Capítulo 11: Beneath the Frozen Veil #11
It was midday, and a biting wind howled across the tundra, scattering snowflakes like white ash over the barren ground. The sky was a bleak expanse of gray, and the cold seemed to seep into Erik's bones as he urged Scadu forward.
The undead steed's hooves crunched the snow beneath them as they neared Windhelm. Erik prompted Scadu to halt at the beginning of the great bridge leading to the ancient city, and the skeletal horse obediently came to a stop.
The imposing stone archway loomed before him, its massive gates guarded by Windhelm's soldiers. A group of weary travelers and merchants had gathered, huddled against the cold as they waited to be inspected by the city's guards. The scene was one of cold efficiency—the guards, dressed in heavy fur-lined armor, stood watch while a scribe at a small desk documented each visitor's entry.
Erik eyed the scene with a grimace. He had little patience for the bureaucracy of Windhelm, and even less for its people. The city's reputation as a bastion of Nord pride—and their disdain for anyone not of their kind—preceded it.
Even the old necromancer had little love for this part of Nord culture. Pride in oneself should come from one's power, and disdain for others should only be stim of their weakness, not the circumstances of their birth.
He muttered to himself, "Out of the swamps and into a hellhole full of racist Nords." He spat to the side, turning away from the bridge.
Instead of joining the line of visitors, he guided Scadu down the snowy slope toward the frozen river below the towering structure. The bridge's stone pillars jutted upward like the skeletal remains of some ancient beast, supporting the weight of the city's grand entrance above.
The chill of the river felt even more intense here, the icy winds biting at his exposed skin as he descended.
When he reached the foot of one of the massive stone pillars, Erik dismounted, his boots sinking into the snow with a soft crunch. Scadu, as if knowing his task was complete, melted back into the shadows, disappearing as swiftly as he had been summoned.
Geri poked his head out from the folds of Erik's robes, his black fur bristling against the cold. The corgi let out a small bark and wriggled free, hopping down onto the snow-covered ground with an eager curiosity.
Geri began to sniff around, his tiny nose working furiously as he investigated the unfamiliar surroundings. Erik, however, paid him no mind. His focus was elsewhere. He moved forward with deliberate steps, his eyes scanning the stone pillar as if searching for something hidden.
Erik stopped when he reached the base of the pillar, where the stone was worn and ancient, covered in frost and grime. He stretched out his hand, muttering under his breath, "Reveal." As he spoke, his magicka surged, flowing from his fingertips like invisible tendrils, reaching out and brushing against the hidden object he sought.
At his command, the air shimmered, and a faint glow began to emanate from the stone. Slowly, as if peeling back the layers of reality itself, a hidden altar revealed itself. The darkened stone structure emerged from nothingness, etched with arcane symbols and adorned with grim relics.
Candle stands, now flickering to life with ghostly flames, illuminated skulls that sat atop the altar, their empty eye sockets staring into the void. Draped behind it was a blackened banner marked with a red skull and two crossed bony hands beneath it—the unmistakable symbol of Mannimarco, the King of Worms.
Erik's gaze hardened as he approached the shrine. This was one of the reasons he had come to Windhelm: a relic of the long-dead necromancer, Mannimarco.
This altar was a conduit of dark power, used by necromancers who still revered the ancient lich's legacy, a symbol of their loyalty to his forgotten cult. Here, rites had been performed, soul gems turned black, and lives sacrificed in exchange for greater power.
Erik knelt before the altar, running his fingers along its cold, blackened surface. The stone hummed faintly with residual magicka, though its true strength had long since faded.
Once, this shrine had been a beacon for necromancers, a place where they could commune with dark forces. But now, it was just a shadow of its former self—a forgotten relic hidden beneath the feet of those who would never understand its significance.
"As it should be..." Erik muttered.
A wry smile touched his lips as he studied the ancient banner hanging from the altar. Mannimarco had been a figure of terror, a being who sought to ascend beyond the confines of mortal life. His followers had worshiped him as a god, their devotion unwavering even after his supposed death.
