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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
"Safe travels, Aerion. Don't stay out too late," she called after him.
Aerion stepped out into the cool evening air. The sky was a deep, bruised purple, the first stars beginning to poke through the twilight. He needed to clear his inventory and give a small boost his funds.
He had four Giant's Toes sitting in his pocket dimension, grotesque, smelly, and incredibly valuable to the right person. He also had a Philter of Lockpicking he'd looted, useless to a mage who could just blow a door off its hinges if needed and have a system to lockpick, but valuable to a shopkeeper to sell.
He turned left, walking down the steps from the Bannered Mare to the lower market circle. His destination was the shop with the sign of the mortar and pestle, Arcadia's Cauldron.
He pushed the door open, a small bell chiming to announce his arrival. The shop smelled intensely of dried lavender, frost mirriam, and something acrid like burnt sulphur. It was exactly as he remembered from the game, a long wooden counter on the left cluttered with ingredients, bowls of bonemeal, and hanging bunches of elves ear. To the right, a bubbling alchemy station gave off a faint, rhythmic hissing sound.
Arcadia, an Imperial woman with hair beginning to grey and worry lines etched deep into her forehead, was behind the counter, counting coins into a small box. She looked up, startled, but relaxed slightly when she saw it wasn't a guard or a thief.
"Oh, hello," she said, her voice soft and a bit weary. "I was just about to lock up, traveler. What can I help you with? If you're looking for a cure for... well, you look healthy enough, actually."
Aerion approached the counter, offering a polite nod. "Good evening, Arcadia. I apologize for the late hour. I am not in need of a cure, but rather, I thought I might offer you a business opportunity."
Arcadia blinked, adjusting her apron. "Business? I'm afraid I'm fully stocked on blisterwort and wheat, if that's what you're selling."
"Nothing so common," Aerion said. He reached into his satchel, masking the inventory transfer, and withdrew the four massive, leathery Giant's Toes. He placed them on the counter with a heavy, wet thud.
Arcadia gasped, leaning over the counter, her eyes widening behind her spectacles. "By the Eight... are those...?"
"Freshly harvested today from Bleakwind Basin," Aerion confirmed, his voice smooth. "Giant's Toes. The most potent fortitude intensifier known to modern alchemy. I recall hearing that you were looking to expand your stock of high end reagents, but that the Companions charge a fortune to hunt giants."
Arcadia reached out, hovering a hand over the toes as if afraid they might twitch. "They are... remarkably intact. And fresh. I have been wanting to brew a batch of Fortify Health potions for the Jarl's housecarl, but the ingredients are so hard to come by."
She looked up at him, her merchant's mask sliding back into place. "They are impressive, yes. But the market for such niche ingredients is slim. I could perhaps offer you... twenty septims a piece?"
Aerion didn't frown, he simply smiled, channeling every lesson Ysolda had drilled into him earlier that day. He didn't argue the price, he pivoted to the need.
"Twenty septims is a fair price for a dried, shriveled toe found in a cave, Arcadia," Aerion said softly, leaning an elbow on the counter. "But these? These are prime specimens. Think of the potency. One potion brewed with these could save a soldier's life or the Jarl's life. Imagine the reputation Arcadia's Cauldron would gain if you were the only alchemist in Whiterun supplying 'Giant Strength' elixirs to the Palace."
He paused, letting the ambition sink in. "I am willing to part with the entire set for 160 septims. That is forty a piece. A bargain, considering the risk involved in acquiring them. You aren't just buying ingredients, Arcadia, you're buying the prestige of the product."
Arcadia bit her lip, looking from the toes to Aerion's confident golden eyes. She hesitated, clearly doing the math in her head. "Forty a piece... that is double the standard rate. It's steep, elf."
"And the dangers of the basin are steep, yet I climbed them," Aerion countered smoothly. "Quality has a price. Would you prefer I take them to Belethor? I'm sure he would love to undercut your potion market."
