Erik declared, "Who's next?" as he turned to face the remaining bandits. But he paused, eyebrows raised, as he realized there were no opponents left standing. The area was littered with the grisly remnants of what had once been men and women, now reduced to bone fragments and bloody paste beneath Scadu's relentless hooves. The skeletal horse stood amidst the carnage, its empty eye sockets somehow conveying a sense of satisfaction.
Erik sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Note to self: don't use Scadu unless necessary," he muttered under his breath. The sheer brutality of the scene was a stark reminder of his mount's overwhelming power.
He glanced around at the mangled bodies and shook his head, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. "Could've put their bones to good use," he mused aloud.
"Oh, well..." Accepting the situation, Erik decided to make do with what remained. Turning his attention to the two bandits he had personally dispatched, he approached the nearest corpse.
The man's lifeless eyes stared blankly at the sky, a pool of crimson spreading beneath him. Erik extended his hand over the body, fingers splayed as he focused his will.
"Extract Bone," he intoned.
Immediately, the bandit's arm convulsed, the flesh bulging grotesquely as the underlying bone tore itself free. With a wet, ripping sound, the forearm bone burst forth, shedding muscle and sinew that fell away in grisly chunks until only a pristine, white bone hovered in the air. Erik watched with clinical detachment, unperturbed by the macabre display.
Most necromancers, he recalled, would simply reanimate a corpse as a shambling zombie and be done with it. A crude method, and one that often resulted in a slow, foul-smelling minion prone to decay. The old Erik Deathsong had preferred a more refined approach.
By extracting magicka-rich bones from various sources and combining them, he could construct skeletons of formidable strength and agility—creations that surpassed the limitations of mere animated dead.
This technique required precision and a deep understanding of necromantic arts. The spell he had just used, one of his own design, allowed for the efficient collection of bones without the messy and time-consuming process of butchering a corpse by hand.
Erik moved to the second bandit, repeating the process. "Extract Bone," he commanded. This time, the femur lifted from the leg, slipping free with less resistance now that he was growing accustomed to the spell. The bone joined the forearm in the air, both hovering obediently at his side.
He surveyed the remains of the other bandits. While Scadu had left little behind, perhaps there were still usable pieces among the debris. With a wave of his hand, he sent the extracted bones toward a clear spot on the snow-covered ground. They arranged themselves neatly, awaiting further instruction.
"Let's see what we have to work with," Erik murmured.
He began to walk among the carnage, eyes keenly searching for intact bones. A rib here, a scapula there—every piece counted. Occasionally, he would use the extraction spell again, salvaging what he could from the less-damaged bodies. As the collection grew, the bones started to assemble themselves into a rough humanoid shape, guided by his will.
The process was methodical, almost ritualistic. Erik chanted under his breath, weaving threads of magicka through the bones, binding them together. The air around him shimmered faintly as the enchantments took hold. Despite his limited magicka reserves, he managed the task by using minimal energy, relying on precision rather than brute force.
Minutes later, a new skeleton stood before him. It was taller than an average man, its frame composed of the strongest bones he had gathered. The skull bore a pair of horns, adding an imposing touch to its appearance. Its eye sockets glowed with a faint, eerie light, signaling the successful binding of the animating force.
"Not bad," Erik remarked, a hint of pride in his voice. "You shall serve me well."
He continued to inspect the skeleton closely, raising its arm and tapping its bones, feeling their strength. The creature was sturdy enough for now, but Erik knew it could be improved. "I'll have to find a necromancer shrine and toughen up those bones of yours later," he murmured. His eyes gleamed as he bit the tip of his index finger, drawing a thin line of blood that welled up against the cold air.
With precision, he began to draw intricate symbols across the skeleton's body, tracing them with his blood before carving them deeply into the bone with a small, sharp knife.
Once finished, he stepped back, observing his work. These runes, part of an ancient necromantic technique, would bolster the skeleton's resilience and ensure its obedience even when far from its master. Erik continued, "You'll draw too much attention for now, though, so go back and get yourself geared up until I call you again."
With a snap of his fingers, the skeleton was engulfed in a shimmering purple energy, its form quickly fading into nothingness. Erik smiled at the success of yet another of his modified spells—a personal twist on conjuration magic.
Unlike the traditional conjuring spells used to summon familiars, atronachs, or even Daedra from Oblivion and banish them back to whence they came, Erik's magic allowed him to store creatures and objects in a hidden space he had created in the basement of Snowhawk Fortress. It was, in essence, his own personal storage vault, a practical alternative to dimensional rings or bags of holding.