However, Erik had little interest in the worship of long-dead kings, and he held not a shred of reverence for Mannimarco.
With a swift motion of his hand, Erik sent the skulls and candle stands clattering off the altar, the sound of them striking the stone floor echoing across the icy expanse.
As if that wasn't enough, he turned his gaze toward the banner of Mannimarco, eyes narrowing in distaste. A small ember flickered to life in his palm, and with a flick of his wrist, it flew toward the black fabric. The ember stuck, smoldering for only a moment before igniting into a blaze, reducing the banner to a pile of ash in seconds.
Where others might beg and grovel at Mannimarco's altar, hoping to gain a sliver of the power the King of Worms once wielded, Erik needed no such crutch. Power wasn't something to be given—it was something to be taken.
Snapping his fingers, two skeletal figures materialized behind him, their hollow eyes glowing faintly in the gloom. Surtur and Helrath—the first of his creations—stood at attention, flanking a large pile of human bones. Each bone, carefully selected and harvested from his journey to Windhelm, was rich with magicka.
It had taken Erik two weeks to reach his destination all the way from Morthal, but only because he had made it his mission to eliminate every bandit camp he encountered, stripping the corpses of their valuable remains. Now, with enough bones to create a formidable force, it was time to begin.
"Get to work," Erik commanded, his voice cold and unwavering.
Without hesitation, Surtur and Helrath moved toward the pile, their bony fingers scraping against the frozen ground as they began assembling the pieces. One by one, they arranged the bones with precision, constructing the framework of a complete skeleton on the altar. The process was methodical, almost ritualistic, but Erik had no intention of following the typical necromancer's path.
Traditionally, necromancers would assemble skeletons with only two or three magicka-rich bones to Mannimarco's altar, borrowing the King of Worms' power to create undead soldiers.
These skeletons, stronger and more resilient than the average reanimated corpse, were revered by necromancers across Tamriel. But Erik had no need for Mannimarco's blessings. In fact, he held nothing but disdain for the ancient lich.
The memories of the old necromancer weighed heavily on his mind. The knowledge of the old Erik came with a price, haunting him with visions of a life spent in pursuit of immortality through unspeakable means.
But aside from a bone-deep arrogance and unbridled sense of pride, those memories also left Erik with a searing contempt for Mannimarco, a sentiment that had been carved into his very soul. Whether he liked it or not, that disdain fueled his defilement of the alter. He refused to grovel before a dead king, especially one as cowardly as Mannimarco.
Erik's lip curled in disdain as he considered the stark differences between Mannimarco and the old necromancer whose memories now mingled with his own. To the casual observer, Mannimarco's rise to divinity would seem like the pinnacle of necromantic achievement, a testament to his power.
Meanwhile, the old necromancer's name had been buried under layers of history, forgotten by all but a few who still whispered of his terrifying reign. Mannimarco, the so-called "King of Worms," had achieved both litteral and figurative immortality, but Erik knew the truth—Mannimarco had hidden behind a labyrinth of schemes, avoiding true conflict at all costs.
The old necromancer had been different. He hadn't needed to weave convoluted plots or rely on backstabbing alliances. He had wielded the raw, brutal force of his magic and commanded legions of the undead to fight for him. And while Mannimarco only contended with his peers, the old necromancer had battled entities far greater and more ancient than any mortal.
Erik knew the stories well—Daedric Princes themselves had conspired to bring about his predecessor's downfall. Though their involvement had been indirect, it was a testament to the threat the old necromancer had posed.
But the old necromancer's hatred for Mannimarco didn't stem from envy or jealousy, despite the disparity in their legacies. No, his resentment came from treachery, from Mannimarco's role in the siege that led to his undoing.
They had no quarrel before that day—no crossed ambitions, no personal grudge. But Mannimarco had joined the forces aligned against him, tipping the scales and ensuring the old necromancer's defeat. That treachery lingered in the old necromancer's mind, a bitter taste carried through centuries of memory.
