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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
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.
He took a deep breath, the cold night air filling his lungs, feeling more alive and more "real" than he ever had. He wasn't just playing Skyrim. He was conquering it.
Lupin, who had been sitting patiently by Aerion's boot, let out a soft huff. The fox tilted his head, watching his master stare at the sky for an uncomfortably long time.
To the animal, the air around the elf seemed to hum with a strange intensity, a static charge that made his fur stand on end. He nudged Aerion's ankle with a wet nose, as if to ask if they were going to stand there until they turned to stone.
The spell of the moment was broken not by the fox, but by the heavy crunch of boots on cobblestone.
A yellow light swung across Aerion's face, causing him to blink. A Whiterun guard, torch in hand, had stopped a few feet away. The guard's face was partially obscured by his helmet, but the suspicion in his voice was clear, laced with that familiar Nord disdain for anything with pointed ears.
"You there, elf," the guard grunted, lowering the torch slightly to get a better look. "What are you doing lurking in the dark like a thief? The market's closed. Decent folk are inside or asleep. You planning some mischief, or are you just trying to look suspicious?"
Aerion blinked, the intricate web of conspiracies and economic takeovers in his mind vanishing instantly behind a mask of serene politeness. He turned slowly to face the guard, his hands clasped calmly behind his back. He didn't look guilty, he looked like a philosopher interrupted in the midst of a profound realization.
"Peace, guard," Aerion said, his voice smooth and devoid of offense. He gestured casually toward the heavens with a slender hand. "I was merely admiring the sky. It is rare to see the stars so clearly without the smoke of the forge or the fog of the marsh obscuring them. In my homeland, we chart our lives by such lights, but here in Skyrim... I admit, the view is uniquely breathtaking."
The guard paused, clearly expecting a snarky retort or a nervous stammer. He looked up at the sky, then back at the calm, well dressed mage and his fox. The racism didn't vanish, but the suspicion dulled into confusion. It was hard to arrest someone for star gazing, especially when they sounded so... boringly intellectual about it.
"Right... well," the guard muttered, shifting his grip on his torch. "Just... move along. Don't be loitering here all night. It makes people nervous."
"Of course," Aerion replied with a faint smile. "The night is getting chill, anyway. I bid you a safe watch."
As the guard grunted and continued his patrol, Aerion looked down at Lupin. The fox looked back, eyes bright.
"Come, Lupin," Aerion whispered. "We have a very busy day tomorrow. The Companions await, and after that... we have a recruitment drive to begin."
Together, the mage and the fox walked out of the square, leaving the empty market behind, their shadows stretching long under the torchlight as they headed back toward the warmth of the Bannered Mare.
After entering the tavern, he goes to his room on the second floor, and the sound of the oak door of his rented room clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the Bannered Mare and leaving Aerion in the blessed silence of the second floor.
He didn't immediately collapse, though every fiber of his being was screaming for rest. Before, as he walked past the main hall of the tavern, his gaze drifted around, scanning the room with the calculated precision of a predator selecting its next meal.
His eyes landed first on a dark corner near the hearth. There sat Sinmir, a mountain of a Nord clad in battered iron armor, his horned helmet resting on the table beside a half empty tankard.
The man's face was a roadmap of scars and scowls, his beard thick and unkempt, muttering into his ale about the incompetence of the city watch. He was a weapon without a hand to wield it, a soldier without a commander.
'Asset One,' Aerion thought, a mental checkmark appearing in his mind.
His gaze shifted as movement caught his eye. Saadia, the Redguard woman, wove through the drunkards and bards with the practiced grace of a dancer or a fugitive.
She carried a tray of mead, her eyes constantly darting to the door, her shoulders tense. She was living in a cage of her own fear, terrified of the Alik'r shadows that hunted her.
'Asset Two.'
Satisfied that his future recruitment drive was well within reach, Aerion then goes to stripped off his outer robes, leaving them neatly folded on the chair, and collapsed onto the straw mattress.
