Chương 52: Blood #52
Erik leaned back with a smirk as he looked around the room, taking in the wary, suspicious stares of the Dark Brotherhood's assassins. Their faces ranged from shock to guarded resentment, and Erik relished every tense second. 'Now that we've established the stick, it's time for the carrot,' he thought, suppressing the smug amusement curling at his lips.
Clearing his throat, he said in a rich, commanding voice, "There's no need to despair. After all, I'm here now."
Gabriella, a lithe Dunmer with piercing red eyes, sneered and gestured toward the burnt body of Arnjorn and the bound Astrid. Her voice laced with sarcasm, she asked, "And what more could you possibly do for us?"
Erik's chuckle echoed through the sanctuary, low and mocking. "What can't I do?" he countered, his voice dripping with confidence. "For one, I can elevate the Brotherhood. As it stands, Maven Black-Briar is the only 'big fish' who considers you worth even the barest bit of her time, and let's be honest—she barely lifts a finger for you as it is."
His eyes swept over them with a challenging glint. "And that's because, right now, you're little more than dregs that would amount to nothing more than a nuisance to the true powers of Skyrim."
Nazir, standing just to the side, felt a chill run down his spine. The way this stranger knew their names, their sanctuary, and their alliances—it was unsettling. This man wasn't a lost traveler or a luckless wanderer who stumbled into their lair. No, this Erik had purposefully walked through their doors.
Nazir's fists clenched, and he couldn't keep the suspicion from his voice as he asked, "And how, exactly, do you plan to 'elevate' us?"
Erik's grin widened, and he raised a brow, folding his arms in a gesture that suggested he'd been waiting for this question. "Through connections, of course. Maven Black-Briar is already my business partner. If I vouched for you, she'd not only give you more business but would be willing to introduce you to others of her ilk—the true 'big fish' of Skyrim's underworld."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the assassins at his words. Erik's eyes glinted as he continued, "But it doesn't end there. Connections are only half the equation. You'd need the skills and discipline to handle the sort of jobs these new alliances would bring. As you are now… let's just say you'd need some improvement."
Erik's gaze drifted to Babette, the ancient vampire in a child's body, who had been watching the exchange with a mixture of skepticism and fascination. He gave her a slow, meaningful nod, one that promised far more than he said aloud.
She shivered, her eyes widening slightly, as if she understood the potential Erik was hinting at. The ancient hunger in her gaze met Erik's own, a flicker of excitement mingling with the darkness.
Turning back to Nazir, Erik spoke with an air of finality. "But we'll get to that in due time. For now, just know that I'm not here to bury the Brotherhood. I'm here to raise it."
His eyes scanned each assassin, resting on their uncertain faces. "And each of you has a choice: you can stay as you are, treading water, or you can follow me into the depths and emerge stronger, more dangerous, and truly feared."
A tense silence settled over the sanctuary as Erik's words sank in.
The tension in the room was palpable, and each assassin stood frozen, their eyes shifting between Erik and Astrid's now-lifeless form on the floor. The dim torchlight cast flickering shadows over the room, giving the entire scene a twisted, surreal edge.
It was Festus who finally broke the silence with a dry, almost sardonic sigh, muttering, "I'm too old for this." His gaze shifted to Erik, scrutinizing him carefully before adding, "If you can deliver on what you promised, I, for one, am willing to follow you. But you need to convince Astrid first. She's in charge here."
Erik's eyes narrowed, a faint glint of amusement barely masking his calculating gaze. This old man is sharper than he looks, he thought. Festus sees where the wind is blowing—he's just waiting for the others to catch up. With a slight nod, Erik lifted his hand, releasing Astrid from the paralysis that held her rigid.
"Now, Astrid," he said, his voice smooth and almost mocking, "let's hear what you think of my proposal."
As the spell lifted, Astrid stumbled, barely able to keep her footing as she regained control. She took a breath, then spat out, "You son of a—"
Before she could finish, the skeletal figure looming behind her clamped its bony hands over her head and twisted sharply. There was a sickening snap, and Astrid's words died on her lips as her body went limp, collapsing to the stone floor.
