Serana's frown deepened, her gaze sharp as she studied him. "But… what exactly do you mean by that?" she asked, suspicion lacing her words.
Erik let out a slow sigh, shrugging as if he were stating the obvious. "I'd like to have my reward up front." He held her gaze, his tone calm but his eyes gleaming with a daring spark.
Serana's eyes widened, and she took a small step back, almost incredulous. "You mean… you want me to…?"
"That's the gist of it," he replied with a nod. "If I'm to walk into the home of an ancient vampire clan, I need some assurance. The Volkihar may think twice about tearing me apart if I'm one of their own. But as a mortal?" He shook his head, chuckling. "I'd rather not gamble on their goodwill."
She folded her arms, her expression a mixture of thoughtfulness and hesitation. "You don't understand," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Turning someone isn't just a bite in the dark. My father may be liberal with siring to grow the clan, but it's still… an intimate act."
Erik's smile widened at her words, an amused glint flashing in his eyes. "All the more reason you should be the one to turn me. If my options are being 'embraced' by an ancient, likely grumpy vampire lord or a beautiful woman like you, I think I'd rather the latter." He tilted his head, giving her a look that was half-challenge, half-charm.
For a moment, Serana just stared at him, seemingly caught off guard. Then, to his surprise, she let out a low, genuine laugh. "Grumpy," she echoed, as if the word struck a nerve. "He does get grumpy… especially when things don't go his way."
She sighed, the smile fading as she considered his request. "Fine. If that's really what you want, I can't deny it would make things… easier. Having you on my side is better than you being some loose thread. My home isn't exactly the warmest, most welcoming place."
A flicker of surprise crossed Erik's face, but he hid it quickly, tilting his head as he pulled down his collar to reveal his neck. "I take it you're not all sweet on home sweet home, then?" he asked, voice laced with curiosity.
Serana's eyes narrowed, her gaze lingering on the exposed skin, as if weighing every consequence of what she was about to do.
She stepped closer, her face only inches from his as she met his gaze with cool resolve. "I wouldn't call it sweet... my father and I don't really get along..." she murmured, "but it's all I've ever known. That… will have to change soon enough."
With a graceful tilt of her head, she leaned in, her cold breath brushing against his skin as her fangs extended, glinting in the dim light.
Erik's heart raced, though he kept his face impassive, as Serana's lips hovered just above his neck. With a slight hesitation, she whispered, "Just remember, this isn't something you can take back." And with that final warning, she sank her fangs into his neck.
...
Erik's senses stirred as he emerged from the haze of unconsciousness, letting out a low groan. Blinking against the dim light, he focused on the first figures in his sight—Helrath and Surtr, standing tall and tense, their bony forms leaning forward protectively, their hollow eyes fixed on Serana with a gleaming hostility.
Erik could see the skeletal fingers of Helrath twitching around his sword's hilt, as if ready to strike at any moment.
Serana stood a few feet away, her arms crossed and one brow arched as she observed the scene with thinly veiled amusement. "You're finally awake," she said dryly. "I was starting to get nervous. Your little friends here don't seem to like me very much."
Erik chuckled, rolling his neck to dispel the stiffness as he rose to his feet with surprising ease. The lightness, the sheer effortlessness of movement startled him. Every nerve and muscle hummed with a new, powerful energy, something he hadn't expected.
He glanced at Helrath and Surtr, giving Surtr a light pat on the skull, and the two skeletons relaxed almost instantly, their aggressive stance dropping as they regarded Serana without further menace.
"They're not intelligent enough to make their own judgments," he remarked with a smirk. "Not too unlike children in that way." Erik's gaze shifted to Geri, who was busily gnawing on a skull that he had acquired from… gods knew where. The sight made Erik chuckle. "The mutt seems to like you well enough, though."
Serana shrugged, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. "We raised hounds in my clan, though ours were… a bit different from the usual kind." She gave Geri a quick glance. "Not that yours here is anything ordinary."
She let her eyes rest on Erik, her expression turning serious as she observed him carefully. "In any case, how are you feeling?"
