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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
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.
Aerion didn't even flinch. He reached into his pouch and took out the small pouch inside his inventory, the sound of five hundred septims clinking together drawing the eyes of every person in the plaza. He tossed it lightly into the air and caught it.
"Agreed," Aerion said, his voice smooth and untroubled, as if they had discussed the price of a loaf of bread rather than a small fortune. "A fair price for the best trainers in Skyrim. When do we begin?"
The Companions stared at the purse, then back at the mage. The "milk drinker" had just agreed to a small fortune's worth of training without a second thought.
Athis looked genuinely impressed, Farkas looked like he wanted to start the "fun" immediately, and Vilkas looked like he was finally realizing that the man standing before him was far more dangerous than his slender frame suggested.
"Tomorrow morning, then," Aela said, her gaze lingering on the gold before she forced herself to look back at his eyes. "Meet us in the courtyard behind Jorrvaskr at dawn. Bring whatever 'weapons' you think you can lift. We won't be going easy on you just because you have pretty robes and a heavy purse."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Aerion replied. "I am paying for excellence, after all." He gave them a final, sharp nod before turning back toward the market.
Meanwhile the iron shod boots of the Companions ground against the light dust of the Jorrvaskr courtyard as they stood in a loose semi circle, watching the tall, slender silhouette of the High Elf descend the stairs toward the market.
The morning sun caught the gold embroidery of Aerion's robes, making him a shimmering target against the weathered stone of Whiterun, yet none of them felt the urge to reach for a weapon.
Farkas was the first to break the silence, scratching the back of his neck where the heavy collar of his steel cuirass met his skin. He let out a huff that was halfway between a laugh and a grunt of approval.
"He's a funny fellow, that guy," Farkas rumbled, his deep voice vibrating with a rare lack of suspicion. "I've spent half my life wanting to punch every Altmer I meet right in the nose before they even open their mouths, but him? He didn't make my skin crawl. Didn't even act like he was doing us a favor by standing in our shadow."
Vilkas, always the more analytical of the brothers, nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the spot where Aerion had disappeared around the corner of the Gildergreen. His Wolf Armor seemed to absorb the light around him.
"He'll cause waves here, Farkas. Mark my words. It's not just the fact that he's the only High Elf living here in Whiterun, it's the way he carries himself. Most of his kind walk like they're afraid the ground isn't clean enough for their boots. This one... he acts like he's already measured everything and decided exactly where he fits into it."
Aela leaned against the stone railing, her green warpaint sharp against her pale skin. She was watching Lupin more than Aerion, the way the fox moved with a calculated, predatory grace that didn't match its small size.
"My instincts tell me there's more than meets the eye with that one," she added, her voice dropping into that low, dangerous purr she used when tracking prey. "There's something deep about him. He talks like a scholar, but he's got the eyes of someone who's seen everything and knew everything. And that fox... that's no ordinary fox, no rox ever acted like that even one tamed and trained."
Athis, on the other hand, stood slightly apart from the them, his arms crossed over his chest. His crimson eyes were narrowed, and his lip curled in a customary Dunmer sneer.
"In the end, he is still just an Altmer," Athis muttered, his voice thick with the bitterness of a thousand years of ancestral rivalry. "I don't feel anything coming from him other than that stinking, over refined Altmer magic. They're all the same, too much light, not enough shadow."
The three Nords shared a quick, knowing look before breaking into collective chuckles. While they harbored their own loathing for the High Elves due to the Great War and the stinging insult of the White-Gold Concordat, they knew Athis's spite was personal.
To a Dunmer, an Altmer wasn't just a political enemy, they were a theological and historical insult. Seeing Athis grumble was as predictable as the sunrise, and in a strange way, it made the situation feel more normal.
Meanwhile, the "funny fellow" in question was currently navigating the chaotic sensory explosion of the Whiterun marketplace.
The afternoon was reaching its peak, and the air was a thick soup of smells, roasting goat meat from the street vendors, the earthy scent of raw vegetables, and the voice of city folk's haggling and talking.
Aerion was having a difficult time keeping a leash on his own focus. Lupin, normally a paragon of vulpine dignity, was still suffering from what could only be described as the "magicka zoomies" when he feel excited with the atmosphere he found himself in.
The potion he had licked up in Farengar's study was clearly high grade, the fox was darting between the legs of shoppers with terrifying speed, his eyes glowing with an internal spark.
"Lupin, stop," Aerion hissed, trying to maintain his dignified Altmer stride while scanning the ground for a streak of orange fur.
His distraction was his undoing. As he turned his head to ensure Lupin hadn't decided to "hunt" a passing child's shoe, he walked straight into a solid, yet soft, obstacle.
Thud.
A sharp gasp followed as a wicker basket flew from a woman's grip, sending a cascade of red apples, a few loaves of bread, and a small bundle of herbs rolling across the cobblestones.
"Oh, by the gods, I am so sorry," Aerion said immediately, the modern man within him overriding the arrogant Altmer instincts. He dropped to one knee, his long, slender fingers moving quickly to gather the stray apples before they could be crushed by a passing cart.
"It's fine, it's fine," a melodic, slightly breathless voice replied. "I wasn't looking where I was going either. My head was in the clouds thinking about the next caravan..."