Erik arched an eyebrow, feigning surprise as he turned to the rest of the assassins, who were staring in horror. His mouth curved into a smile with just a hint of contrition. "Dear me," he drawled, "what a clumsy creature… Allow me to make amends by disciplining it." He stepped forward, placing a hand on the skeleton's ribcage and, with a firm pulse of magic, shattered the skeleton into a heap of lifeless, bleached bones.
Straightening, Erik looked around the room, his expression cool and composed. "Now then," he said, voice low and commanding, "it seems you'll need to choose a new leader. Given that Astrid has… sadly… passed in an unfortunate incident, I'd suggest Festus here. He seems the most experienced among you."
The assassins exchanged glances, their initial shock slowly giving way to a tense acceptance. Festus exhaled slowly, a faint glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He saw a chance to rise to a rank befitting of his age and experience and took it.
Still, he needed to maintain appearances.
"You ask too much from an old man like me," he grumbled, his voice carrying the heavy weight of reluctant acceptance. "But if no one else is willing to step up…" His gaze swept the room, a silent dare to the others. "I suppose I can bear the burden."
Nazir gave a resigned sigh, glancing warily at Erik. He had felt the full force of Erik's magic earlier and knew that further resistance could be fatal. "Festus has been with us a long time," he muttered, his voice thick with reluctant acceptance. "I'd say he's earned his place here."
Gabriella crossed her arms, her sharp eyes narrowing at Erik as though dissecting him with her gaze. After a long silence, she finally nodded. "A wise choice... for now." Her tone held a warning, yet the agreement was clear enough.
Veezara, the Argonian assassin, hissed quietly, his voice brimming with resistance. "If we're talking about age and experience," he said, shooting a skeptical glance at Festus, "then Babette is more suitable."
At this, Erik turned to Babette, a wry grin curving his lips. "And what do you think of this… child?" He placed deliberate emphasis on the last word, knowing full well what he implied.
He wasn't mocking her. Despite her age, the word, child, came naturally to him as he addressed her. Despite her small stature and youthful appearance, Babette had lived centuries, her experience etched in her sharp gaze.
Babette's calculating eyes met his, and though she usually wore a mask of feigned innocence, and sometimes arrogance, something deeper flickered in her gaze. She understood what he was, not only in strength but in the timeless power he radiated.
Her senses screamed at her that Erik was a fellow vampire, one far older, and more powerful than her. Her very nature would not allow her to oppose him, and so she obliged.
The seconds stretched as she held his gaze, and then, with a faint smile, she shook her head. "I'm not interested," she said smoothly. "I'm far more suited to alchemy and the occasional contract. Leadership isn't for me." Her tone was respectful but assertive, and she allowed herself a slight bow, a display of deference and survival.
Erik gave a short nod, acknowledging her decision. "Wise choice," he replied softly. He let his gaze drift over each of them, his smile laced with a sense of finality.
Erik's gaze settled on Festus, a glint of amusement lurking beneath his calm expression. "Now, with that settled, it falls upon you to decide whether to accept or refuse my proposal," he said, his voice smooth and amicable, the words rolling off his tongue like a promise.
Though his tone was friendly, the weight of his presence pressed on every assassin in the room, underscoring the fact that Erik had come with a purpose—one that would allow only one answer.
Festus glanced uneasily around the dimly lit chamber, his gaze lingering on Astrid's still-paralyzed form. He nodded at last, unable to deny the pull of what Erik promised. "As I said, so long as you can deliver on what you promised… I'll follow your lead," he agreed, though his words held a note of hesitation.
"You claimed you can give us connections, which is one thing. But you also promised the Brotherhood a newfound strength, a way to carry out missions that have eluded us for decades." His eyes narrowed as he looked Erik over, assessing, probing. "Can you truly empower us in the way you suggest?"
"Why, of course," Erik replied with a slight incline of his head. "Strength and eternal life, the means to enjoy your newfound power for centuries if you wish. All of it—well within my reach." He spread his hands wide, his eyes glimmering with a dark allure. "You have barely glimpsed what I can offer."