Erik flexed his fingers, clenching and unclenching his hands as if to test his newfound strength. "Stronger. There's a lightness, a power that's… different." His voice held a note of surprise as he looked down at his hands, feeling the vigor pulsing beneath his skin. "And," he added, frowning slightly, "thirsty."
It wasn't just the physical changes that struck him. There was something more profound, a strangeness to his new state—a feeling of being alive and yet not quite. He glanced at Helrath and Surtr, sensing a heightened connection to them, an affinity that pulsed through his bond with his undead minions, and he felt a smile tug at his lips. It was as if his control over the dead had grown sharper, more instinctive, his influence over them stronger than ever before.
But what pleased Erik most was the increase in his magicka reserves. For so long, his power had been a careful balancing act, bolstered only by the Necromancer's Amulet. Now, he could feel his reserves brimming, the sensation invigorating.
And yet, as he clenched his hand into a fist, he thought of his plans, the limitations and intricacies of this new power. Though he didn't intend to remain a vampire forever, he couldn't deny that it was a convenient state for his current predicament. The broken state of his soul, normally a burden, now offered an unexpected benefit.
Ironically, it was this very damage that allowed him to walk the line, transforming into a vampire without fear of Molag Bal's meddling. The fractured state of his soul granted him a certain liberty, evading the notice of the Lord of Domination through a certain precautions that hid what little magicka he had and made it seem even less significant.
Serana watched him intently, perhaps sensing the depth of his thoughts, and her gaze softened. "You're taking this all remarkably well," she noted, a hint of admiration in her tone. "Most would be struggling, even resisting the hunger, but you seem almost… composed."
Erik gave her a grin, the glint of his fangs flashing briefly. "Let's just say I have a strong will..."
Serana's gaze lingered on Erik for a moment, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of curiosity and appraisal. "It's certainly stronger than most," she remarked, her voice laced with an approving edge. She shifted her focus to the bridge ahead, leading deeper into the crypt's shadowed depths. "But we've wasted enough time here. Let's keep moving. The sooner we're out of here, the better."
With an unspoken agreement, they began their trek across the stone bridge. The eerie quiet of the crypt was only broken by the occasional drip of water echoing off distant walls. Along the way, they encountered familiar horrors—skeletal soldiers, draugr warriors, and even some of the restless souls Erik had fought alongside Isran and Fallion.
This time, however, there was an added threat: several towering gargoyles that sprung to life from their stone perches, fangs bared and claws extended.
But each ambush was dealt with swiftly by Surtr and Helrath, whose swift, brutal attacks dispatched everything in their path. Stone claws shattered, and ancient armor crumpled beneath the unyielding force of Erik's summoned guardians.
Serana watched the carnage unfold with raised brows, marveling that she didn't even have to lift a finger.
As they moved through the crypt, Erik struck up casual conversation with Serana, weaving both truths and carefully crafted lies into his tale. When the subject of Isran inevitably came up, Erik didn't shy away this time.
"Isran," he explained, glancing over at her as they stepped past a crumbling pillar, "was actually a Vigilant of Stendarr. He's here investigating recent vampire activity in Hjaalmarch."
Serana's face remained impassive, but her silence prompted him to continue. "As for myself," he went on smoothly, "I'm more of an independent scholar. My field of study is… let's say it's necromancy and souls, more or less."
The faint smirk that crossed Serana's face told him she wasn't entirely convinced by his tale, yet she allowed it without pressing, and that was fine by him. Soon enough, they dispatched the last of the draugr guarding the crypt's exit. Among them was a towering warrior, hulking and heavily armored, who had clearly been laid to rest as the champion of this forgotten tomb.
His dark, hollowed eyes gleamed with a malice undulled by time, and his movements were fiercer than the others. But with Surtr and Helrath at his side, Erik took down the champion after a fierce clash.
As the dust settled, Erik's eyes were drawn to the far wall, where an ancient Word Wall loomed. The carved dragon language caught his attention, and he found himself stepping toward it in a trance-like daze, his fingers grazing the ancient script as if feeling the power locked within each etched word.
The voice broke his reverie as Serana's voice cut through the silence. "That's… dragon language, isn't it?" Her tone was a mix of curiosity and suspicion. "Are you familiar with it?"