The exhaustion claimed him instantly, pulling him down into a dreamless void where giants burned and gold flowed like water.
The morning sun didn't wake him. What woke him was a sensation of suffocating heat and a focused, rhythmic pressure on his sternum.
Aerion gasped, his eyes snapping open to find a ball of cinnamon colored fur occupying the entirety of his chest. Lupin was sound asleep, curled into a tight donut, radiating heat like a small, fur covered furnace.
The weight wasn't painful, but it was restricting, pressing the air from his lungs and making the already warm room feel stifling.
"Get off, you glorious rug," Aerion wheezed, gently shoving the fox.
Lupin didn't even open his eyes. He merely let out a series of short, disinterested yips—a sound that Aerion's Animal Affinity translated roughly to, 'Five more minutes, the floor is cold.'
Ignoring the protest, Aerion sat up, dislodging the fox, who tumbled onto the sheets with a huff of indignation. Aerion swung his legs out of bed, stretching his long limbs. Today was not a day for robes and diplomacy. Today was a day for sweat and bruises.
He opened his inventory, the blue interface shimmering in the air. He selected the Iron Shield, the Steel Warhammer, and the Steel Mace he had looted from the giant's chest.
With a thought, they materialized. He strapped the heavy warhammer across his back, the leather strap digging into his mage robes. He fastened the mace to his belt, the cold steel bumping against his hip. Finally, he gripped the iron shield in his left hand.
He looked in the small polished mirror on the wall. The reflection stared back, a tall, golden skinned High Elf in fine master destruction robes and hood, heavily armed with crude Nord steel.
It was ridiculous. It was the classic "Battlemage" aesthetic that every Skyrim player tried at least once, usually abandoning it for stealth archery ten hours later. But for Aerion, this was necessary. He needed to be durable.
He opened the door and stepped out. Lupin, realizing that food was likely part of the morning ritual, scrambled after him.
Downstairs, Hulda was wiping down the counter. She looked up as he descended, and her jaw dropped slightly.
"By the Nine, Aerion," she laughed, wiping her hands on her apron. "You look like a mage who lost a bet with a blacksmith. What on earth are you doing with all that iron?"
Aerion adjusted the shield, feeling the unfamiliar weight on his forearm. "I am going to fix a weakness, Hulda. Magic is powerful, but it runs dry. Steel does not. I intend to train my body to be as dangerous as my mind."
Hulda nodded, her expression shifting from amusement to approval. "Good on you, lad. You're a bit scrawny, if I'm being honest. A few weeks in the yard will put some meat on those elf bones. Just don't strain yourself too hard on the first day, Nords don't know the meaning of 'gentle'."
Aerion offered a small, confident smile. "I don't expect them to be gentle. I expect them to be thorough."
He left the inn, stepping into the crisp morning air. The city was waking up, the smell of baking bread warring with the scent of the forge. He walked with purpose, ignoring the confused stares of the guards and citizens who watched the heavily armed clad mage march past the Gildergreen and up the winding stairs to the Cloud District.
He reached the plateau of Jorrvaskr, the upside down longship dominating the skyline. He bypassed the front door and headed straight for the stone archway that led to the rear courtyard, the training grounds of the Companions.
They were already there.
The rhythmic thwack of arrows hitting straw targets and the clang of steel on steel rang out. Aela the Huntress stood near the archery range, her back to him, drawing a bow with effortless grace. Vilkas was sharpening a greatsword on a grindstone, the sparks flying. Farkas was leaning against a pillar, looking bored, while Athis practiced feints with a dagger against a dummy.
Aerion stopped at the edge of the training circle. He hadn't made a sound, his boots soft on the dirt, but Aela didn't turn around. She simply released her arrow, burying it in the center of the target with a dull thud.
"Looks like you've arrived, elf," she called out, her voice calm and carrying over the wind.