Festus's brow furrowed in doubt as he studied Erik's face, the flickering torchlight casting shifting shadows on his expression. "I don't mean to doubt you," he murmured, "but this is Skyrim. Many claim power. Few actually wield it as they claim. I've seen powerful mages, but…" He trailed off, clearly skeptical.
Erik regarded him impassively, a chuckle rising as he held up a hand. "Forgive me—this illusion spell is second nature by now. I sometimes forget I'm even wearing it." He waved his hand across his face, as if wiping a film away, and his pale features shifted, transformed.
The room went silent. Erik's skin paled even further, deathly ashen and almost translucent, the veins below surfacing like faint cracks. His once-blue eyes glowed an eerie, unnatural shade, bathing the room in a cold, unsettling light.
It was as if the very essence of death had descended into their sanctuary. Even hardened killers like Festus and Nazir could only stare, discomforted by the quiet power that radiated from him.
Without a word, he turned his gaze to Babette, who had watched the exchange in knowing silence.
Babette offered a small, knowing smile as she stepped forward, breaking the tension in the room. "He speaks the truth, he.." she began, though she hesitated, studying Erik with a mixture of curiosity and recognition. Her gaze shifted to meet his, sharp yet cautious.
Erik returned her look with a cordial smile. "Erik Deathsong," he said, his tone calm yet carrying a weight that silenced even the most skeptical assassins.
Babette nodded, her expression growing thoughtful. "Lord Erik here is… a pure-blooded vampire, or at least directly sired by one," she clarified, glancing at the assembled assassins.\
Her gaze returned to Erik, her eyes narrowing slightly as she noted his confident posture, the way he called over one of the skeletons with a flick of his hand, making it kneel before he casually perched on its back as if it were a throne.
"What's more, I'd wager he belongs to one of the ancient clans. The Volkihar, perhaps?" She tilted her head, clearly testing the waters.
Erik chuckled, giving a slow, deliberate clap. "Very perceptive, child," he said, his tone filled with amusement. "Your eyes are as sharp as your fangs." He inclined his head. "I was embraced by none other than Lady Serana herself, daughter of Coldharbour. I am the only one of her direct line, at that."
This revelation sent murmurs through the group, as the gravity of Erik's lineage sank in. Babette's gaze flickered with a newfound respect, though she maintained her calm demeanor.
Erik continued, his voice soft yet commanding, "I can imagine some among you have considered the gift Babette carries, with all its powers and drawbacks—the sun, the feral hunger. But I offer a different legacy, one of purity."
At this, Erik's gaze swept over the gathered assassins, his eyes calculating, noting those whose interest was piqued. "No offense, Babette," he added, a faint smile tugging at his lips, "but the thinness of your line's blood places it in the lower rungs of any vampire coven..."
Babette merely shrugged, unbothered, as if used to hearing the limitations of her bloodline. "None taken, Lord Erik. I know my place," she replied, though her smile hinted at ambition. "Still, the promise of greater strength and any relief from the sun's curse—well, that is enticing."
"All in due time," Erik said smoothly, his gaze shifting to the assembled assassins. "For those willing, the power I offer is unmatched. You will gain speed and strength beyond what you've known, rivaling any vampire you encounter. Your skill in illusion, necromancy, and blood magic will deepen, and the sun will be a mere inconvenience."
He smiled darkly, his voice a low, inviting murmur. "Then again, what true assassin would need to stalk their prey in broad daylight?"
Erik's words hung in the air, as potent as any spell, and in that moment, he knew he had them—these assassins, these agents of darkness. Their loyalty could be his, bound by the allure of the power he wielded and the promises only he could fulfill.
Chương 53: Plans #53
As Babette and Nazir tested their newly acquired vampiric strength in a playful yet skillful spar, Erik barely noticed, his attention fixed solely on the ancient stone wall before him. Carved in the graceful, angular script of the dragon tongue, the words etched across the wall stirred memories from long ago. It read:
"Noble Nords remember these words of the Hoarfather: To kill in glorious war is to honor oneself, to die in glorious war is to honor all of Skyrim."
Erik's eyebrow lifted as he read the words again, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. The Hoarfather—a figure as ancient and enigmatic as Skyrim's tallest peaks. Stories of him had echoed across the centuries, becoming little more than myth and shadowed whispers, yet his philosophies were woven into Nordic history and lore.