As those thoughts consumed him, Erik was suddenly pulled back to the present as Surtr and Helrath completed their task. The skeletal remains lay arranged on the altar with precise care, awaiting his next command. Erik allowed himself a moment to inspect the work, his eyes flicking over the bones, noting their magicka-infused structure.
He reached into the folds of his robes and retrieved four black soul gems, each one shimmering faintly with the souls trapped within. Carefully, he placed the gems at the corners of the altar, creating a dark square that seemed to hum with power.
With everything in place, Erik began to weave the spell that would breathe unholy life into the unmoving bones before him. His voice, low and commanding, echoed through the icy air as he channeled his magicka into the ritual. The black soul gems pulsed in response, drawing in the energy he poured into them. Shadows twisted and writhed around the altar, growing darker as the power built, threatening to burst forth.
The spell surged through his veins, the air around him thickening with necromantic energy. Slowly, the bones began to shift, the faintest tremor running through them as Erik's magicka took hold. His eyes narrowed in concentration, hands outstretched as he bound the souls to the skeletal remains, forcing them into servitude.
As the final words of the incantation left his lips, the bones on the altar rattled violently. Then, with a sudden jolt, the skeleton before him rose, the empty sockets of its skull glowing faintly with the magicka that now coursed through its form.
It stood still, awaiting its master's command.
Erik allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He had no need for Mannimarco's blessings. He had created this servant on his own, using his own power, untainted by the influence of the King of Worms.
He had even made sure the Kind of Worms would not receive even a smidgen of soul risidue from the ritual, and with that, his third creation was completed, a small, petty victory over the king of worms, but one that brought him slight satisfaction him nonetheless.
"Rise," Erik said softly, his voice carrying an authority that was absolute.
And rise, it did.
...
As Erik strolled through the decrepit streets of the Grey Quarters, his expression twisted in mild disgust, the neglected state of Windhelm's Dunmer district was even worse than he had anticipated. The crumbling stone walls were stained with dirt and grime, making the place look like it hadn't seen proper maintenance in decades.
The cold wind whipped through the narrow streets, carrying with it the foul stench of mud, mold, and unwashed bodies. Erik stepped lightly, not wanting to get the filth caked on his boots, but the thick mud was unavoidable. Each step squelched unpleasantly, a reminder of the city's indifference toward its non-Nord inhabitants.
Geri wriggled uncomfortably, his keen senses picking up on the misery that filled the air. Erik absentmindedly scratched behind the creature's ear, his mind elsewhere.
He had never been one to concern himself with the internal political strife or social injustices of Skyrim—his focus was always on his own ambitions—but walking through the Grey Quarters, even he couldn't ignore the stark contrast between this rundown slum and the rest of the city.
Windhelm was an ancient stronghold, its massive stone walls and towering spires bearing the weight of countless years of history. Yet here, in the Grey Quarters, it felt like time had left the Dunmer behind.
The buildings sagged under the weight of neglect, their roofs patched with whatever materials the residents could scrape together. Beggars huddled in corners, shivering in the cold as they held out their hands for spare septims. The desperation was palpable, the air thick with hopelessness.
Erik clicked his tongue in irritation as he sidestepped a particularly large puddle of mud. The Grey Quarters were built on lower ground, closer to the docks, making them more susceptible to flooding. It was a miserable location, made worse by the lack of care from the city's leaders.
Even in the game, Windhelm's segregation had been a glaring issue, one that persisted despite any effort to overthrow Ulfric Stormcloak and install a more "sympathetic" ruler.
He remembered the replacement Jarl—an Imperial sympathizer who had taken power after Ulfric's fall, though the man's name escaped him. He also recalled how, despite promises of change, the Argonians were still barred from entering the city proper. The reasoning given was that it was "for their own good," a pathetic excuse that reeked of prejudice.
The new Jarl had argued that the Nords would never tolerate the Argonians, that it was better to keep them in the cramped, damp confines of the docks rather than risk conflict. It was a half-measure, one that did nothing to address the underlying racism that permeated Windhelm.
The hypocrisy of it all was almost laughable. A city that prided itself on its ancient heritage and warrior culture, yet couldn't find it in itself to extend even the smallest amount of decency to guests from afar.
