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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Just as the wizard was about to ask another question about the properties of soul gems, a loud clatter followed by the sharp shatter of glass echoed from the corner of the room. Both men turned their heads in unison.
Lupin had somehow managed to climb the potion shelf on the table and was currently standing amidst a pile of broken glass. A small vial of Potion of Minor Magicka had fallen and shattered, its glowing blue liquid pooling on the stone floor.
To Aerion's horror, and Farengar's absolute fascination, Lupin wasn't running away. Instead, the fox was lowered to the ground, his pink tongue darting out as he greedily licked up the glowing blue fluid.
"Oh, by the gods... Lupin, no!" Aerion exclaimed, moving toward the fox.
Farengar held up a hand, stopping him, his eyes wide with a different kind of scholarly hunger. "No, wait! Look at him! He's not getting sick... he's enjoying it. I've never seen a fox with a palate for distilled magicka before."
Lupin finished the last of the spill, his eyes seemingly glowing with a faint blue light for a split second before he let out a happy, energized yip and started zooming around the room in a blur of orange fur.
"I am so sorry, Farengar," Aerion said, rubbing his temples as the headache he'd been fending off finally settled in. "I'll pay for the potion, obviously."
"Pay for it? Nonsense!" Farengar laughed, watching the fox jump over a stack of books. "This is a research opportunity! A magicka consuming fox... do you have any idea how different that is? I might need to take some samples of his fur later, with your permission of course."
Aerion sighed, looking at his hyperactive companion who was currently trying to "hunt" a floating speck of dust in the sunlight. "I think he's had enough excitement for one day. And so have I."
He bid Farengar a quick goodbye, promising to return soon, and managed to corral Lupin out of the study before the fox could find any more "snacks." As they walked back through the Great Hall of Dragonsreach, Aerion felt the new power of his level up humming in his chest.
He was level 14 now, his enchanting was growing, and he had a fox that was apparently developing a taste for magical stimulants.
Skyrim was getting weirder by the hour, but as he looked down at his system menu, he couldn't help but smile.
The transition of leveling up always felt like a sudden, warm rush of clarity, as if a thick fog had been lifted from his marrow. Aerion stood for a moment at the edge of the Cloud District, watching the morning mist cling to the shingles of the houses below while he navigated his mental interface.
He directed his newly earned attribute point into Stamina, and the effect was immediate, his lungs felt as though they had expanded, his heartbeat slowed into a more powerful, rhythmic thrum, and the slight ache in his legs from the morning's hike vanished.
Along with the physical surge, he saw hisweight capacity grow slightly more cavernous as it ticked up by another 5 KG.
With a satisfied exhale, Aerion signaled to Lupin. The fox, still seemingly a bit hyperactive from the magicka potion he'd licked off Farengar's floor, gave a sharp, energetic yip and began trotted down the wide stone steps ahead of him.
They descended into the Wind District, passing the circular plaza where the ancient, skeletal Gildergreen stood. The great tree was a depressing sight, leafless and dormant, but Aerion's attention was quickly diverted to the left.
Emerging from the mead hall of Jorrvaskr, the oldest building in the city, was a group that looked like they walked straight out of a saga.
He recognized them instantly. Leading the pack was a woman with striking green warpaint across her eyes and the sharp, predatory gaze of a hawk, Aela the Huntress. Flanking her were two men who shared a rugged, twin like resemblance, though their gear set them apart.
One wore the distinctive and intricately forged Wolf Armor, a sign of high standing within their inner circle, that would be Vilkas. The other, Farkas, was a wall of muscle clad in a standard, albeit heavy duty, set of Steel Armor, his long hair framing a face that looked a bit more earnest and a lot less cynical than his brother's.
Bringing up the rear was a lean, sharp featured Dark Elf, Athis, the only current male Dunmer currently counted among the Shield Brothers.
Aerion slowed his pace, his analytical mind already whirring with possibilities. In the game, training was a shortcut to godhood, but here, it was an opportunity to turn his frail elven frame into something far more resilient in a fast rate.
His Fast Skill Leveling was a cheat code that worked best when he was actually being pushed by experts. He could spend quite some time swinging a sword at an enemy or animals which could have potential danger, or he could pay the best warriors in Skyrim to beat the lessons into him.