Though the summoning required a bit of magicka each time, it was an efficient solution for someone like Erik, who preferred to travel light without losing access to his tools.
With the skeleton safely stashed away, Erik turned his attention back to Scadu. The undead horse stood silently, its glowing eyes locked on its master. Erik reached up and pulled the black cloth back over the horse's skull, concealing its unsettling visage.
"Let's go," he said, mounting Scadu. "Morthal shouldn't be too far off now."
He urged the skeletal steed forward, the misty marshland stretching out ahead as they rode toward the small, isolated town. End scene.
...
Reaching the outskirts of Morthal, Erik dismounted, watching as Scadu melted seamlessly back into the shadows, vanishing from sight as though it had never been there. He took a moment to adjust his attire, straightening his cloak and smoothing down the ornate leather belts that held his weapons. With a deep breath, he began his descent down the narrow, uneven path leading into the town.
As he neared Morthal, a few of the patrolling guards gave him curious glances, their eyes lingering on his finely crafted sword and the intricate rings on his fingers. They were likely more accustomed to travelers in simpler attire, but none of them approached him or questioned his presence. Erik returned their gazes with indifference, continuing on his way without so much as a second thought.
The town unfolded before him, and despite its familiarity, Erik found himself both surprised and intrigued. It was like stepping into a living version of the Morthal he remembered from the game—similar yet strikingly different in its own way.
The town was situated on a shallow, marshy body of water, just as he recalled, with wooden platforms crisscrossing over the swampy terrain. These walkways connected patches of dry land where the houses stood, raised slightly above the marsh on sturdy stilts.
The visual detail, however, was far richer than what he had ever experienced in the game. The soft lapping of water against the stilts, the faint scent of moss and wet earth, and the cool, damp air hanging in the mist lent the village an eerie, immersive atmosphere.
Erik's boots thudded softly on the wooden walkways as he toured the town, his eyes scanning the simple, weathered structures that surrounded him.
The houses were built of aged timber with slanted thatch roofs, looking worn but resilient against the swamp's harsh climate. There were several small boats tied to wooden posts, presumably used by the townsfolk to traverse the marshy waters. A few fishermen worked nearby, casting nets into the shallows with quiet concentration.
Despite the familiar layout, Erik noted how much larger the town appeared in reality. The buildings were grander, more expansive than what he had seen in the game, and Morthal itself stretched out farther than he expected. His gaze was drawn immediately to the towering structure near the town's entrance—the Jarl's longhouse.
Built in the same traditional style as the other buildings, with slanted thatch roofs and wooden walls, it stood far taller and broader, exuding a quiet authority over the town. Its imposing size marked it as the seat of power in this isolated corner of the Hold.
Other than the Jarl's longhouse, however, Morthal didn't have much to offer in the way of commerce or entertainment. Erik spotted a small inn nestled near the center of town, its worn sign creaking gently in the breeze.
A potion shop stood nearby, with bundles of herbs and alchemical ingredients hanging outside its entrance, adding a faint but pleasant scent to the otherwise musty air. The town's simple, modest atmosphere was palpable—there were no bustling markets or lively crowds, just the quiet murmur of villagers going about their daily routines.
After some time, Erik finished his quiet tour of Morthal, sighing in mild disappointment. He had been searching for a particular burned-down building, a familiar landmark from the game that should have triggered the start of one of two quests tied to this town.
In the game, Morthal was known for two things: Falion's dealings with the cure for vampirism, which didn't concern Erik for now, and a quest involving a group of coven vampires plotting to use the town's residents as livestock. That quest always started with inquiries about a burned-down house, a tragic event that should have already happened if the vampires had made a move on Morthal as he suspected.
His thoughts swirled as he mused over this. If the vampires had yet to make their move, they were likely still lurking somewhere around the outskirts, laying the groundwork for their eventual plan. Erik's eyes narrowed slightly, calculating the benefit of uncovering their hideout sooner rather than later.
If he could get ahead of the situation, it would make his own plans for the future considerably easier to execute. Vampires were powerful, and more importantly, valuable assets—if handled correctly.
Having made up his mind, Erik headed toward the Moorside Inn, located near the bridge that led deeper into the marshes. The inn's weathered sign swayed gently in the breeze as he pushed open the door, the creak of the hinges echoing in the quiet air. Stepping inside, he found himself in a dimly lit, mostly empty tavern.
