Kvaasik - The Graveyard in the Closet

1 - The Rise of Thras
2 - The Cold Front
3 - Change in Wardrobe
4 - The Unsinkable City
5 - An Unlikely Patron
6 - The Purring Liar
7 - The Dismantling Dilemma
8 - The Shade in Sunlight
9 - Varen's Folly
10 - The Soul Siphon
11 - The Astral Escapade
12 - His Master's Student
13 - The Graveyard in the Closet
14 - The Blue Ambush

Tricking a necromancer into freeing their own creation is easy work, especially because of their inherent curiosity. But a learned mage such as Malkoran will not easily succumb to my deceit. However, I have seen his mind; I know his history, and his pressure points.

“Why, Malkoran, do you hide in the temple of Meridia, who scorns all necromancers?”

He raised his eyebrow suspiciously, but answered. “To hide.”

“Yes, of course. Light is a perfect disguise for one who walks in darkness; why then, do you not hide in an Aedric temple?”

Malkoran sighed, but was silent. I continued, “Perhaps it is because of your love, a priestess of Stendarr. The spitting image of your failures.”

I hit a sore spot. A look of vulnerability rippled across Malkoran’s face, and consequently across his binding spell. Landwalkers are so easily manipulated. “How did you know?”

“I have seen your mind. Carcette, your love from High Rock, who betrayed you and your values.” I saw a flash of anger, but also sadness and grief. Malkoran’s love for this ‘Carcette’ is a foolish expression, but has worked for my benefit. His emotions weakened the spell further, making the binding thinner yet.

“Her hatred—her disgust—is so great for you now. A shame; you were unbeatable together.” I could feel the weight Carcette has on his mind, reverberating through the fine threads of his spell like vibrations on a spiderweb. And, like spider silk, it is only so strong until it snaps.

Suddenly, the quaking instability of the spell ceased, and rage blazed across Malkoran’s face. “No! You will do my bidding, spirit; I will not do yours!” The bindings of his incantation were no longer silk, and now wrapped around my body like taught rope, suffocating my spirit like a physical force. The enchantment became tighter, tighter, tighter still, and eventually the stitching of this atronach gave way under the immense pressure of embittered sorcery.

But I was not wiped away from this plane; not yet, anyway. Although the form Malkoran had carefully crafted was now a pile of mangled twine and pink hunks of flesh, my soul was released once more. Malkoran, his hand resting on his disappointed brow, stood in front of me, surrounded by his undead shades. His mind must be in shambles, weakened, powerless against me.