Erik nodded, his fingers tracing a particular word before he stepped back, studying the wall. "If you're curious, it reads: Here lies the body of Svolo, who possessed strength to kill a dragon but not the stamina to kill many." He chuckled softly, glancing back at Serana. "Svolo was the hulking draugr, by the way. The one who almost took Surtr's head..."
Serana fixed Erik with a knowing, slightly skeptical look, her eyes narrowing. "And yet, you claimed this place was built by vampires… You're full of it...."
Erik let out a low chuckle, undeterred by her tone. "The section you were sealed in, most certainly," he replied, meeting her gaze with a sly smile. "But the crypt as a whole? No, that's classic Nord craftsmanship. This was built as a resting place for Svolo, to honor his memory." He gestured at the surrounding stone carvings, the intricate architecture that was so distinctly Nordic, from the towering pillars to the solemn engravings.
Serana's gaze flickered to the Word Wall again, and she tilted her head thoughtfully. "Ancient Nords certainly had a strange way of honoring someone by also mocking his… lack of stamina," she murmured, looking at the inscription with faint amusement.
Erik shrugged. "It's all about the intent," he replied, glancing back at the wall. "The words here aren't meant as an insult. There's a fondness to them, a playfulness, almost like a jest shared between friends." His expression softened a little as he continued, "Svolo was undoubtedly enshrined here by a close confidante who wanted to capture his spirit as much as his strength."
He reached out and brushed his fingers across the wall, feeling the ancient power thrumming beneath the stone. "If it were meant as mockery, they wouldn't have mentioned his achievement of slaying a dragon. That was the highest honor for a Nord in those times—facing a dragon in battle and living to tell the tale, even if he couldn't slay another."
Serana watched him closely, her expression softening as if seeing something more in Erik than she had initially thought. "Well," she said finally, her tone shifting back to its usual dryness, "it's a good thing draugr lose most of their strength while they slumber. Otherwise, we'd have been in more trouble than we bargained for."
"Time dulls even the sharpest of blades," Erik agreed with a nod, a glint of understanding in his eyes. "But I think I've indulged my curiosity enough for now." He straightened, brushing off the dust that had settled on his hands, the slightest smile tugging at his lips. "Let's keep moving. The sooner we're out of this tomb, the better."
They began down the darkened corridor once more, the soft clinking of bones and whisper of Serana's robes filling the silence. He stole a glance at her as they walked. "They say the journey is more important than the destination... let loose, try to enjoy the trip..."
She raised a brow, giving him a sidelong look. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm only here because I have no choice. But…" She trailed off, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at her lips, "let's just say, for now, you're tolerable."
Erik chuckled. "That's the highest compliment I've received all day... right, where did you say your family home was...?"
...
As the sun sank below the horizon, the light softened into a burnished glow, casting long shadows across the camp. Serana sat close to the crackling fire, absently rubbing Geri's belly as he sprawled contentedly on his back.
Her mind drifted back to the last two days, a whirlwind of rugged landscapes and tense moments, their escape from Dimhollow Crypt leading them through the wild, untamed terrain of Skyrim.
After emerging from the crypt, they had taken a much-needed pause to rest, both silently pondering the journey that lay ahead. She knew the path back to Castle Volkihar was no easy one; the crypt had deposited them on the eastern side of the mountain in the heart of the Pale's frostbitten cliffs.
Meanwhile, Castle Volkihar was far to the northwest, just off the shores of Solitude, Skyrim's northern capital.
They had crossed the jagged, frozen peaks of the Pale, through the marshes of Hjaalmarch, and now found themselves on the cusp of Haafingar's territory. Only a few hours separated them from Dragon's Bridge, a sign that they were close to Solitude and, in turn, her family's ancestral home.
Serana's gaze shifted to Erik as she added a few more logs to the fire. His newfound strength as a vampire had unnerved her, and while he had repeatedly assured her he was in control, the hunger of a newly sired vampire was notoriously insistent.