The space was modest, with several wooden tables scattered across the room, though none were occupied. The warm glow of a hearth flickered in the corner, casting shadows on the stone walls. The only other occupants were an orc sitting in one corner, struggling to play a lute with what could only be described as painful incompetence, and a Redguard woman standing behind the counter.
Her dark eyes were narrowed in irritation as she glared at the orc, who continued to mangle the instrument with complete obliviousness to her displeasure.
Erik's lips quirked slightly in amusement as he made his way toward the counter. The innkeeper, clearly the woman behind the bar, didn't seem overly enthusiastic to greet him, her attention more focused on whether she could endure another off-tune chord from the lute player.
"Good evening," Erik greeted, his voice smooth but authoritative enough to draw her attention away from the orc.
She looked him over, taking note of his finely crafted clothes and the weapons at his side, before offering a polite nod. "Evening, traveler. What can I do for you?" Her voice was curt but not unfriendly, though her eyes flicked back to the orc as another sour note reverberated through the room.
Erik leaned casually against the counter, his eyes flicking between the innkeeper and the orc struggling to pluck out a tune on a battered lute in the corner. The dissonant notes echoed through the empty inn, grating against his ears. He grimaced slightly before turning back to the Redguard woman behind the bar.
"An ale will do for a start," he said, placing a handful of coins on the counter.
The innkeeper, clearly used to doing business in a place where patrons came and went without much fuss, swiped the coins off the counter with practiced ease.
She pulled a dusty bottle from beneath the bar and poured a generous serving into a mug before sliding it over to Erik. "Here you go," she said, her voice carrying the same curt yet professional tone.
Erik took a sip, the bitter taste of the ale coating his tongue. He glanced at the orc again, who was now muttering the words to a song, completely off-key. "What's with the orc by the way?" he asked, raising a brow.
The innkeeper scoffed. "That would be Lurbuk. Fancies himself a bard."
Erik gave her a bemused look. "A bard? I think he'll find more success working as a torturer..."
She sighed heavily, leaning one elbow on the counter as she watched the orc pluck another discordant note. "He pays, so I let him stay. If I had any customers, I'd be worried about him annoying them, but as you can see..." She gestured around at the nearly empty room.
Erik chuckled, taking another sip of his ale. "Now that you mention it, the town does look awfully dreary, morbid even. The only people who seemed to be somewhat alive were a couple of drunk guards, talking about some burned-down house, but I didn't see anything like that..." He let the question hang in the air as he gauged her reaction.
The innkeeper's face shifted, a brief flicker of surprise crossing her features before she shrugged. "You don't need to mind those drunkards. They've got very little to do around here, so they always end up getting sloshed and talking nonsense. Especially that--" She paused for a moment, frowning thoughtfully.
Erik raised a brow, intrigued by the shift in her tone. "What's wrong?"
The woman hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly as if recalling something that bothered her. "Strange thing, really. Jarl Idgrod came by here a few days ago, and said a stranger would visit one day asking about a burned-down house..." She trailed off, her eyes scanning Erik more closely. "Said I should send him her way when that happened."
Erik's pulse quickened at her words, but he kept his expression neutral, adopting a confused, inquisitive look instead. "Really? That seems… odd." He tilted his head as if he were merely curious.
The innkeeper waved her hand dismissively, sensing his confusion. "Oh, don't mind that. The Jarl's been known to spout all sorts of strange nonsense about visions and whatnot. People around here say she sees the future, but..." She made a face, clearly unimpressed. "It's probably just a coincidence... Best steer clear of that old hag."
Erik nodded slowly, as if processing her words, but his mind was already spinning with possibilities. The Jarl's reputation for visions aligned uncomfortably well with the timing of his arrival and the quest he had been seeking. Something more was at play here than simple gossip.
The woman crossed her arms, her voice lowering as she added, "And besides, she's mixed up with that damned mage, Falion. He's always poking around the marshes at night, doing gods-know-what. People around here don't trust him, and I don't blame them."
Erik leaned back, contemplating. The name Falion struck a chord, but his focus was still on the mention of the burned-down house and the Jarl's cryptic message. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, finishing his ale and setting the mug down on the counter. "Thanks for the drink."
The innkeeper nodded, casting one more weary glance at Lurbuk before turning her attention back to the bar. Erik stood, adjusting his cloak as he made his way toward the door. As he stepped out into the cool evening air, his thoughts churned with possibilities.
There was more to Jarl Idgrod than met the eye. Even in the game, she was known to have visions, but he didn't think he'd be included in them as well.
"Things just got a whole lot more interesting..." Erik muttered, making his way toward the longhouse.
...
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