Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #18

The Bee and the Barb was alive with activity despite the early hour. The warm glow of the hearth reflected off the polished wooden walls, the logs stacked tightly to form the inn’s sturdy structure.

The faint scent of pine mixed with the aroma of roasting meats and fresh bread. Patrons sat at rough-hewn tables, their chatter filling the air in a lively hum. The wooden beams overhead creaked now and then, a constant reminder of the building’s age, yet it added to the charm rather than detracted from it.

Riften was a rough city, but within the inn's walls, the atmosphere was welcoming—if not for the occasional furtive glance from someone in the shadows.

Erik sat at one of the larger tables, his breakfast laid before him—a plate of smoked salmon, fresh from Lake Honrich, with a side of scrambled eggs, a thick slice of hearty bread, and a wedge of goat cheese.

Beside him on the floor, Geri, his demonic Corgi, gnawed on a chunk of venison. The hound’s fiery eyes glowed faintly, but he was surprisingly calm, his small form appearing almost harmless—if one didn’t know better.

Erik ate slowly, savoring the simple but rich flavors. The salmon, slightly salty with a hint of smoke, was perfectly complemented by the creamy texture of the goat cheese. As he lifted his tankard of mead to his lips, his gaze flicked casually around the room, landing momentarily on the cloaked figure that had followed him last night.

The figure sat at the corner table, watching him intently, but Erik paid him no mind. If they wanted something, they would have approached by now.

The buzz of conversation continued around him, but Erik remained in his own world until Keerava, the Argonian co-owner of the inn, approached to clear his plate. Her scales caught the light as she smiled, her voice smooth yet firm. "Breakfast good, stranger?"

Erik gave a curt nod. "Better than I expected. Thanks."

Keerava nodded back, her tail flicking behind her as she took the plate and moved away. Erik stood, adjusting his cloak and giving Geri a slight nudge to get him moving. But before he could take a step toward the door, the cloaked figure rose and approached swiftly, cutting off his path.

The moment the figure stood, the atmosphere in the inn shifted. The bard by the hearth began to strum his lute with exaggerated enthusiasm, launching into a boisterous rendition of "Ragnar the Red." The patrons responded in kind, their once-muted conversations growing into a cacophony of loud voices and laughter. Erik raised an eyebrow at the sudden increase in volume, realizing the distraction had been orchestrated.

He turned to face the hooded figure directly, his voice low but clear. "I was wondering when you'd approach me," he said, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Seeing as you had the decency to wait until I finished my meal, I suppose I can give you a couple of minutes of my time."

The figure chuckled softly, the sound barely audible over the noise of the inn. With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing a sharp, angular face with striking green eyes. His long red hair fell past his shoulders, and a light beard framed his jawline. The black leather armor beneath his cloak marked him as someone who moved through the shadows with ease.

Erik’s eyes narrowed slightly as recognition dawned. Brynjolf. He knew that face well, along with the reputation that came with it. A member of the Thieves Guild—one of the more prominent ones, in fact. Erik crossed his arms, his expression calm but alert.

"So," Erik said, his voice low but firm. "What does a member of the Thieves Guild want with me?"

Brynjolf’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Straight to the point. I like that," he said. "But trust me, lad, it's more than just a simple request. I reckon we might have some mutual interests."

Erik’s gaze remained locked on Brynjolf, waiting to hear more, his mind already calculating the possible angles. Whatever the Thieves Guild wanted from him, he knew it wouldn’t be straightforward—but then, nothing in Riften ever was.

Erik and Brynjolf sat across from each other, the raucous din of the tavern providing a fitting backdrop to their conversation. Brynjolf leaned forward, hands clasped on the table, his piercing green eyes fixed on Erik.

"I’ve got an offer for you, lad," Brynjolf began, his voice low but clear, "for a fellow walking the same path."

Erik arched an eyebrow, confused. "Same path? What are you talking about?"

Brynjolf chuckled softly, shaking his head. "There's no need to pretend, friend. Only a seasoned thief could move the way you do—especially wearing armor like that." He motioned to Erik's Ebony Mail. "And the way you handled that little shakedown with the guards outside... well, that was enough for me to take notice."

Erik couldn't help but sigh internally. He should have expected something like this. The Ebony Mail, a relic of the Daedric Prince Boethiah, had many properties beyond its formidable defenses. One of those was its ability to muffle the wearer’s movements, making Erik near-silent when walking, even in heavy armor. But Brynjolf had clearly mistaken this magical effect for Erik's personal skill.

Waving his hand dismissively, Erik replied, "You're mistaken. I'm no thief, nor am I anything of the sort."

Brynjolf frowned slightly, his fingers drumming on the table. "Not a thief, eh?" His tone became more curious than accusatory. "Then what? Are you part of the Dark Brotherhood?"

Erik exhaled sharply, exasperation clear in his eyes. "The Dark Brotherhood? How in Oblivion did you come to that conclusion?"