Aerion gathered the last of the bread and looked up as he handed the basket back. Standing before him was a Nord woman of average height, her brunette hair cut into a practical, cheek length style that framed a face that, while not conventionally "stunning" by the high fantasy standards of his master robed self, was incredibly striking.
It was her eyes that caught him, they were a sharp, intelligent hazel, gleaming with a level of perception and cunning that suggested she was constantly three steps ahead of everyone else in the plaza.
He recognized her instantly. This was Ysolda.
"There you are," he said softly, handing her the basket.
She took it, her fingers brushing his, and she paused, her eyes widening as she took in his appearance. The golden skin, the refined features, and the high quality mage robes were a rare sight in the market.
"Oh," she said, her voice tilting upward in surprise. "You're the one. The High Elf everyone's been talking about for several days."
Aerion raised a single, elegant eyebrow. "Is that what I am? The 'talk of the town'?"
Ysolda bit her lip, a faint flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. "I'm sorry, that was terribly rude of me. I didn't mean to treat you like a curiosity at a fair. It's just... we don't get many of your kin here at Skyrim, especially who aren't wearing those grim black robes and looking at us like we're something they stepped in."
Aerion let out a short, dry chuckle, standing up and smoothing his robes. "It's quite alright. I've become well acquainted with the 'Thalmor tax' on my reputation. I assure you, my robes are much more comfortable, and my temperament significantly less genocidal."
Ysolda let out a genuine sigh of relief, her posture relaxing. She adjusted the basket on her hip, offering a warm, professional smile. "Where are my manners? My name is Ysolda. I handle a bit of trade here and there, mostly with the Khajiits caravans."
Aerion felt a surge of strategic satisfaction. He hadn't expected to meet Ysolda like this, literally stumbling into her like how it was in the game, but it was a golden opportunity. In the game, she was a simple quest giver, but in this reality, she was a diamond in the rough, a merchant with a genius level grasp of logistics and a burning ambition to own the Bannered Mare.
His mind began to remember a branch of his master plan when he just transmigrated to here. He didn't just want an inn, he wanted a headquarter. If he could build a rapport with Ysolda, he could provide the capital she lacked.
He could be the silent partner, the shadow owner of the city's most popular inn, while she acted as the face and the manager. With her eventual Khajiit connections and his resources, they could turn the Bannered Mare into an intelligence hub and a gold mine at the same time.
But first, he had to bridge the gap from "clumsy stranger" to "trusted friend." He knew she was desperate for a Mammoth Tusk to prove her worth to the Khajiit, but he couldn't just hand one over, it would look suspicious. He had to let her lead the way.
"A pleasure to meet you, Ysolda. I am Aerion," he replied, dipping his head in a respectful nod.
At that moment, Lupin decided to make his presence known. The fox, seemingly coming down from his magicka high which could potentially flare again, trotted over and sat directly at Ysolda's feet.
He tilted his head, his nose twitching frantically at the scent of the fresh apples in her basket. He let out a soft, pathetic sounding whine, his big amber eyes turning into liquid pools of manipulation.
Ysolda gasped, her heart clearly melting. "Oh! And who is this little darling? I've never seen a fox so... well behaved. Or so well fed."
Aerion shook his head, looking down at his gluttonous companion. "That is Lupin. And don't let the 'cute' act fool you, he's a cunning mastermind whose primary motivation is his stomach. I believe he's decided he likes the look of your produce."
Lupin let out a sharp, happy yip, staring pointedly at a particularly red apple near the top of the basket.
"Oh, you poor thing," Ysolda cooed, reaching into the basket. "Would you like one? I think I can spare an apple for such a handsome gentleman."
"Please, Ysolda, let me pay for it," Aerion intervened, reaching for his coin pouch. "He's already had a have his share of food today, I shouldn't encourage his panhandling."
Ysolda waved him off with a playful roll of her eyes. "Nonsense, Aerion. Consider it an apology for my rudeness earlier. Besides, it's just an apple." She held it out, and Lupin took it with surprising gentleness, holding the fruit in his paws as he began to nibble on it with predatory efficiency.
"Lupin," Aerion said, his voice taking on a mock-stern edge. "Don't forget your manners. Thank the lady."
To Ysolda's utter shock, Lupin stopped eating. He sat up straight, placed the apple on the ground between his paws, and performed a very clear, very deliberate bow toward her, letting out a soft, melodic yip of gratitude before returning to his snack.
Ysolda's jaw practically hit the floor. She looked from the fox to Aerion, her hazel eyes dancing with wonder. "He... he understood you! How is that possible? I've seen trained hounds in the Jarl's kennels that aren't half that bright!"
Aerion offered a mysterious, knowing smile, the kind that only a High Elf could truly pull off. "A magician never reveals all his secrets, Ysolda. Let's just say Lupin and I have a very... deep understanding."
"You know," Ysolda said, her voice turning more business like as they began to walk together circling around the center of the market. "I've been looking for a partner with a bit of... extra curricular capability. There's a particular item I've been trying to secure for the Khajiits caravan, but the giants are... well, they aren't fond of hagglers."
Aerion's heart skipped a beat. Here we go. "Is that so? Well, it just so happens I've developed a bit of a knack for dealing with giants recently. Perhaps we should discuss this over a drink at the Bannered Mare?"
Ysolda beamed, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of a potential deal. "I would like that very much, Aerion. I think we're going to get along just fine."
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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