And as for the cost? He glanced mentally at his staggering gold balance. Between the regenerated mod chests that had basically handed him a small kingdom's treasury and his recent dealings, he had enough septims to buy half the shops in Whiterun.
The chests behind Warmaiden's were a literal fountain of wealth that would undoubtedly reset again, providing him another 25,000 septims whenever he felt like taking a short walk.
He was, for all intents and purposes, the wealthiest man in the hold and even the entire Skyrim essentially, but of course if he pump all of that money, it could cause inflation since literally it appear out of nowhere.
The Companions stopped near the foot of the stairs, their sharp eyes catching the sight of the High Elf in his fine mage robes. Aerion could see them leaning in, whispering amongst themselves.
"...that's the one," he caught a fragment of Aela's low, melodic voice. "The Altmer the guards are whispering about. Cleared Halted Stream and Bleakwind just between several days."
"He looks like he's never held anything heavier than a quill," Athis muttered, his voice colored with a typical Dunmer rasp.
Aerion didn't wait for them to come to him. He adjusted his robes, and approached with a measured, respectful gait. Lupin followed, looking up at the group of warriors with an unnerving amount of intelligence in his amber eyes.
"Greetings, Shield Brothers," Aerion said, his voice calm and carrying the melodic, if slightly detached, resonance of his race. He stopped a few paces away, offering a polite but not subservient bow of his head. "I am Aerion. Am I correct in assuming I am speaking to the warrios of the great Companions?"
The four of them turned fully to face him. The atmosphere shifted instantly, it wasn't outright hostile, but there was a palpable wall of skepticism.
To the Nord warriors, a High Elf mage was the antithesis of everything they valued. They saw a "milk-drinker" who hid behind wards and fireballs because he was too afraid of the "honest" sting of steel. As for the Dunmer, well bitter ancient rivalries between both race doesn't help much in impression.
Aela took the lead, her arms crossed over her leather clad chest, her eyes scanning Aerion with a hunter's scrutiny. "You've got a polite tongue for an High Elf," she remarked, her voice like velvet over gravel. "I'm Aela. This is Vilkas and Farkas. The one looking grumpy is Athis. We've heard your name, Aerion. Word travels fast in Whiterun when someone starts doing the Jarl's dirty work better than his own guards."
Vilkas stepped forward, his Wolf Armor glinting. His expression was a mask of cold calculation. "You've made quite a splash, elf. But I don't think you walked over here just to exchange pleasantries. What do you want with Jorrvaskr? If you're looking for to join the Companion, talk to our leader Kodlak Whitemane inside."
Aerion met Vilkas's gaze, unblinking. "Actually, I'm not looking to join the Companions for now. I'm actually looking for instructors to train me."
That caused a visible ripple of surprise. Even Farkas, who had been looking mostly bored, blinked and tilted his head.
"I have spent my life mastering the arcane," Aerion continued, his tone clinical. "But I have learned recently that magic has its limits. A mage who cannot defend himself once his magicka is spent is a mage who is waiting to die. I wish to train my body. I want to learn how to handle a sword or big warhammer, how to draw a bow under pressure, and how to take a hit in both light and heavy plate without falling like a sack of wheat. I want to pay you for your time and expertise."
Athis let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "You? In heavy plate? You'd probably collapse under the weight of the greaves, High Elf."
Farkas looked at Aerion's slender arms, his brow furrowed. "You want us to hit you? On purpose?"
"I want to be trained," Aerion corrected, though a small, wry smile touched his lips. "And yes, Farkas, I imagine being hit is a significant part of that process. I have the gold to compensate you for the time you'd otherwise spend on more 'glorious' pursuits. I am offering a business arrangement."
Vilkas looked skeptical, his eyes darting to Aela. "It's... unconventional. Most of your kind think themselves far above the 'primitive' arts of the sword and shield, even though you still used it anyway. They hide behind their fancy wards because they're frail. Why the sudden interest in being a warrior?"
"Because a warrior who can cast fireballs is much harder to kill than a mage who can only scream when running out of magicka," Aerion replied simply. "And I don't intend to be easy to kill."