Even the old Erik, a necromancer steeped in secrets, had studied the Hoarfather's words, finding in them a strange source of purpose.
"Pray not for peace, for such is the wish of the weak and cowardly."
The old Erik had clung to those words. They'd fed his ambition and justified the conflicts he'd sown across the land. After all, the soul harvests and necromantic arts demanded strife, sacrifice, and the constant cycle of death.
To him, the Hoarfather's teachings validated his own vision, painting his pursuit of souls not as villainy but as a contribution to the grand order. He had convinced himself that he wasn't simply taking; he was shaping Skyrim's destiny.
Eventually, he realized the hypocrisy in it, and he stopped justifying his horrid actions altogether, not that it stopped him from committing even more villainous acts, but that in itself was considered a great deal of growth. At least, he was no longer a hypocrite, or so the old Erik told himself.
Now, though, Erik found it almost ironic. Those philosophies that had once driven the old Erik to justify bloodshed now felt foreign and faintly hollow. That past self had reveled in the Hoarfather's lessons, twisting them to suit his own dark ideals, while the man Erik was now simply marveled at how fate had looped him back here.
Gabriella's sharp voice pulled Erik out of his thoughts, her tone laced with irritation and a touch of exasperation. "Your mutt, my lord... he's..." she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing as she watched him.
Her eyes, now faintly glowing crimson, fixed on him with a mixture of disgust and disdain. She jerked her head to the side, and Erik followed her gaze, frowning as he saw the scene she was referring to.
Geri, his corgi companion, was eagerly gnawing on the charred leg of Arnbjorn's still-smoldering corpse, his werewolf form frozen in death. "Bad dog," Erik said with a mix of amusement and reproach, extending a hand.
With a flick of his fingers, he cast a telekinesis spell, lifting Geri and floating him into his arms. "That's a valuable specimen," he scolded, petting the corgi's head despite his rebuke. "I'll find you something more fitting to chew on later."
Geri let out a low, disappointed whine, his ears drooping as he gazed longingly at the half-eaten limb. Seeing this, Gabriella raised an eyebrow, a flicker of distaste crossing her face, though she remained silent.
She had never been fond of Astrid or her followers, least of all Arnbjorn, who had followed her commands with a loyalty bordering on obsession. Astrid had shattered nearly every one of the Brotherhood's Five Tenets in her time as leader, but still, they had been her "family," for what little it had meant. Yet here Erik stood, treating their remains as if they were nothing more than fodder for his pet.
"Go on, Geri," Erik muttered, setting the corgi down and shooing him off. With a disappointed huff, Geri trotted away, shooting one last wistful glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the shadows.
Erik then turned his attention back to the corpses of Astrid and Arnbjorn. With a faint smirk, he knelt beside them, slicing his thumb to let a few drops of his blood fall onto the ground. He began drawing a ritual circle around their bodies, each line and curve traced with precision.
The crimson markings shimmered as he finished the intricate design, a faint pulse of energy radiating from the circle.
With a snap of his fingers, Astrid and Arnbjorn's bodies disappeared, vanishing from the sanctuary entirely and reappearing far away in Snowhawk Fortress, deep in the heart of Morthal. Erik straightened, brushing his hands off, satisfied with his handiwork.
Gabriella, who had been watching in silence, finally spoke, her voice laced with curiosity and a slight edge. "If I may ask… what exactly do you intend to do with their bodies?" Her gaze was sharp, searching his face for any hint of his plans.
Erik's smile widened as he looked at Astrid, his amusement darkening with a predatory gleam. "I've always wanted to study the anatomy of a werewolf," he began, voice smooth but laced with a cold edge. "But it's proven challenging—those feral ones have a tendency to flee at the mere sight of me, instincts driving them to survive above all else."
He sighed, almost wistfully. "The civilized ones, though… they tend to band together, and frankly, it isn't worth my time or effort to obliterate an entire pack just to satisfy a passing curiosity."
He leaned closer to Astrid, his tone sharpening. "As for Astrid... There are countless ways a necromancer like myself could make use of the body of a talented assassin. I'm sure you can imagine," he finished, his chuckle echoing in the stone hall, sending a chill through even the darkest corners of the sanctuary.
Gabriella watched him intently, emotions warring in her gaze. She'd felt the allure of Erik's promises, the tantalizing vision he'd painted for the Brotherhood—a rebirth of power, of legacy. The transformation he had offered had been enticing beyond words, turning each of them into vampires of rare and potent bloodlines.
Yet, watching him now, a sliver of doubt crept in. Erik's ruthlessness, his detached cruelty, made Astrid seem almost virtuous by comparison.
Gabriella sighed, her voice tinged with uncertainty as she spoke. "My lord, of course… I understand your intent, but…" She hesitated, considering her words carefully. "If we had refused your offer—would we have also...?"
Erik laughed, a sound both dismissive and chilling, his amusement making it clear that her question was naive. "But you didn't. And that's all that matters, isn't it?" His tone softened, almost patronizing as he reached out, patting her shoulder with a mock gentleness. "Let's not linger on such dark hypotheticals. You should know that I intend to cherish each of you, especially you."
Her breath caught as he stepped closer, his voice lowering to an intimate murmur, "Your blood has blossomed into something extraordinary since you received my gift. I'm pleased with what I see, Gabriella."
He removed his hand from her shoulder, the faintest glimmer of approval lingering in his expression. "Soon, I plan to introduce you all to Lady Serana. And if you prove worthy enough… she might just bestow upon you an even greater gift than I could ever offer."
The mention of Serana stirred Gabriella's sense of ambition, and the last of her doubts seemed to dissolve like mist in the morning sun. Her lips curved in a small smile, and she nodded, her eyes filled with renewed devotion. "I'll look forward to it, my lord," she murmured, voice steady.
Erik's smile deepened, sensing the lingering doubts fade entirely. He moved past her with a calculated grace, satisfaction evident in his expression as he surveyed his new family—every assassin now eager, loyal, and powerful in ways they had only dreamed of before.
Erik cleared his throat, a quiet authority settling over the chamber as his gaze swept across the Dark Brotherhood assassins gathered before him. "Alright, everyone, gather up," he called, his voice carrying a weight that demanded attention.
Nazir, who had been leaning against the wall sharpening his dagger, straightened with a wary curiosity. Babette paused mid-sip from her flask, crimson eyes narrowing as she studied Erik.
Festus, the grizzled imperial with his usual skeptical frown, couldn't help but inch closer, his gaze darting between Erik and Vazeera who was the most dissatisfied with the change of leadership.
Once the circle had formed, Erik reached into his cloak and drew out a sealed letter, its edges embossed with the crest of the Black-Briar family. He held it up between two fingers. "This letter is addressed to Maven Black-Briar. Once you take it to her, she'll know what to do—and she'll direct more business your way."
The assassins exchanged looks, eyes darting to the letter with varying degrees of curiosity and apprehension. Some shifted uncomfortably, but their eyes were all drawn to the letter. A realization settled among them: he had written this note before stepping foot into the sanctuary, which meant Erik had walked in without a shred of doubt that he'd gain control of the Brotherhood.
The quiet confidence, the casual authority—it all pointed to a man who had already calculated every possible outcome.
Without giving them a moment to overthink, Erik continued, "I'll say this only once, so listen carefully. Do not let your new powers lead you to arrogance and cloud your judgment. Treat Maven with respect, or I'll kill the lot of you myself. She will be the key to your success as a Brotherhood..."
The assassins glanced at one another, but no one dared to question him. His tone was cold, devoid of bluster or threat; it was simply a promise, delivered without hesitation. Erik took their silence as agreement and went on. "She'll likely test you with minor contracts, perhaps a dozen inconsequential assignments. Complete each task to her satisfaction. If, however, she demands something too grand in scale or too dangerous, you come to me first."
A beat of silence followed, before Nazir, always the sharpest among them, took a step forward and nodded with a hint of respect. "I'll deliver the letter on your behalf, Lord Erik."
Erik gave a satisfied nod as he handed Nazir the letter. As Nazir pocketed it, Erik's gaze swept over the others, the Brotherhood's twisted, complex histories surfacing in his mind.
The Dark Brotherhood wasn't just a sanctuary for killers; it was a haven for society's discarded, their motivations ranging from dark poeticisms to outright madness. Each member would spin a tale if asked—waxing lyrical about the artistry of dealing death, or sharing stories of trauma that had brought them here. In the end, all those explanations boiled down to one thing: they all found joy in killing.
Among them, Nazir was perhaps the most grounded. He wasn't one to romanticize the life of an assassin with high-flown speeches. He was practical, driven more by survival and the 'sense of camaraderie' he found in the Brotherhood than by an appetite for bloodshed.
If the Brotherhood ever had a strategist, it would be Nazir—and Erik recognized that. He watched as Nazir tucked the letter safely away, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes.
With his orders set and his threats issued, Erik moved on to the next topic at hand. "I'll soon be leaving the sanctuary...." he said, scanning the assassins, "but it wouldn't do for me to leave misguided sheep without guidance. Listen closely..."
He went on to tell them about his plans for them.
...
Erik strolled through the tranquil wilderness of Falkreath, his humming soft as he recited the words under his breath, "For hands of gold are always cold…"
Geri trotted eagerly behind, occasionally darting ahead to sniff the grass or chase a falling leaf.
The vast expanse of Falkreath's scenery unfolded around them, sunlight filtering through the thick canopy overhead, dappling the forest floor in warm patches of light. The air was fragrant, tinged with the scent of pine and damp earth—a rare moment of peace amid the turbulence of his pursuits.
As he walked, Erik's thoughts drifted back to the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary he had just left. While he had claimed control over the assassins, his intention wasn't to micromanage or suffocate their craft. He envisioned something grander: a revival of the Brotherhood, shaped into an organized force that would quietly expand, becoming a formidable network he could rely on if the need arose.
He'd told them as much, his final words planting the seeds of ambition, promising a steady flow of high-profile contracts to lure the best mercenaries and cutthroats from across Skyrim. In time, the Brotherhood would accumulate power and influence, and with it, wealth beyond their wildest imaginations.
Erik had set a rule: half of every assassin's earnings from high-level contracts would be funneled back into the Brotherhood. This wealth would be carefully reinvested—part to better equip and train their killers, part to establish sanctuaries across Skyrim.
Dawnstar, with its old, abandoned sanctuary, would be their first base outside Falkreath, a foothold from which the Brotherhood could grow. Someday, he imagined, there would be a sanctuary in every hold—safe havens for Skyrim's deadliest killers, each led by a powerful vampire, each ready to answer his call.
Still, Erik reminded himself, all the influence and wealth in the world were distractions without purpose. His true focus lay within. His soul had been damaged, weakened from the old necromancer's dark dealings with the Ideal Masters. Restoring it was crucial—without it, any power he built would remain hollow, a foundation built on sand.
True power lies within. He'd learned that lesson a lifetime ago, and it resonated now more than ever.
The edge of Lake Ilinalta came into view, its surface a mirror of the sky above, shimmering in hues of blue and silver. The sight stirred something within him—a deep appreciation for Skyrim's rugged beauty, a contrast to the twisted power he sought.
But he knew he'd have to leave this beauty behind now, returning to the murky swamps of Hjaalmarch. 'It was a nice break from snow and mud, at least...' A smile tugged at his lips despite himself.
Though he intended to delay his return to the Volkihars with the filled chalice to buy more time for Isran, not a second should be wasted. With the mercenary group led by Kaiden, the Brotherhood, and his other plans, he needed gold. Lots of gold.
'So much to do with so little time...'
Pausing on the lake's edge, he leaned down to scoop Geri into his arms. The dog wiggled briefly, then settled with a happy bark. Erik's gaze drifted toward the mountain peaks rising beyond the lake, their snow-capped summits touched by the morning light.
He took a deep breath, letting his magicka flood his body in waves of warmth and power. As he concentrated, his feet lifted from the ground, his body ascending until he hovered in the cool morning air, level with the distant mountaintops.
He glanced down at Geri, grinning as the dog let out a surprised yip, his tiny paws paddling in the air. "Shall we, boy?"
...
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