She turned slowly, her eyes scanning his eclectic gear with a smirk. The others stopped their activities and turned to face him. Athis, as expected, wore a scowl that seemed permanently etched into his grey features.
"The ears of the Huntress aren't just tavern tales, I see," Aerion remarked, shifting the shield. "You heard me over the grindstone?"
Aela laughed, a sharp, wild sound. "I heard you the moment you stepped off the pavement, mage. And I see you brought your own toys," she gestured to the mismatched weaponry. "Though I notice a distinct lack of a bow. You planning to throw that mace at the targets?"
"I was hoping to borrow one of yours," Aerion replied smoothly. "For the right price, of course."
"We'll see if you're worth the wood," Aela said, stringing her bow across her back. "Well? We took your coin. Who wants the first crack at him?"
Athis pushed off the pillar he was leaning on, spinning his dagger in his hand. "I'll go first," the Dark Elf spat, stepping into the circle. "Teaching an Altmer how to hold a one handed weapon without cutting his own fingers off... that sounds entertaining. Besides, I think he needs to learn what 'pain' feels like before he tries to lift that hammer."
Aerion unslung the warhammer and placed it gently on the grass, followed by the shield. He drew the steel mace from his belt. It felt awkward in his hand, heavy and unbalanced compared to the weightless power of a spell.
"Very well," Aerion said, stepping into the sparring ring. "Let's begin."
The training session started exactly as Aerion expected, poorly.
His One Handed skill was sitting at a pathetic Level 7. When he swung the mace, it was wide, telegraphed, and slow. Athis danced around him, laughing, tapping Aerion on the ribs, the shoulders, and the legs with the flat of his blade. It wasn't enough to injure, but it was enough to stingz a constant, humiliating reminder of his clumsiness.
"Pathetic," Athis sneered, slapping Aerion's wrist with his hilt. "You swing like you're stirring a cauldron. Use your wrist! Plant your feet! Do they teach you nothing in Alinor but how to look down your nose?"
Aerion gritted his teeth. His internal "Altmer" pride was roaring, demanding he incinerate the Dunmer where he stood. His "Gamer" side was frustrated by the sluggish controls of his own body. But he forced it down. He channeled the anger into focus.
Adjust the grip. Lower the center of gravity. Watch the shoulder.
And then, the system kicked in.
[Fast Skill Leveling Active]
The change was subtle at first, then exponential. Within twenty minutes, Aerion stopped stumbling. Within thirty, he stopped over swinging. By the hour mark, he caught Athis's dagger on the haft of his mace and riposted with a speed that made the Dark Elf's eyes widen.
[OneHanded Leveled Up to 9!]
[One Handed Leveled Up to 10!]
"Better," Athis grunted, no longer laughing. "Again."
They switched to defense. Athis handed him a set of padded leather armor, filthy, smelling of sweat and old blood.
[Skill Unlocked: Light Armor (Level 1)!]
Description: The art of wrapping yourself in hardened leather and hoping the enemy's sword isn't very sharp. Ideally, you shouldn't get hit, but since you will, this helps you not die immediately. It's basically fancy cardboard.
Athis proceeded to use Aerion as a punching bag, teaching him how to roll with the hits rather than take them flush. Aerion took the beatings, his health bar chipping down and regenerating, his body hardening with every bruise.
Next was Vilkas. The brooding twin watched Aerion pick up the Warhammer.
"It's not a wand, elf," Vilkas muttered, hefting his own greatsword. "It's a lever. Use the length. If you try to muscle it, you'll break your back."
Aerion swung. He missed. He stumbled. But the FastSkill Leveling was a drug. He learned the momentum. He learned to let the hammer do the work.
Soon, the courtyard rang with the heavy, rhythmic crump of the hammer hitting the blocking dummy, splintering the wood. Vilkas watched, his arms crossed, a look of genuine disturbance on his face.