The mention of Belethor was the final nail. Arcadia let out a sharp breath. "No, no! That sleazy Breton wouldn't know how to preserve them properly. Fine. You drive a hard bargain, but... you're right. The Jarl will pay handsomely for the potions."
She opened her strongbox and counted out the coins, sliding them across the counter.
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to Level 38!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to Level 39!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to Level 40!]
The notifications flashed in Aerion's vision, a triumphant cascade of progress. He swept the 160 septims into his pocket which enters immediately into his inventory, feeling the satisfaction of a deal perfectly executed.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Arcadia," Aerion said, bowing slightly. "I also have a Philter of Lockpicking if you are interested? I find I have no use for it."
"I'll give you fifty for it," Arcadia said, sounding defeated but eager to secure the stock.
"Done," Aerion agreed.
He left the shop moments later after receiving the septims, and as heavy oak door of Arcadia's Cauldron clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing with a finality that signaled the end of commerce for the day.
Aerion stepped out onto the cobblestones of the lower market, his pouch significantly heavier with the weight of Arcadia's investment and his mind buzzing with the thrill of the haggle.
The market, usually a chaotic tapestry of shouting vendors, hagglers, and running children, was now settling into a stillness that felt almost unnatural.
The stalls were cleaned out and their cupboards locked tight, their colorful awnings rolled up like sleeping eyelids, and the only movement came from the stray leaves dancing in the cool evening breeze.
Aerion walked to the center of the square, near the well, and stopped. He looked up. The sky had transitioned from the bruised purple of twilight to a deep, velvety indigo, and the first few stars were beginning to puncture the darkness, glittering like diamonds scattered across black velvet.
In this quiet moment, with the adrenaline of the day activities fading and the satisfaction of the sales settling in, Aerion's mind began to wander, not aimlessly, but strategically. He had gold. He had magic. He had an overpowered system. He had the beginnings of a reputation. But as he stood alone in the empty square, a stark reminder hit him, he was just one man in the end.
One man, no matter how powerful, could not be everywhere. He could not watch the gates, listen to the whispers in the taverns, manage a business, and hunt dragons all at the same time. If he wanted to survive the coming storm, the return of Alduin, the further escalation of the Civil War, the inevitable chaos, he needed more than just spells. He needed hands. He needed eyes. He needed his own power base.
His mind, sharpened by the integration of his gamer knowledge and his Altmer intellect, began to scroll through a mental rolodex of Whiterun's inhabitants. The game had treated them as NPCs, static quest givers or followers, but this was reality. These were people with desires, fears, and debts. And debts could be bought.
First, his thoughts drifted to Uthgerd the Unbroken. He knew her story well, a warrior of immense strength and skill, rejected by the Companions because she had accidentally killed a boy in the ring. She was a pariah, likely drowning her guilt and frustration in mead.
He hadn't seen her at the Bannered Mare since his arrival, which meant her story likely haven't started yet or she was brooding in her house, staring at the bottom of a tankard in there, before her supplies run out and she then goes to the tavern.
'She is wasted potential,' Aerion thought, his eyes tracing the constellation of the Steed. 'The Companions rejected her for being too rough, but I need rough. I need a shieldsister who isn't afraid to break a few bones.'
He visualized the conversation. He wouldn't offer her pity, she would hate that. He would offer her purpose. He would challenge her, perhaps even brawl with her if necessary, to earn her respect even if he will lose since this isn't the game where he could just tanked the punches. Then, he would offer her a job, not as a thug, but as a bodyguard and potential captain of his personal guard. He would give her the validation Jorrvaskr denied her.
Then there was Jenassa. The Dunmer mercenary usually haunted the corner of the Drunken Huntsman. Aerion didn't know if she had arrived in the city yet, as the timeline regarding the Darkwater Crossing ambush was still hazy, but if she was there, she was essential.
As a Dark Elf, she was an outsider, just like him. She viewed the world through the lens of art and death, unburdened by Nord morality.
'A blade for hire who understands the grey areas,' he mused. 'If I pay her enough, she will be loyal. If I treat her with the respect due a fellow mer in a land of men, she will be devoted. I need a spy, someone who can slip into shadows I cannot or just to lazy to do.'