Erik did not seem like one to overestimate himself, and his self-discipline was unusual in someone new to their bloodlust. But she had insisted—no, pestered him—to feed, unwilling to risk any unexpected bouts of hunger. And finally, more out of a desire to quiet her than anything else, he had relented.
The memory of their stop at the bandit hideout returned to her, vivid as if she were still standing in the shadow of those towering trees, the moon watching over like a silent witness.
Erik had moved through the den like a shadow, a blur of strength and precision. She had watched with fascination and a measure of surprise as he dispatched the bandits, not with his prized sword-staff that he seemed to cherish, spells, or his undead, but with the raw physical prowess granted by his vampiric nature. The silver glint of his claws was all he seemed to need.
One by one, the bandits fell, unable to stand against his newfound speed and strength.
Not once did he draw his blade while dealing with the bandits, and yet there he was, beneath an old oak, performing what she could only interpret as a sword dance under the moonlight.
Serana lingered on the edge of the clearing, her gaze fixed on Erik as he moved in a graceful rhythm, his steps and fluid motions reflecting an almost spiritual reverence.
The moonlight glinted off his swordstaff, casting long shadows across his form as he moved in an intricate, measured pattern, each motion deliberate yet possessing an effortless grace.
She didn't interrupt him, fascinated by his poise and the strength that emanated from his movements.
When he finally finished, the silence hung between them, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the soft whisper of the night breeze.
She hesitated a moment, then asked, "That swordsmanship… where did you learn it?" She frowned thoughtfully before adding, "My father has also studied the art of the blade. He uses techniques passed down since ancient times, refined almost to perfection. But yours… it's no less impressive."
Erik smiled, the hint of a distant memory in his eyes. "Beyond the Sea of Pearls," he began, his voice soft with reminiscence, "peerless swordmasters were as common as grains of sand."
His gaze drifted to the heavens, as though he were looking across those seas once again. "Even the grandest victories felt almost commonplace. In a land of heroes, how can anyone claim to be exceptional?"
Serana instantly caught on to what he was saying. Her eyes widened with curiosity. "You're a sword singer?"
Erik shrugged, a modest gesture at odds with the depth of his skill. "Something like that."
She tilted her head, taking in his poetic words with a hint of admiration. "It's strange… You're a necromancer, a swordsman, and now a poet too?"
He chuckled, the sound warm in the quiet of the night. "A skald, actually," he corrected her, his eyes gleaming. "But those words aren't mine. They belong to Rada al-Saran."
Serana's brow furrowed as she searched her memory, the name tugging at the edges of her recollection. "Rada al-Saran… I've heard that name before. The Ashen Lord?"
Erik nodded, respect evident in his expression. "One and the same. He was among the first Yokudans to set foot in Hammerfell, a sword saint renowned for his mastery of the blade—some said his skill was so peerless that he could match the gods themselves..."
"It's only natural for you to hear or read about him somewhere even in ancient times... but I bet you didn't know he was a vampire lord..."
"Another legend," she mused, but her tone was tinged with fascination. "I've heard whispers of his name, even before I was sealed. But to think he, too, was a vampire?"
Erik's gaze sharpened. "Indeed. Rada al-Saran joined the Grey Host in the First Era. But his way of life earned him many enemies, not least among them Molag Bal himself." He paused, a hint of wistfulness coloring his tone. "Still, his achievements were so remarkable, they're immortalized in Hermaeus Mora's Infinite Archive in Apocrypha. His legend has endured through the centuries."
Serana shook her head in wonder, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips. "A vampire lord remembered as a hero? I thought I'd heard everything."
Erik chuckled, leaning his swordstaff against a nearby tree and crossing his arms as he met her gaze. "Not exactly a hero," he corrected gently. "But greatness is not always about heroism. Sometimes it's simply about leaving a mark that refuses to be erased."
She nodded thoughtfully, casting her eyes to the shadowed wilderness around them. "To think the world has changed so much… I wonder what else I've missed these past five thousand years." Her voice was soft, almost wistful, carrying a trace of longing she rarely allowed to show.
Erik grinned, his eyes glinting with humor and knowledge. "I can't claim to know everything that's happened, but I do know more than most," he replied, his tone warm and inviting. "If there's anything you want to know..."
...
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