Still, none of this concerned him. Erik wasn't here to play politics or champion the cause of the downtrodden.
He went out of his way to sneak into the city using a roundabout method that involved a weight-reducing alteration spell to cross over the frozen river and sneak through the docks to avoid leaving traces, and he wouldn't anything distract him from completing his goal.
As Erik turned down another filthy alley, his sharp eyes caught sight of a building at the end of the street. The disgust that had settled on his face after trudging through the Grey Quarters melted away, replaced by a cold calmness. He knew where he was headed. With purpose in his stride, he made his way to the structure, halting briefly at the entrance to glance at the weathered sign swaying gently above the door.
"Calixito's House of Curiosities," Erik murmured, reading the faded letters. Without hesitation, he pushed the door open, a soft creak announcing his arrival.
Inside, the warm glow of lanterns cast flickering shadows over shelves crowded with an eclectic assortment of objects. The smell of old wood and dust hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of pipe smoke.
An Imperial man, wearing a worn brown tunic beneath a similarly colored long leather vest, stood from a wooden chair at the back of the room, pipe in hand. His eyes lit up with a welcoming smile as he greeted his visitor.
"Welcome to the House of Curiosities," the man said, his voice warm but tinged with something Erik couldn't quite place—perhaps melancholy. The Imperial set his pipe aside and stepped forward. Erik gave a slight nod in return, then gently set Geri down, the small demonic corgi padding forward with his curious nose twitching.
Calixto watched them for a moment before continuing, "I offer a tour and an introduction to the items you see before you for a few septims, or you're free to browse at your leisure."
Erik barely responded, his eyes already scanning the room. The shelves and tables were cluttered with an assortment of oddities, each piece seemingly more bizarre than the last. Skulls of various creatures—some he could identify, others he could not—lined the walls.
There were alchemical ingredients in jars, ancient cutlery polished to a gleam, and even musical instruments that looked as if they hadn't been touched in years.
"Quite the collection," Erik remarked, casting a glance over his shoulder at Calixto. "How did you come by it?"
Calixto gave a small, rueful smile. "My sister and I received a sizable inheritance some years ago. We decided to go adventuring— and the items you see before you are the result of our travels." His voice trailed off, and the cheerful facade faded.
He let out a sigh before continuing, his tone quieter now. "Unfortunately, she passed away... and I found myself here in Windhelm. I opened this little gallery in her memory, to keep a part of her alive with me."
Hearing Calixto's sentimental words, Erik kept his expression passive, masking his indifference behind a feigned consoling smile. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, the apology hollow but delivered smoothly.
Calixto shook his head dismissively. "There's no need to be sorry," he replied. "So long as I live with her memory in mind, my sister will never truly be dead."
His tone carried a meaning that most would have missed—a subtle undercurrent that barely concealed a smirk. Calixto's words, to anyone else, might have sounded like nothing more than a man holding onto his grief, but Erik heard the depth in them. He knew better. This seemingly cheerful, eccentric shopkeeper didn't come here and open a shop for sentimental reasons alone.
'He has it already.' Erik's suspicions solidified, but caution remained his guiding principle. He couldn't act without being certain. He had learned that patience was a powerful tool, one he wielded with precision.
"Well," Erik said, his voice casual, "I'm here for a specific item." Reaching into his robes, he retrieved a folded piece of parchment. He handed it to Calixto. "It's an old amulet. I'm not great at describing things, so you should take a look yourself."
Erik's eyes narrowed as Calixto took the paper, watching the man's every move. The shopkeeper unfolded it slowly, his brow furrowing as he studied the image drawn on the page. Erik scanned his expression carefully, searching for the slightest flicker of recognition, the smallest giveaway that would confirm what he already knew.
Calixto's fingers lingered on the parchment, his eyes tracing the intricate design of the amulet. For a brief moment, Erik saw a spark of something—familiarity? Shock? Fear?—flicker across the shopkeeper's face, but it was quickly masked by a practiced smile.
'He definitely has it. I'm certain now.'
...
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