The honesty of the statement seemed to catch them off guard. It wasn't the usual elven arrogance, it was the pragmatism of a survivor. Yet, the deep seated Nord distrust and Dunmer hatred of the Altmer was a thick barrier. They looked at him and saw the Thalmor, saw the people who had tried to ban their god and humble their empire.
"I don't know," Vilkas said, his voice hardening. "We're not tutors for hire, elf. We're Shield Brothers. We fight for honor, for the bond. Teaching a mage how to swing a mace feels like... a waste of a good morning."
Aerion saw the conversation sliding toward a 'no.' He sensed their vigilance, their internal debate about whether an Altmer should even be allowed to learn their secrets.
"Very well," Aerion said, shifting his weight as if to leave. He didn't plead, he didn't have to. "If the Companions are too busy to take a significant amount of gold in exchange for a few hours of sparring, then I shall take my business elsewhere. I'm sure there are plenty of retired legionnaires or mercenaries in the city who would be more than happy to earn a few hundred septims while helping me improve my form."
Aerion didn't plead, and he certainly didn't linger; he simply turned on his heel, signaling for Lupin to follow. He had laid out a logical, profitable proposition, and if the "greatest warriors in Skyrim" were too blinded by provincial bias to see the value in it, that was their loss, not his. He began to walk away, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone of the Wind District, heading back toward the Gildergreen.
He had barely taken five paces when a sharp, commanding voice cut through the morning air.
"Wait."
Aerion stopped, but he didn't turn back immediately. He stood still for a heartbeat, a small, knowing smirk playing across his lips that was hidden from the group behind him. He had felt the shift in the air, the moment their greed and curiosity finally outweighed their instinctive distrust.
In that precise moment, a familiar, golden ripple of energy washed over his mind.
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to Level 25!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to Level 26!]
The internal notifications were a silent confirmation of his victory. He had successfully gambled on their nature, the Companions were many things, honor bound, fierce, and legendary, but they were also mercenaries at heart, especially Aela, and they lived in a world where gold was the ultimate lubricant for pride.
He turned slowly, his expression a mask of polite, scholarly indifference. Aela was the one who had spoken, but she wasn't looking at him with hostility anymore.
Instead, she was looking at him with the intense, calculated interest of a hunter who had realized their prey had a much bigger bite than expected.
"You're a shrewd one, Aerion," she said, her voice dropping into a lower, more serious register. "Vilkas is still skeptical, but Farkas thinks it might be 'fun' to see how long a mage lasts in a real sparring pit. And frankly, we have bills to pay and gear to maintain. Jorrvaskr doesn't run on honor alone."
She paused, her eyes narrowing as she set the trap. "But it won't be cheap, if we're going to spend our mornings teaching an Altmer how to hold a shield and take a punch, we're going to tax you for the privilege. Two hundred septims a session for basic weaponry, swords, greatswords, daggers. Three hundred if you want us to put you in plate and teach you how to move without falling on your face. Upfront. Every time."
She expected him to balk. She expected the "milk drinker" to haggle, to whine about the cost, or to try and use his "friend of the Jarl" status to get a discount.
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[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 160/160 Stamina: 150/150 Magicka: 270/270 Level: 14
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire/Lightning) (Level 29/30), Persuasion (Level 26), Smithing (Level 9), Sneak (Level 16), One Handed (Level 7), Restoration (Healing) (Level 7), Two Handed (Level 8), Lockpicking (Level 9), Archery (Level 7), Alteration (Level 4), & Enchanting (Level 9)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Steel Dagger, Iron Shield, Long Bow, Potions of Minor Stamina, Philter of Lockpicking, Steel Warhammer, Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, Copper and Onyx Circlet, Steel Mace, Helmet of Magicka, Cuirass of Minor Health, Steel Sword of Embers, & Dwarven Bow of Paralysis.
2x Gold Garnet Rings, Gold Ring, & Scroll Of Fireball
3x Silver Garnet Rings, Silver Rings, Sapphire, & Mammoth Tusk
4x Lockpicks, Potions of Minor Magicka, Amethyst, & Giants Toes
6x Potions Of Minor Healing & Ruby
8x Iron Arrows
Weight: 131.5 KG / 375 KG
Septims = 52,561