"You learn... unnaturally fast," Vilkas commented quietly. "It took me years to get that stance right. You did it in an hour."
Then came Farkas. The gentle giant picked up the shield Aerion brought and handed it to Aerion to use.
"I hit. You stop," Farkas said simply.
"Understood," Aerion braced himself.
Farkas swung a wooden training sword with the force of a falling tree. Aerion raised the shield.
CLANG.
The impact vibrated through his bones, rattling his teeth.
[Skill Unlocked: Block (Level 1)!]
Description: The strategic decision to put a piece of metal between your face and a moving object. Side effects include numb arms, ringing ears, and a profound appreciation for walls.
Farkas hit him again. And again. And again. Aerion's arm went numb, then burned, then went numb again. But the skill counter ticked up like a metronome.
[Block Leveled Up to 2... 8... 16!]
Finally, Aela. She handed him a hunting bow, the wood smooth and warm.
"Draw to the cheek, loose on the exhale," she instructed, standing close enough that he could smell the leather and wolfsbane on her armor.
Aerion nocked an arrow. His Archery was low, but his Magicka control gave him steady hands. He fired. Wide left.
"Terrible," Aela said. "Again."
He fired. Wide right.
"Again."
He fired. Bullseye.
The system guided his muscles, correcting his micro-tremors. He became a machine, drawing and loosing until his fingers bled and were healed by his regeneration. The arrows began to cluster in the center of the target, splitting each other.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, hanging high over the Dragonsreach palace, the training session ground to a halt. The Companions were sweating, panting, and looking at the High Elf with a mixture of exhaustion and bewilderment.
Aerion stood in the center of the carnage. His robes were torn, his borrowed armor was scuffed, and he was covered in dust. But he wasn't tired. His Stamina had leveled with his skills, replenishing faster than he could spend it.
He pulled up his interface, the numbers scrolling past in a dizzying cascade of progress.
[Summary of Morning Session]
OneHanded: Leveled up 20 times (Level 7 ➝ 27)
TwoHanded: Leveled up 23 times (Level 8 ➝ 31)
Archery: Leveled up 26 times (Level 7➝ 33)
Light Armor: Leveled up 16 times (Level 1 ➝ 16)
Block: Leveled up 16 times (Level 1 ➝ 16)
[LEVEL UP! You are now Level 17... 18... 28!]
[Total Levels Gained: 12]
[Attribute Points Available: 12]
He stored the points with a thought, dismissing the screen.
"I think," Aerion said, his voice steady despite the grueling workout, "that is enough for the morning."
Athis sat on the ground, wiping sweat from his forehead with a rag. He looked up at Aerion, the hate in his eyes dimmed by sheer confusion. "What are you? Nobody learns that fast. Not even the Dragonborn of legend learns that fast or so I have heard."
"I am a fast learner," Aerion said simply, picking up his mace and attaching it to his belt. "Same time tomorrow?"
The Companions looked at each other. They were richer, yes, with each of them gaining 500 septims and caused Aerion to spend 2,000 septims, but they were also deeply unsettled. They had invited a mage to learn the sword, and in five hours, he had learned what took most initiates a year.
"Aye," Aela said, her voice quiet. "Same time tomorrow. But try to bring more arrows. You broke half of mine." Aerion nodded and says that he doesn't promise bringing the arrows, whistled for Lupin, who had spent the morning chasing butterflies in the garden, and turned to leave.
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[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 160/160 Stamina: 150/150 Magicka: 290/290 Level: 16 ➝ 28
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 27), Restoration (Healing) (Level 7), Two Handed (Level 31), Lockpicking (Level 9), Archery (Level 33), Alteration (Level 4), Enchanting (Level 9), Light Armor (Level 16) - NEW, & Block (Level 16) - NEW
[Inventory Panel]
1x Steel Dagger, Long Bow, Potions of Minor Stamina, Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, Copper and Onyx Circlet, 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: 101 KG / 375 KG
Septims = 50,771