Brynjolf leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he studied Erik with an appraising look. "I’ve got my sources, lad. You’ve been seen in Morthal and Windhelm. And, wouldn’t you know it, some strange things happened shortly after you passed through. A wench disapeared in Morthal... and then that fire at Calixto’s shop in Windhelm. Took the old man’s life."

Erik’s eyes widened momentarily, caught off guard by the information. He quickly gathered his composure, though his mind raced. 'The Thieves Guild was much more well-connected than it had been in the game,' he realized.

In Skyrim’s timeline, by the time the Dragonborn arrived, the guild had become a shadow of its former self. But now, it seemed, several years before the Dragonborn's appearance, the guild’s intelligence network was still sharp, active, and formidable.

Brynjolf leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "At first, we thought it was just coincidence. But if you’re not a thief... well, that leaves one obvious answer, doesn’t it? You must be an assassin. That would explain a lot of things."

Erik fought to keep his expression neutral. The absurdity of Brynjolf’s assumption would have been laughable—if it weren’t actually true. Still, confessing to murder, no matter how justified, was out of the question. He cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully.

"An assassin?" he said with a dismissive chuckle. "No, not quite. I’m a hunter of sorts."

Brynjolf’s gaze stayed sharp, waiting for more. Erik shook his head, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. "That wench you mentioned... yes, she did die by my hand. But not without good reason. She was a vampire. Part of a coven planning to turn Morthal into their personal livestock pen."

His voice lowered. "I made sure to handle it quietly, to avoid panic. But the Jarl knows of my actions."

Brynjolf’s eyes narrowed, searching Erik’s face for any sign of deceit. "And what of the fire in Windhelm?" he pressed. "That wasn’t just coincidence, surely."

Erik shrugged nonchalantly. "Mere happenstance, I’d say. I heard about the fire, same as anyone. Apparently, that shopkeeper had a thing for collecting magical trinkets. Maybe one of them decided it was time to burst into flames. These things happen."

For a moment, Brynjolf simply stared, weighing Erik's words. It wasn’t clear whether he believed the explanation or not, but Erik didn’t particularly care. There was no real evidence to tie him to the incidents, and that was enough.

After a beat, Brynjolf leaned back in his chair, the tension in his posture easing slightly. "No matter," he said, waving a hand. "It’s none of my business anyway. I wasn’t trying to threaten you, friend. Just wanted to make sure you understood the Guild’s reach." He smirked, a sly glint in his eye. "Rough times or not, our influence stretches across all the Nine Holds."

Erik regarded him with a passive look, unimpressed by the bravado. "Consider me impressed, truly," he said dryly. "But the question remains—what exactly do you want from me?"

Erik’s gaze never wavered as Brynjolf began speaking again, the swagger in his tone barely masking the underlying desperation. "Remember those hard times I mentioned?" Brynjolf leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. "We’ve hit a rough patch ever since our former guild master... well, let's just say he's no longer around. A bit of bad luck here, some misfortune there. None of it seems like much on its own, but when it all happens at once, the guild's seen better days."

Erik nodded, not needing further explanation. The Thieves Guild’s downfall wasn’t exactly news to him—it aligned with what he remembered from Skyrim. Mercer Frey, the current guild master, had betrayed them, killing the previous master and stealing Nocturnal’s Skeleton Key, only to frame another member of the guild.

Nocturnal took offense to the act and decided to punish the Thieves Guild, gradually stripping the guild of its luck and power. It was only a matter of time before they were reduced to nothing more than petty criminals barely clinging to relevance, even in Riften.

Brynjolf continued, cutting through Erik’s thoughts. "I figured new blood might just be what we need to turn things around," he said, his tone turning more persuasive. "And you? You’re perfect for the job. If you can move unnoticed, everything else will come naturally. With your skills, we could rebuild."

At that, Erik froze, blinking in disbelief. He stared at Brynjolf as if the man had just proposed something utterly preposterous. Then, slowly, a laugh began to bubble up from deep within his chest. It started as a low rumble before erupting into a full, hearty laugh that echoed through the inn, drawing curious glances from the patrons.

Brynjolf’s expression twisted into one of confusion, then frustration, as Erik’s laughter continued unabated. "What’s so damned funny?" Brynjolf asked, his voice clipped with barely concealed irritation.

Erik finally composed himself, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, still chuckling softly. "You want me, me, to join the Thieves Guild? To become a thief, skulking around in the dark to snatch some coins and trinkets?" He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, a bemused grin still tugging at his lips. "Now that... that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in many years."

Brynjolf’s scowl deepened, his patience clearly wearing thin. "I wasn’t trying to entertain you, friend. I was serious."

Erik met Brynjolf’s gaze with a firm shake of his head. The thought of slinking around as a petty criminal was almost offensive. "Not in your lifetime, friend."

There was a flicker of something dark in Erik’s eyes as he said it, the weight of the old necromancer's memories past surfacing for just a moment. He had spent a lifetime dealing with matters far more grave than stealing coins and trinkets.

