fungus and an aquatic plant.
It was a strange place, both familiar and alien.
"Where am I now?" he wondered aloud, his voice echoing unnaturally in the space.
"Welcome to the Soul Cairn... soon to be your new home," a voice answered, filled with a sinister glee.
The necromancer materialized before him, his form towering and imposing, as if he were some dark god in this twisted world. "This is where your soul will be imprisoned for eternity, and your body will become mine."
The young man's heart raced as he backed away, but there was nowhere to go. The necromancer gestured, causing the stone slab to disappear.
Now free from his restraints, the young man wasted no time in trying to escape, only chains of dark energy erupted from the ground, wrapping around his wrists and ankles, pulling him back to a stone pillar that materialized behind him. He was trapped, helpless.
The necromancer approached slowly, savoring the moment. "You should feel honored," he said, his voice mocking. "You will be the vessel for my soul, the means by which I will renew my vigor once more. As for your pitiful essence... or whatever is left of it, will be offered to the Ideal Masters in exchange for more power!"
"Why… why me?" the young man gasped, struggling against the chains, though he knew it was futile.
"Why not?" the necromancer replied with a cruel smile. "You were easy to take. A weak, insignificant soul with no defenses. The perfect host."
The young man felt despair wash over him as the necromancer began the final incantation, the words reverberating through the mindscape with a power that made the very air tremble.
A gigantic purple crystal appeared above him, drawing something from deep within him, something that shouldn't be tampered with. He could feel his consciousness fading, his soul being pushed to the brink of annihilation.
But something unexpected happened.
As the necromancer's magic reached its peak, the man's mind suddenly surged with a flood of emotions—anger, fear, desperation. And then, something more—a deep, primal instinct to survive as his life began to flash before him.
Suddenly, the floating crystal shifted its attention from the young man to the necromancer and hungrily began to devour his soul.
"What… what is this?" the necromancer snarled, his voice filled with shock as tendrils of energy began leaving his body, flying to the crystal. He tried to push through, to complete the ritual, but the crystal continued to eat at his soul, its pull growing more intense, until it was irresistible.
The necromancer screamed in rage and pain as his soul began to dissipate, his very essence evaporating, leaving only memories. The power he had so carefully controlled was now turning on him, tearing him apart.
"No! What treachery is this!?!" he howled, but his voice was drowned out by the overwhelming surge of energy.
The mindscape shattered, the dark clouds and lightning dissipating as the necromancer's form disintegrated, his soul obliterated by the very beings he tried to bargain with.
Though he had survived, the young man began to lose consciousness, and the last thing he heard was a voice emitted from the crystal, ancient and filled with mystery.
"...honored.... outer... A maker... Cairn... Ideal Masters .... chosen .... You will continue .... incomplete existence... one purpose.... bring us souls..."
Though he could barely hear the voice due to his dizziness, he still pieced together a few words, and the very last sentence spoken by the being before his vision grew completely black.
...
He gasped as he was thrust back into his body, his eyes snapping open to the sight of the torch-lit chamber once more. The stone slab was cold beneath him, and the pain from the dagger wound was still fresh, but he was alive. More than that, he was… different.
The necromancer's body lay crumpled on the floor beside him, lifeless, his robes singed and tattered. The young man could feel the memories and the knowledge that belonged to the necromancer now swirling within his own mind, mingling with his thoughts, though not the power.
As the cuffs holding him snapped open on their own, he slowly sat up, his hands trembling as he reached for the dagger still embedded in his side. With a sharp intake of breath, he pulled it free, the pain nearly overwhelming him.
But even as he did, he could feel something else—a strange, unfamiliar energy flowing through him, healing the wound almost as quickly as it had been inflicted. He knew exactly what it was, a delayed spell cast by the necromancer to heal his 'new vessel' as soon as the ritual was completed.
"Necromancy isn't just a game anymore... and it's fucking terrifying..."
— Un nouveau chapitre arrive bientôt — Écrire un avis
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone