Chương 19: Deepest Fathoms #19
Erik strode along the damp and creaking docks of Riften, the soft lapping of Lake Honrich's waters against the pier a distant murmur beneath his boots. Geri padded silently beside him, his fur blending into the mist rolling in from the water. Erik's conversation with Brynjolf replayed over and over again in his thoughts, drawing out a deep sigh from his chest.
It would have been so simple to tell Brynjolf outright: Mercer Frey killed the old guild master and framed Karliah to get his hands on the Skeleton Key. Erik knew the truth. But the truth, spoken so plainly, would have gotten him nowhere.
Brynjolf's blind loyalty to Mercer was more than just personal—it was ingrained, rooted in years of trust and camaraderie. Even more frustrating was Brynjolf's casual dismissal of the supernatural. Luck? Patronage from a Daedric Prince? To Brynjolf, such notions were old wives' tales, relics of an older time.
Erik had needed subtlety. Guiding Brynjolf into uncovering the truth for himself was a delicate task, but a necessary one. So, Erik had steered the conversation in that direction, letting Brynjolf's own suspicions grow like seeds planted in fertile soil. He hadn't needed to say outright that the guild was cursed—it was enough to point out the series of unfortunate events that had plagued them. When had it all started? With the death of the old guild master.
'Once that realization sunk in, everything else followed,' Erik mused.
From there, it had been easy to imply that the old guild master's death was tied to Nocturnal's displeasure. The coincidence was too much to ignore. Erik could see the gears turning in Brynjolf's mind as he pieced it together, the dawning understanding that the former guild master's death—and not just his death, but everything surrounding it—was at the heart of the guild's bad luck.
But there was still more left unsaid. Did Nocturnal favor the old guild master in some way? Why punish the Thieves Guild when the one responsible for his death, Karliah, had already been banished? Erik didn't offer answers. He didn't need to.
The questions were enough to stir doubt in Brynjolf, enough to push him towards investigating the truth for himself. If all went well, Brynjolf would eventually uncover Mercer's betrayal—exposing him as the fraud and murderer he truly was.
Erik chuckled softly to himself, the sound drowned out by the creaking planks underfoot. His plan was in motion, but it was far from over. Planting doubt was only the first step.
Erik's efforts had proven successful in the end, but as he walked along the misty docks of Riften, his irritation simmered just beneath the surface. Convincing Brynjolf that luck was no mere superstition had been far more difficult than it should have been.
The time spent dragging the thief from skepticism to reluctant belief felt wasted—hours spent explaining what should have been obvious in a world like this. He glanced out over the lake, the calm waters reflecting the moonlight, and muttered under his breath, "To dismiss superstition in a world like this..."
He shook his head in disapproval.
The world of Elder Scrolls was nothing short of a magical, unpredictable place, filled with curses, powerful artifacts, and fantastical beings—monsters, gods, and even demons. Almost anything and everything was possible here, yet people like Brynjolf clung to the arrogance of dismissing certain forces, like luck, as mere myth.
The irony gnawed at Erik. Even in the real world from which he came, superstitions held sway. They had weight, power. There was no smoke without fire, after all.
One particular memory floated to the surface, a tale from the real world—a story from an old village. The people there believed that building houses too close to the shore would incur the wrath of the sea god, resulting in catastrophe.
When newcomers arrived, they scoffed at the old ways, dismissing the village's warnings as primitive nonsense. They built a port town right on the water, confident in their modern knowledge and defiance of old traditions.
But after only a year, the town was swallowed whole by a tsunami.
It wasn't until later that the true cause was revealed. The area was prone to frequent tsunamis, a natural disaster that repeated itself over the centuries. Each time, the waves would wipe out any trace of human settlement on the shore.
The ancestors of the village had learned this through bitter experience and, over time, crafted a myth around it. The wrath of the sea god, they called it. A divine punishment, to be avoided at all costs.
It wasn't divine wrath, of course. But the myth had served its purpose, protecting generations from disaster. And yet, Erik mused, it was always the arrogance of the new, the ignorance of the present, that led people to dismiss such wisdom.
He couldn't help but compare that tale to Brynjolf's stubborn refusal to believe in the power of luck. To dismiss it as superstition was to misunderstand the world they lived in—a world shaped by forces both seen and unseen.
A world where Daedric Princes like Nocturnal existed and made their wills known through subtle manipulations of fate and fortune. Brynjolf, like the newcomers who ignored the warnings of the villagers, was blind to the undercurrents that governed the reality around him.
Erik muttered under his breath, "There's always a lesson to be learned in these old tales... but it has nothing to do with me." He let the thought drift away like the fog rolling off the lake, dismissing the Thieves Guild from his mind as easily as one brushes away a cobweb.
His meeting with Brynjolf had been pure chance, a minor detour on his path. He had no grand plan to embroil himself in the affairs of the Guild, nor any desire to entangle himself in their politics. In truth, his actions to expose Mercer Frey had stemmed from nothing more than a petty grudge.
He recalled how, during his time playing the game, the Guild Master had treated his Dragonborn character with condescension and disdain. Mercer had always carried himself with a cold, aloof air, as though everyone beneath him was unworthy of even basic respect. Erik had found the man insufferable, and if the opportunity arose to set the wheels in motion that would eventually rid the world of such an eyesore, well... why not?
Still, there was something impressive about the Guild's ability to track him down. The fact that their intelligence network had noticed him in Morthal, Windhelm, and likely other places, sending descriptions detailed enough for Brynjolf to recognize him on sight—that was no small feat.
Erik couldn't help but be intrigued by how quickly they'd zeroed in on him, despite their first meeting being mere coincidence. It spoke of efficiency, resources, and an unsettling level of reach. For all their decline, the Thieves Guild still had some teeth.
He had been amused enough by this realization to plant a little seed of his own. After subtly guiding Brynjolf toward suspecting Mercer, he'd asked for a favor—one to be cashed in at some unspecified point in the future. It wasn't anything Brynjolf needed to worry about now, but Erik was always playing the long game.
He had also dangled another offer before him, proposing that if Brynjolf ever found the real culprit behind the Guild's misfortunes, Erik might help take care of them in exchange for future favors. It was an idle promise, of course—Mercer Frey wouldn't be so easily exposed, not without time and effort. And Erik had no intention of rushing things.
Mercer was a mastermind in his own right, and unraveling his schemes would take time.
For now, Erik had more pressing matters to focus on. His true reason for coming to Riften had little to do with the Thieves Guild. No, his sights were set on a far different target: a certain Argonian whose mind was slowly unraveling, driven to madness by a Dwemer relic.
He could already see her—his primary reason for coming to Riften. An Argonian woman sat at the end of the pier, obsessively fiddling with something in her hands. A smile crept across Erik's face as he made his way toward her, stepping lightly over the wooden planks until he, too, was seated at the edge of the dock.
The woman, From-Deepest-Fathoms, cast him a brief, cautious glance before losing interest and returning her focus to the item in her grasp. Erik waited for a moment, letting the soft lapping of water and creaking of the dock fill the silence. Geri trotted up to join him, sitting by his side with a quiet huff.
Only then did Erik speak, breaking the stillness with a calm voice. "You are From-Deepest-Fathoms, right?"
The Argonian's eyes widened instantly, her fingers tightening protectively around the contraption she held. Her grip was almost possessive as she replied, her voice edged with suspicion. "You... who are you?"
Erik turned his gaze toward her and smiled, his eyes darting to the item in her hands. It was unmistakable—a black cube, adorned with metallic circles and glowing red arcane symbols. The Lexicon. Just as he had expected.
"I'm here to do you a favor," Erik said, his tone gentle but deliberate. "That thing in your hands... it's not something you should have. But you already know that, don't you?"
Fathoms' eyes widened further, her expression twisting between shock and defiance. Her grip on the Lexicon became even more jealous, her knuckles turning pale beneath her scales. "If it's not something I should have, then why... why did Roots, Brennaan, and Breya all die for it?" she hissed, her voice full of grief and fury. "I will not relinquish it! Not until I've unveiled its secrets."
Erik raised an eyebrow at her outburst, intrigued by her desperation. In the game, she had been a broken woman, crazed and pleading with the Dragonborn to take the Lexicon from her, as though it were a cursed object she no longer wished to bear. But here she was, defiant, driven by obsession. It seemed the Lexicon wasn't in her possession for long.
Without a word, he turned his gaze away from her, casually picking up Geri and placing the corgi on his lap. He stroked the dog's head thoughtfully before speaking again, his voice calm and measured. "And what will you do with its secrets, anyway?"
From-Deepest-Fathoms froze at his words, her breath catching.
"This device," Erik continued, gesturing toward the Lexicon, "it's no ordinary artifact. It records the memories of countless Dwemer—generations of knowledge, all encoded in that cube. It's like a book... but written in a language you could never hope to understand."
He let out a soft chuckle, glancing at the intricate patterns etched across the Lexicon's surface. "Even if you could decipher it, your head would likely explode from trying to contain that much knowledge."
Fathoms' grip tightened even further, her body trembling as she looked from Erik to the cube in her hands. Her resolve was faltering, and Erik could see the cracks forming in her obsessive determination.
"But…" she whispered, her voice wavering, "I can't let it go... Not after everything. Not after what happened to them…"
Erik sighed, rubbing Geri's head thoughtfully as he considered how to handle her fragile state. Her attachment to the Lexicon had consumed her, just as it had in the game. But here, in this world, he could see the toll it had taken on her much more clearly—the sleepless nights, the haunted look in her eyes. She was on the verge of breaking, and for what? A relic she couldn't hope to understand.
"Dwemeri isn't something you can just decipher on your own," Erik began, his voice calm and almost fatherly. "Not in this day and age. It's a lost language—forgotten by almost everyone. The few who do know it aren't exactly eager to share. You'll only waste your time, and worse, your sanity, trying to unveil its secrets."
From-Deepest-Fathoms didn't respond right away, her eyes still glued to the Lexicon, her hands trembling as she held it. The weight of her friends' deaths clearly weighed heavily on her, but she was trapped in the illusion that understanding the Lexicon would somehow make their sacrifices worth it.
"And as for your friends…" Erik trailed off, snapping his fingers.
A heavy thud echoed beside them as a large chest materialized out of thin air, causing the Argonian to leap back in surprise. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she stared at the chest, clearly struggling to process what had just happened.
Erik, however, didn't seem fazed by her reaction. He kept his eyes on the lake, speaking as though the sudden appearance of a chest full of gold was the most natural thing in the world.
"There's more gold in this chest than you, or a hundred others like you, could ever need. Enough for you to live the rest of your life in comfort and leisure," he said, his tone casual but laced with intention. "Instead of driving yourself mad over the Lexicon, it would be wiser to take this gold and compensate the families of your friends. Let them live easier lives. That's how you honor their memory."
From-Deepest-Fathoms stared at him, her resolve visibly crumbling. Her grip on the Lexicon faltered, her once-defiant posture now slumped with uncertainty. The allure of wealth and the chance to make amends for her friends' deaths seemed to weigh heavily on her.
"But… what do you intend to do with the Lexicon?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Erik paused, the question catching him off guard. What did he plan to do with it?
In the game, the Lexicon's purpose had been relatively simple: return it to Avanchnzel and receive a minor boost to smithing and armor skills. A nice reward, but hardly life-altering. Yet here, in this world where the lines between game mechanics and reality blurred, Erik suspected the Lexicon held far more potential—and far more danger.
He turned his gaze toward the glowing cube in her hands, its arcane symbols pulsing with a strange energy. The Dwemer were a mysterious and ancient race, their technology far beyond the understanding of even the most skilled scholars in Tamriel. Whatever knowledge the Lexicon contained, it could very well be more than just a passive buff. It could be the key to something far greater.
But for now, he hadn't given it much thought. His goal had always been to retrieve the Lexicon, but what came after? That was a question he hadn't yet answered.
"I haven't decided yet," Erik admitted, his voice softer now. "The Dwemer left behind many mysteries… some best left untouched. But this Lexicon… it's more than just a trinket. There's power in it—power that shouldn't be left in the hands of just anyone."
From-Deepest-Fathoms swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she stared at the Lexicon, torn between her obsession and Erik's reasoning.
"What I do know," Erik continued, "is that holding onto it will only drive you mad. It's not meant for you. And no matter what secrets it holds, they won't bring your friends back."
Tears welled up in the Argonian's eyes, her resolve finally shattering under the weight of his words. She let out a shaky breath and slowly extended the Lexicon toward Erik, her hands trembling.
"Take it," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Take it, and do what I couldn't."
Erik gently took the Lexicon from her, feeling its weight and the strange, ancient energy pulsing within it. He looked down at the cube for a moment before nodding.
"You made the right choice," he said softly, placing the Lexicon into his pack. "Your friends can rest easier now."
From-Deepest-Fathoms didn't respond. She simply sat there, staring at the chest of gold, her mind slowly processing the end of her long, tormenting journey. Erik stood up, Geri hopping down from his lap and trotting beside him. With one last glance at the Argonian, Erik began walking away, the Lexicon now in his possession.
As he left the docks behind, his mind wandered. The Lexicon was his now, but what secrets did it truly hold? And what would he uncover once he studied it thoroughly?
Only time would tell.
...
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Chương 20: Riften’s Reluctant Wraith #20
Erik pushed open the heavy door of The Bee and the Barb, the familiar creak echoing through the inn. As he stepped inside, he sighed inwardly, already feeling the weight of the eyes on him. The lively chatter of the patrons died down almost instantly, the warmth of the room turning cold with tension. His fingers twitched at his side, resisting the urge to clench in annoyance as the stares burned into him, but he kept his expression neutral, unfazed.
Brynjolf, sitting in his usual shadowed corner near the fire, watched him with a cautious, calculating gaze. The Nord thief's usual swagger was absent, replaced with something more akin to wariness. Erik returned the look briefly but moved on, ignoring the silent question in Brynjolf's eyes. He had no time or patience for another confrontation today.
With purposeful strides, he crossed the room, his black boots making soft but deliberate thuds against the wooden floor. The tension in the room thickened with each step he took. Erik made a beeline for the counter, where Kereeva, the inn's Argonian innkeeper, was polishing a mug.
She glanced up, her eyes meeting his without the fear or hesitation he saw in the others. Kereeva had seen her share of rough customers, and Erik was just another in a long line, even if his reputation was a bit more... ominous than most.
"I'll have the same room as before," Erik said, his voice low and steady. "Send up a meal—anything fresh will do."
Kereeva raised an eyebrow but nodded, clearly recognizing the implied need for speed. "Alright. And for your... companion?"
Erik glanced down at Geri, who was wagging his tail in anticipation. The corgi let out an excited bark, ears perked and eyes bright, clearly understanding that food was involved.
"Something chewy for the mutt will do," Erik added with a faint smirk, motioning toward Geri.
Kereeva's lips twitched in what might've been the beginning of a smile. "Of course. Got some fresh mutton I'll send up for him."
Erik placed a few coins on the counter with a subtle clink of metal on wood. "Good."
Without waiting for more, he turned and headed upstairs, his black cloak trailing behind him. The patrons of the inn had resumed their hushed conversations, but he could feel their eyes following him. It was impossible to ignore the whisper of unease that passed through the room, like the ripple of a breeze through tall grass.
Halfway up the stairs, the voices grew louder. He heard fragments of conversation, his name drifting through the air in tense murmurs.
"Isn't that the guy folk are calling a wraith?"
Erik's steps faltered for a moment, barly resisting the urge to palm his face.
"...the same one who slaughtered the skooma gang on the docks..."
He clenched his fists, forcing himself to keep moving.
"I saw it with my own eyes at the fishery. He just... drew his sword, and shadows started swirling around him…"
"Not just shadows," another voice interjected, the man's tone hushed, as if he feared Erik could hear him. "They clung to anyone who got too close. I saw it too. Blood everywhere. I can still hear the screams when I close my eyes."
A wince crossed Erik's face. He hadn't intended to create such a spectacle in Riften, but it still turned out this way. The skooma gang had been too greedy for their own good, but they hadn't expected someone like him.
And with the Ebony Mail enhancing his abilities, his swordplay had been more lethal than even he had anticipated. The shadows—the power of Boethiah—had reacted, drawn to the bloodshed and carnage like moths to a flame.
Erik hadn't wanted to be noticed. Not like this. But a sword-saint's techniqye combined with the malevolent magic of the Ebony Mail was hard to hide, leading to the entirety of Riften hearing about the carnage.
As Erik reached his room, he pushed the door open with a slow creak, the dim light from the hallway casting a long shadow into the small space. He closed the door behind him, the latch clicking shut with a finality that echoed in the stillness. The weight of the day's events pressed down on him as he made his way to the bed, dropping down heavily on its edge.
Geri padded over and curled up at his feet, but Erik didn't spare the corgi a glance. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the quiet storm that brewed beneath his calm exterior. Reaching to his side, he unsheathed his sword with a metallic rasp, the blade gleaming faintly in the room's dim light, marred only by streaks of dried blood.
He set to work, methodically cleaning the weapon, his movements mechanical, almost meditative. The rhythmic strokes of the cloth across the blade helped him focus, but it did little to dull the irritation gnawing at the back of his mind.
He hadn't wanted to draw any attention to himself so quickly. Riften was already a powder keg of crime and corruption, and his goal was to slip in and out without making waves. But plans often crumbled under the weight of reality, and tonight had been no different.
The skooma gang. They hadn't even waited for him to leave before going after From-Deepest-Fathoms. The moment his back was turned, the thugs had descended on her like wolves to a wounded deer, their eyes gleaming with greed at the sight of the gold he'd handed her in exchange for the Lexicon. They hadn't cared who she was, only what she carried.
'Stupid,' Erik thought to himself, sheathing the now-clean sword with a sharp click. He wasn't sure if he was more irritated with the thugs or with himself for underestimating their greed and recklessness.
He didn't care what happened to Fathoms—whether she lived or died was of no consequence to him. She was just a passerby, one whose expediency expired once he received the Lexicon. The gold he gave her meant even less. She could squander it on skooma, throw it into the Ratway, or use it to build a new life—none of it mattered to him.
But there were some things—principles—that could not be ignored. And Erik had never been one to apreciate theft, not of what he had given, no matter how little he cared for the recipient.
It was more than just pride; it was the arrogance left over from the old Erik Deathsong, the necromancer who had once seen himself as above the petty concerns of mortals. That arrogance had been tempered over time, but some things didn't die easily.
He'd felt compelled to act, and so he had. The thugs hadn't stood a chance. The first had fallen with a single stroke of his blade, barely having time to register the attack before Erik's sword bit through muscle and bone. The others had tried to flee, but it was already too late for them. Erik had cut them down with brutal efficiency, not a flicker of hesitation in his movements. And when it was done, he hadn't stopped there.
The rest of the gang, holed up in the nearby warehouse, had been next. Erik had carved through them like a shadow in the night, his sword a whirlwind of death. He hadn't needed to use magic—he'd wanted to avoid that, knowing full well that any display of sorcery would only draw more attention—but even without it, the slaughter had been impossible to miss. The Ebony Mail had seen to that.
The cursed armor had a way of making a spectacle out of violence. With every swing of his blade, the shadows had clung to him, thick and poisonous, tendrils of blackness snaking out to envelop anyone who dared approach.
The air had reeked of death and blood, and the docks had echoed with screams that would haunt the nightmares of Riften's citizens for days to come.
If it had been just the skooma gang, Erik could have tolerated the situation—an unfortunate mess, but manageable. However, his next source of irritation arrived in the form of an eager apprentice alchemist, a complication he hadn't anticipated. After dealing with the gang at the docks and clearing up the immediate threat, his next stop had been Elgrim's Elixirs, Riften's sole alchemy shop. Erik needed to replenish his dwindling stock of potions and ingredients—nothing unusual, just another routine stop. Or so he had thought.
That's when he met Ingun Black-Briar.
Elgrim, the aged master alchemist, barely lifted an eyebrow when Erik began his brewing, observing with a casual interest. He complimented Erik's technique, muttering something about how it was unlike anything he'd ever seen before, but didn't press further. His mind seemed too preoccupied with his own work to dwell on Erik's abilities.
Ingun, however, was an entirely different matter.
The moment Erik began crafting, her attention locked onto him as if he'd cast a magnetizing spell. She hovered over his shoulder, wide-eyed and eager, watching each step of his potion-making process with rapt fascination.
Every time he completed a refinement or added an ingredient, she bombarded him with questions, her voice a rapid-fire assault. "What was that herb you just added? Is it better to crush it finely or leave it coarse? I've never seen that method used before—how does it affect the potency?"
Erik answered with a curt nod or the briefest of explanations, his focus more on his task than on the young woman shadowing him. His patience was thin, and while her enthusiasm was innocent enough, it grated on him.
He didn't have time for an apprentice's curiosity, not when his mind was already occupied with more important matters, like the Lexicon and the growing number of eyes on him in this city.
With all the knowledge swirling in his mind—from necromancy to alchemy, magic to the arcane arts—someone like Ingun Black-Briar barely registered on his scale of interest.
The techniques and refinements he used were far beyond what most wizards or alchemists could grasp, and he knew full well that even the most prideful of Skyrim's master alchemists would abandon their airs in exchange for a glimpse of what he knew. Elgrim had noticed this, but his apprentice? She was far more affected.
Ingun's persistence was, frankly, an annoyance. But it wasn't her enthusiasm alone that troubled Erik; it was her family. The name Black-Briar carried weight in Riften—dangerous weight. Ingun was the daughter of Maven Black-Briar, the most powerful and ruthless woman in the city. She practically owned Riften, and anyone who crossed her or her family was swiftly dealt with.
Ingun's growing interest in him was harmless enough for now, but Erik knew the Black-Briars weren't the kind to let such things slide unnoticed. If Maven caught wind that her daughter had become so fascinated by a stranger—especially one with his reputation—there was a chance she might send her goons to sniff around. Or worse, she might take a direct interest herself.
It didn't stop Erik from brushing Ingun off, though. Her relentless questions, her wide-eyed admiration—they were distractions, nothing more. He'd dealt with far worse in his time.
But now, he'd have to keep an eye on the Black-Briars, just in case. Their reach was long, and their influence even longer, but that didn't mean Erik feared them. If it came down to it, there was little in Riften—no, in all of Skyrim—that could stand against him.
Still, it was a complication he didn't need. A minor one in the grand scheme of things, but an irritation nonetheless. Erik had planned to stay in Riften for a few days, at most, to study the Lexicon.
Now, he had to consider the potential entanglements with the Black-Briars—entanglements that could grow troublesome if Ingun's curiosity developed into something more. He didn't intend to start any unnecessary conflict, but if it came to that, well… the Black-Briars would learn the error of their ways, as others had before.
Erik's thoughts about the Black-Briars were abruptly interrupted by a knock on the door. He blinked, shaking off the creeping thoughts of potential complications, and stood up from the bed. He slid his sword back into its sheath, its blade now clean and polished, before making his way to the door.
When he opened it, Kereeva, the inn's Argonian proprietor, stood there with a tray of food. She flashed him a polite but cautious smile, setting the tray down without a word. Erik returned the nod. "Thank you," he said simply.
"Fresh, as requested. And something chewy for the mutt," Kereeva replied, her gaze briefly darting to Geri, who wagged his tail enthusiastically. She left without further conversation, and Erik shut the door behind her.
After setting Geri's meal on the floor, Erik watched as the Corgi eagerly attacked it, his tail wagging with excitement. Satisfied that Geri was content, Erik placed his own meal on the small table near the window. He glanced at the food—bread, cheese, some roast venison—but his appetite was barely there. His mind was already drifting to something else.
The Lexicon.
He reached into his satchel and pulled out the ancient, intricately carved Dwemer artifact, feeling its cold weight in his hand. Its surface was a blend of shimmering metal and dull stone, pulsating faintly as if it were alive. The moment his fingers wrapped around it, a barrage of whispers surged into his mind.
Erik stiffened, the sheer force of the voices crashing into him like a tidal wave. They were everywhere at once—loud, jumbled, incomprehensible. Dozens—no, hundreds and thousends of voices—speaking all at once in a language too alien for most minds to comprehend.
Even Erik, with all his power and experience, felt the disorienting effect as they swirled through his consciousness, each word colliding with the next. It was like being trapped in a storm of thoughts, none of them making any sense.
'Unnerving,' he mused to himself, marveling at the chaotic flood that threatened to drown his mind. Even for someone well-versed in the arcane and used to dealing with ancient, dangerous magic, this was disconcerting.
How had Fathoms managed to hold on to this thing without losing her sanity? The fact that she'd survived its influence for as long as she had was a testament to her resilience, though perhaps also her obsession.
Still, Erik wasn't so easily overwhelmed. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and focused. His will sharpened like the edge of a blade as he directed his magicka into the Lexicon, probing it, feeling its ancient power respond to him. He pushed through the cacophony of voices, filtering them out, searching for something—anything—that made sense.
Slowly, the whispers began to change. The torrent of voices didn't stop, but they started to fade, one by one, as Erik concentrated. His magicka flared again, sinking deeper into the Lexicon, and the chaotic mass of words shifted. He could feel the ancient knowledge stored within, waiting to be unlocked, but it was buried beneath layers of confusion.
One by one, the whispers dwindled, their intensity lessening as Erik honed in on a singular thread. It was like plucking a single note out of a symphony of discord. Gradually, the chaos quieted until only one voice remained.
It was clear now—distinct. The voice spoke in Dwemris, the ancient language of the Dwemer, its tone cold, mechanical, as if it had been locked away for centuries, waiting for someone to uncover it.
Erik's eyes narrowed in concentration as he listened, translating the words in his mind. The voice spoke of intricate smithing techniques, discussing the process of crafting Dwemer armor and weapons with a level of detail that no living blacksmith could replicate. It described the manipulation of materials—ebony, quicksilver, moonstone—and how the ancient Dwemer had bent these elements to their will, forging creations of unparalleled strength and durability.
As the voice continued, Erik moved swiftly to his pack, retrieving a blank journal and quill. He began writing down everything he heard, his hand moving almost of its own accord as he transcribed the knowledge being funneled into his mind. Each word, each instruction was carefully recorded, piece by piece, until entire paragraphs of ancient technique filled the pages.
The Lexicon pulsed faintly in his hand, as if recognizing that its secrets were being unraveled.
...
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