If the lingering mentality of the ancient necromancer gnawing at the back of his mind had any say, he would have burned Brynjolf to ashes right then and there for even suggesting it. But instead, Erik took a slow breath, letting that thought fade.

Brynjolf was silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he studied Erik. "You laugh now," he said, his tone hardening. "But we’re not just thieves. We’re a brotherhood. And there’s power in what we do, more than you might think."

Erik gave him a sidelong glance, the humor gone from his face. "I don’t need power from shadows and whispered deals. I walk a different path, one that doesn’t involve your petty squabbles or guild politics."

Brynjolf, still looking displeased, stood up from the table, clearly not used to being refused. "Suit yourself," he muttered, preparing to leave. "But don’t come crying to me when you need friends in low places."

Erik’s smile widened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Wait, don’t leave just yet," he said, raising his hand casually. He didn’t need much effort—just a subtle flicker of mana flowing through his fingertips as he cast a weight alteration spell on Brynjolf.

The change was instantaneous. Brynjolf, who had been halfway out of his seat, was yanked back down as if invisible hands had pushed him into place. His expression paled, shock and outrage mixing together, though he kept his voice measured. "Do you even understand what you’re doing?" His voice was tense, the words bitten off with forced restraint. "To who? And where?"

Erik waved a hand dismissively, as if Brynjolf's outrage were a minor inconvenience. "No need for all that anger." He leaned forward, the gleam in his eyes betraying his amusement. "I may not be interested in joining your merry band of scoundrels," he paused, chuckling softly, letting the laughter linger in his voice before continuing, "but I am more than capable of helping you avert the crisis looming over your guild."

Brynjolf’s frown deepened, suspicion clouding his features. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?" His voice was laced with both doubt and curiosity, as though part of him couldn’t help but wonder what Erik knew that he didn’t.

Erik’s smile turned almost predatory. "It’s quite simple, really," he said, leaning back in his chair, as if the weight of the conversation was now in his hands. "I’ll help you understand why you’re in this situation." He let his words trail off, feigning thoughtfulness, drawing out the tension.

"You mentioned your guild’s been having... a streak of bad luck, right?" Erik’s tone was casual, but the sharpness in his eyes showed he was far from indifferent.

"I’d wager it’s things like... oh, a cloud moving at just the wrong moment, casting light on a thief trying to hide in the shadows, or maybe a brand-new floorboard creaking just as one of your men is about to make their getaway, blowing their cover." His smile widened as he continued. "Small coincidences, seemingly insignificant, but enough to ruin an entire mission."

Brynjolf’s eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. "It’s as you say." He admitted grudgingly, but his suspicion hadn’t faded. "But how could you possibly help with something like that? Luck’s just superstition. A thief survives on skill, nothing else."

Erik chuckled, shaking his head as if Brynjolf’s words were those of a child clinging to a comforting lie. "Think about it, Brynjolf. One or two of these things happening? Sure, you can chalk that up to coincidence. But all of them? Time and time again, over and over? These small accidents piling up to ruin your operations?"

Brynjolf was silent for a moment, his frown deepening, but Erik could see the gears turning in his mind.

"Lucky breaks and misfortunes happen to everyone," Erik continued, his tone dropping into something more serious. "But when they stack up like this, it’s not just bad luck. It’s a pattern. And patterns like these aren’t born of coincidence. Luck isn’t some idle superstition; it’s as real as the wind or the rain. And for a thief, more than anyone else, it’s a fact of life. It’s something that can make or break you."

Brynjolf shifted in his seat, his expression still skeptical, though the doubt in his eyes had softened slightly. "You’re saying someone’s controlling our luck?"

Erik leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a knowing look. "Yes. Your guild’s misfortunes aren’t just random chance," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Someone is controlling your luck, and you should already know exactly who that someone is."

Brynjolf frowned, skepticism still etched into his features. "Surely you don't mean Nocturnal?" His voice was laced with disbelief. "That’s just an old superstition, as ancient as the Thieves Guild itself..."

Erik let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. "Let me ask you this. Before your former guild master died, how often did your operations fail due to some ridiculous reason? Something as absurd as, say, a guard getting a stomachache and swapping shifts early, ruining your entire plan?"

Brynjolf stared at him for a moment before shaking his head slowly. "I... I don’t remember anything like that ever happening before his death."

"Exactly," Erik said, leaning forward, his eyes sharp. "The fact that no minor inconvenience ever ruined one of your operations is even stranger than the series of unfortunate events you're dealing with now." He paused for emphasis, letting the words sink in. "Misfortune happens to everyone, even the best of thieves. Small inconveniences that can wreck a plan are rare, yes—but they should still happen occasionally. It’s the absence of those accidents that’s abnormal."

Brynjolf’s face began to change, shifting from skepticism to dawning realization. His eyes widened with a growing sense of horror. "So... we’re cursed?"