Chapter 5:
These legs won't do either, he thought as he examined a bloody femur. Much to brittle. He tossed it aside, hitting what remained of that worthless old widow. Not one scrap of her was salvageable. He couldn't even use her heart for alchemy.
He had better dispose of the corpse before it began to smell. He couldn't stand a filthy laboratory. Around the dark stone room were bookshelves crammed with tomes and scrolls. Enchanting and alchemy laboratories were set up on either side of the room, each with materials for their respective art nearby. He wasn't going to let the order of his hideout be ruined by flies and rot.
He held up his hand, flames dancing between his fingers, and blasted her mangled body with a thin jet of flames that engulfed her in moments. With a snap of his fingers, an enchanted broom flew over and swept up the ashes.
That's all alteration and destruction were good for in the long run. Disposing of things and petty chores. Those who said otherwise was kidding themselves. Conjuration was the true school of magic, were greatness could always be found.
He walked over to his scrying pool, a shallow dish filled with perfectly still water. In its reflection, he saw his muddy skin and ash grey hair. At first glance, one could easily mistake him for a dunmer. As if a dunmer could achieve what he had. The thought was almost humorous.
He had deep purple bags under his eyes from countless sleepless nights and somewhat wrinkled skin from his great age. He was nearing on four hundred now. No one in their right mind could say that he was by any means appealing, but this body wouldn't matter much longer.
Arkinstar, one of the greatest necromancers in history, a high elf of such age and knowledge that none could compare. He had witnessed the glory of a necromancer in his early thirties who had terrorized Dwynnen in High Rock. A lich who controlled a vast army of the undead, the inspiration necessary for centuries of work. Arkinstar wanted nothing more than to show that poor excuse for a mage how it was done, and outshine him like the sun outshines a star.
He had stood by as the Camoran Usurper ravaged Valenwood. He had patiently observed as the Warp in the West unfolded. He had scoffed as the Nerevarine proclaimed her existence on Morrowind, and he had plunged into the secrets of the daedra during the Oblivion crisis. Emperor after emperor fell, yet he still walked, a true display of his superiority.
And now some wretched old woman with failing organs and crumbling bones stood in his way of perfecting a new type of resurrection. He sighed in frustration, realizing he'd have to pick out another victim.
He walked quickly through the cavernous sewers, careful not to tread on any of the rats. Each one of the pests had an illusion spell cast upon them, causing them to kill anyone but him on sight. After climbing a small ladder, he emerged into the bustling streets of Wayrest, a town in High Rock near the border of Hammerfell.
People were walking here and there, buying frivolous goods in the market: Amulets, rings, even a pair of calipers. Who uses calipers? The bright colors stung his eyes which were used to the dark and dull shades of the sewers, and the noise… it was unbearable.
Glancing around, he eyed a target. A broad shouldered young Breton male, maybe twenty years of age and in his prime. He had short blonde hair and light skin. More importantly, he had perfectly structured bones by the looks of it, and he couldn't have poor organs. Regrettably, he appeared to be the blacksmith's son. It would be noticed if he went missing almost immediately.
Arkinstar's eyes shifted over to a second man, another Breton, this one with thinning grey hair. He wouldn't provide as fine materials for experimentation, however he appeared to be a beggar, judging by his tattered robes and his persistent groveling at the feet of some rich old lady.
He took a deep breath in and felt his magicka build up in his shoulders. He moved his hands around slowly, the red light of a powerful illusion spell emitting from his fingertips. A guard looked over at him.
"Hey!" she shouted, her Breton accent thick. "Don't go casting that on anyone, you hear?" She had long brown hair and tan skin, with bright green eyes. She was tall and fit, perfectly structured to be a guard. Seeing that he wasn't stopping, she pulled out her sword and began to rush over.
Arkinstar smiled, and forced the magicka buildup in his shoulders down and out through his hands. Red light flashed out of him and spread throughout the entire city.
"What in the name of Zenithar do you think you're doing!?" screamed the guard.
Arkinstar spoke, his voice level and eerily calm. "I've cast a memory spell on every citizen in this town. Anything that happens from now until I remove the spell will remove itself from your memories. even this conversation." He strode casually over to the beggar, a daedric dagger sliding out of his sleeve and into his hand. "You won't even remember how you died," he whispered into the man's ear.
Before he could even panic, Arkinstar moved the dagger quickly across his neck, spraying blood across the street.
"By the gods!" screamed the guard. "Murder!" She rushed at him, obviously planning on killing him. Suddenly, she stopped dead. "Wha-!?"
Arkinstar had his empty hand held up to her, and she, like his hand, was glimmering a slight green shade. "Don't even try to move, it won't work," he explained. With one hand, he lifted up the dying beggar and began walking back to the sewer hole. The old man was struggling weakly, pressing his thin hands up to the wound on his neck. Slowly he went limp and his arms fell to his sides, dead.
Arkinstar dropped the corpse down the hole with a muffled thud, then climbed onto the ladder.
"You won't get away with this!" shouted the guard frantically.
Arkinstar laughed. "You say that every time." He shut hole closed above him and snapped his fingers, releasing the spell. Instantly, all the commotion above stopped. Smiling contently, he leaped off the ladder and carried his fresh corpse to a table in a second room to his lab.
In seconds he had cut up the body and removed the bones, heart, and liver. With a wave of his hand, he conjured up a glass jar to preserve the organs in. As he expected, all the bones were at least usable. The skull had some minor damage done to it, but nothing serious.
Rubbing his hands together, Arkinstar began casting a rudimentary necromancy spell he had invented. Suddenly, the bones leaped off the table and arranged themselves into a complete skeleton. A purple light now shone in the eye sockets.
He cleared his throat and spoke to his new minion. "You may join the others in the back corridors." He kept all his puppets there, waiting for a day when he could unleash them on this poor excuse for a world.
He then looked sadly at the remaining pile of flesh that had been discarded. He had yet to discover a use for it, for without the bones, any zombie he resurrected just flopped over like a useless puddle of meat.
For now though, he simply burned the leftovers. Someday he would figure out a use for it, for wastefulness was something he strived to turn away from. Wasteful. What an excellent adjective. It perfectly described every living being in Tamriel. Living their short and sad lives, consuming with no purpose, then rotting away in some gods forsaken grave.
He would make use of their lives for them, allowing them to join his undead legion, thus putting use to his life. He would not go unremembered. He would not need to be remembered, though. Memories are the thoughts of things that have passed, things that are done and gone.
Arkinstar, master necromancer, would never be gone.