The Tale of the Necromancer
Hail traveler! Come, sit and rest a while. I was just beginning a tale, perhaps you would care to join me? I tell a tale of death and of life, and a man suspended between both. A tale of dark magic born of desperation and darker deeds born of hate. I tell the tale of the Necromancer.
Drysis Vettel was not born to evil, far from it. He was born in High Rock under the sign of the Apprentice and, like many a young Breton, was sent to learn the art of magic under a local scholar. It was here that he met Arbelle Broeles a fellow Breton gifted in the arts of Alteration and Illusion, the two became fast friends and, almost inevitably, this friendship grew into a relationship. They finished their studies and, since Drysis was by no means a gifted mage, bought a small plot of land in Cyrodil far away from the politics and scheming of High Rock.
It was here that the two would live out their lives together, Arbelle's skills in Illusion translated remarkably well to farming, a calmed flock was easy to herd, and Drysis found himself in in happiest days of his life. But like in most stories this happiness could not last, though it pains me to think the pains Skyrim would have been spared if it had. After forty years of marriage Arabelle was stricken with witsbane after chasing off some wolves scavenging the farm. Forced to watch as his wife, his world, deteriorated Drysis sought out a healer who offered his services in performing a ritual to restore her. The High Elf claimed that since witsbane was an affliction of the mind the best cure was to rejuvenate the source of magicka, specifically by transferring half of Drysis' to her. Who is to say whether this would have cured Arabelle? But Drysis suffered from a taint known to all under the sign of the Apprentice. When the Altmer performed the ritual it was soon apparent what was wrong, but much too late. Twice as much of Drysis' life force was taken due to his innate weakness to magicka, this overloaded Arabelle's mind. She died screaming.
The Altmer fled into the night, fearing retribution, and rightly so. Though Drysis was in no state to enact it. The ritual left him comatose on the ground, drained. He awoke three weeks later next to the rotten corpse of his wife, and he lay there for two more days, in fear, shock, anger? Who can say what goes through a mans head in his lowest moments? I pray stranger, that you never experience a time akin to his.
After this time the wronged Breton stood up. He felt weak with hunger, but eating did nothing to placate him. Nevertheless he strode into the nearest town determined to find the Altmer that had caused his world to be destroyed. He could not find the mer, as hard as he looked. But he found something far more horrifying. A visit to the temple revealed that the ritual had taken more than his magicka, it had begun to eat into his very life. The magicka regenerated, but the health did not. In fact slowly but inevitably his life was being drained away into nothingness. Lesser men would have resigned to their fate, but Drysis was fueled by righteous fury matched only by Stendarr. The priestess, a Dunmer of Colovian upbringing, advised him to seek the College of Winterhold as they stood at the forefront of magical progress.
For weeks on end Drysis marched, his robes became torn, his skin wrinkled by weather and his eyes hard as stone. When he finally reached the college he collapsed of exhaustion, both magical and mundane, at the foot of the gates. A few of the mages found him there and carried him inside where he was put under the care of a young student eager to prove her worth, Colette Marence. At her young age she was already a master at Restoration but she was quickly baffled by what she found, the man resisted her healing spells, as if he was dead, but his vital signs showed clear, if weak, life. She consulted her close friend Phinis Gestor, another young mage at the college on the matter. A adept conjurer with some knowledge of necromancy he managed to adapt techniques for raising the dead to bring the wretched body of Drysis back to consciousness.
From then on Drysis worked in the college like a man possessed. Necromancy was the cure, he understood now. Death, not life, would allow him to take his revenge on the healer than so wronged him. However though Drysis was quickly becoming adept in the raising of cadavers he was unable to use the same effects on himself. Phinis was intrigued by the mans condition and was more than happy to oblige, helping to sustain Drysis through spells that would sicken the sane. However the unstable mage needed a more permanent way to live, one that didn't require the constant nursing of Gestor if he was going to enact his vengeance. It was in the basement he found the amulet.
The amulet whispered to him, when he was alone. It told him of wars fought between the dead and living, of the wrongs it could allow him to set right and most importantly it told him of dark and terrible secrets, though lost long ago. It explained to him that his body was incapable of sustaining a soul, and that he could transfer it to a separate item and live on in death. In the dead of night Drysis committed dark rites and atrocities known only to the Daedra in Oblivion. It was on that night that Drysis finally died, and the Lich of Winterhold was born.
The amulet had not lied to him, Drysis was indeed able to sustain himself and was capable of great deeds. But gone were that thoughts of his wife, gone was his compassion. A lich has no need of love, it is a creature born of hate, and so hate is all it feels.
There are no accounts of what transpired within the College that night. The only accounts come from a local tavern owner. He claims he saw a shadow, a man and yet not, fly across the ice towards the city of Winterhold. Then a booming chant came from the college and the ground that surrounds the College plummeted into the Sea of Ghosts. Then local claims the shadow fell with the torrent of ice, but that in its final moments it seized something around its neck and threw it to safety.
The people of Winterhold still blame the wizards for the Great Collapse, and perhaps they are right to. But when I think of the horrors that could have been set upon Skyrim I am grateful of the action they took, though officially they took not action at all. The lich that was once Drysis Vettel was buried in the Sea of Ghosts along with half of Winterhold. Or so I hope. Weeks later an Altmer healer was found eviscerated in a tavern in Cyrodil. It is possible this was just a coincidence, and for the sake of us all I hope it was. As for the strange amulet found in the college, it hasn't been seen since. Perhaps it fell into the sea and is lost to the ages. But the suspicious disappearance of an apprentice mage, Calixto Corrium, on the same day has many worried. So it should.
So traveler, that's the tale of the necromancer. May we pray to the divines that it remains as such, and nothing stirs in the Sea of Ghosts, whilst we remain on this mortal plane.
Well that's my first story, all criticism is extremely welcome and actively encouraged, otherwise how will anyone ever improve. Other than that I hope you've enjoyed it and that another bit of inspiration whacks me over the head so I can write some more!
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