His mental gaze shifted back to the Bannered Mare, specifically to the woman who had served him his stew. Saadia. The Redguard waitress was living a life of terror, constantly looking over her shoulder for the Alik'r warriors sent to capture her. The game gave the player a choice to turn her in or help her, but Aerion saw a third option.
'Knowledge is leverage,' he decided. 'I know who hunts her. I know why. I don't need to ask her, I just need to tell her that I can make the Alik'r disappear.'
If he offered her genuine protection, perhaps using Uthgerd or Jenassa as enforcers, he wouldn't just gain a servant, he would gain an intelligence asset in the heart of the city's social hub. Saadia heard everything that passed over that counter. If she belonged to him, then every rumor in Whiterun belonged to him.
Then there were the eyes on the street. Brenuin, the beggar. Most people looked right through him, seeing only a drunkard in rags. Aerion saw a surveillance camera. No one guarded their words around a beggar. He remembered the Argonian Ale, a rare, quest specific item he could easily snatch from the mod chest behind Warmaiden's.
'A bottle of rare ale and a steady stream of septims will make Brenuin the most loyal spy in the district,' Aerion calculated. 'He sees who enters the city, who leaves, and who meets in the shadows of the Cloud District.'
His thoughts moved to the dissatisfaction brewing in the Bannered Mare's corner, Sinmir. The grim warrior who did nothing but complain about Commander Caius and the laziness of the city guard. In the game, he was just a grumbler. In Aerion's plan, he was an opportunity.
'The man wants order. He hates incompetence.' Aerion's lips curled into a faint smile. 'I can offer him what the Jarl won't, a command. A private security force acting as mercenaries, funded by my treasury, disciplined to his standards. I tell him the Jarl is tied by politics, but I am not. I hire him to protect my interest, and in doing so, I build a private army right under the nose of the Dragonsreach dungeon.'
Finally, his mind drifted to the Honningbrew Meadery south of the city. Sabjorn was a petty, corner cutting owner, but his employee, Mallus Maccius, was a man consumed by envy and ambition. In the game, the Thieves Guild eventually exploits this, but why wait for Brynjolf?
'I can accelerate the coup,' Aerion plotted. 'I can help Mallus frame Sabjorn, the rat poison plan is simple enough, before the Guild even sets foot in Whiterun. I get Sabjorn thrown in jail for health violations, Mallus takes over, and I step in as the silent partner.'
It was a brilliant economic play. Controlling the meadery meant controlling a staple of Nord culture here in Whiterun. It was a front for money laundering, a base of operations outside the city walls, and a steady stream of passive income.
As these plans crystallized, locking together like the gears of a Dwemer machine, Aerion felt a strange sensation in the center of his chest.
Since his arrival into this world, he had felt a distinct duality, the cold, calculating logic of the "Gamer" from Earth, and the haughty, magical intuition of the "Altmer" whose body he inhabited, where it was during with Carlotta that it become very bad. They had been clashing, but also incorporating to one another.
Now, under the starlight of the Nirn sky, he felt them fusing. The Gamer's knowledge of future events was no longer a cheat sheet, it was simply his foresight. The Altmer's arrogance was no longer a racial trait to be managed, it was his confidence.
The seams were vanishing. He wasn't a pilot in a suit anymore, he was simply Aerion. The ambition of the high elf and the meta knowledge of the player were synthesizing into a singular, terrifyingly competent will.
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[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 160/160 Stamina: 150/150 Magicka: 290/290 Level: 16
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire/Lightning) (Level 29/30), Persuasion (Level 37), 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, 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, & Mammoth Tusk
2x Gold Garnet Rings, Gold Ring, & Scroll Of Fireball
3x Silver Garnet Rings, Silver Rings, & Sapphire,
4x Lockpicks, Potions of Minor Magicka, & Amethyst
6x Potions Of Minor Healing & Ruby
8x Iron Arrows
Weight: 127 KG / 375 KG
Septims = 52,771