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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
"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.
The dust in the rear courtyard of Jorrvaskr settled slowly, coating the stone and the straw dummies in a fine, gritty layer that tasted of iron and sweat.
The Companions stood in a loose semicircle, their weapons lowered, staring at the empty archway where the High Elf and his fox had just disappeared. The silence was heavy, filled not with the usual post training camaraderie, but with a profound, unsettling confusion.
Vilkas was the first to break the stillness, wiping his forehead with the back of a leather gauntleted hand. He looked down at his own greatsword, a weapon he had mastered over a lifetime of bruises and bloodshed, and then looked back at the dummy Aerion had been battering with the warhammer.
The wood was splintered deep, the impact points precise, confident, the work of a warrior, not a wizard.
"That was... absurd," Vilkas muttered, his voice low and raspy. "I've trained recruits who couldn't lift a shield properly after a week. He walks in here, green as summer grass, frail as a twig, and by noon he's matching my stance? It's not natural. He absorbed the muscle memory of a season in the span of a morning."
Farkas scratched his head, looking more perplexed than suspicious. "He's funny, though. Did you see him block? His arm turned purple, but he just stood there and nodded like he was reading a book. Never seen an elf take a beating like that and come back for seconds."
Aela leaned against the weapon rack, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed in thought. "He's a mage, Vilkas. A High Elf no less. They have their secrets, their shortcuts. Maybe he used some kind of alteration spell to harden his skin or haste magic to speed up his reflexes. We know they don't play by our rules."
Vilkas shook his head, his expression grim. "I know magic, Aela. I've fought battlemages before. They use spells to compensate for lack of skill. This wasn't that. He was actually learning. His form corrected itself in real time. If the Altmer had a spell that could hasten their martial mastery, they wouldn't have bothered with the White Gold Concordat. They would have just marched across the continent and slaughtered every legionnaire in single combat. No, this is something else."
Athis, who was nursing a bruised ego after the newcomer had parried his dagger so effectively, scoffed from his seat on the bench. "You Nords overthink everything. He's just a freak. Probably spent his childhood reading books about swordplay instead of actually doing it. Theory versus practice. He just finally connected the two."
Aela pushed herself off the rack, her voice dropping a decibel, turning the conversation into something meant only for the inner circle. She looked pointedly at Vilkas and Farkas.
"Does it matter how he does it? We of all people should know that power comes in strange forms in Skyrim. We carry somerhingprimals inside all of us as warrios, we know that there are things walking these holds that the common folk would call monsters or miracles. We don't know where Aerion has been, or what he's touched. As long as his coin is good and his blade is sharp, let him have his secrets. We certainly keep ours."
Vilkas held her gaze for a long moment, the unspoken weight of their lycanthropy hanging between them, before he finally nodded. "True enough. But I have a feeling... if he keeps this up, he won't just be catching up to us. He'll be leaving us in the dust."
Unaware that he was currently the subject of a hushed debate among the finest warriors in Whiterun, Aerion descended the winding stone steps toward the market district. His body ached with a dull, satisfying throb, the "good pain" of progress, but his mind was already racing toward the next objective.
He looked down at Lupin. The fox was trotting beside him with a spring in his step, occasionally stopping to sniff a flower or eye a passing chicken with malicious intent.
"Lupin," Aerion said, his voice firm. "Listen to me closely. We are entering a delicate phase of the operation. No mischief. No stealing food from plates. No chasing rats in the kitchen."
Lupin stopped and looked up, tilting his head with an expression of feigned innocence.
Aerion sighed, knowing the only language the creature truly respected. "If you stay by my side, act like the dignified, mystical familiar of a powerful wizard, and do not cause a scene... I will buy you a sweet roll. A fresh one. With extra glaze."
Lupin's ears perked up so sharply they almost touched. He let out a sharp, affirmative yip, straightened his posture, and began to trot with a high stepping, exaggerated elegance that looked ridiculous but was, technically, obedient.
"Close enough," Aerion muttered, shaking his head.
They reached the Bannered Mare. The noon hour meant the tavern was in a lull, the morning drinkers had stumbled home, and the evening crowd hadn't yet arrived. It was the perfect window for a private conversation.
Aerion adjusted the heavy iron shield on his arm and checked the steel mace at his belt. He looked every inch the confused adventurer, a mage wearing warrior's gear, a walking contradiction. He stepped inside, moving quietly. Hulda was visible through the pass through window, her back turned to the main room as she organized bottles on the far shelf.
Perfect.
Moving with the silence that his Level 16 Sneak skill afforded him, Aerion slipped past the bar and ducked into the kitchen archway. The air here was thick with the smell of roasting garlic, soap, and damp wood.
Standing at the basin, her back to him, was Saadia. The Redguard woman was scrubbing a stack of wooden bowls, her movements rhythmic and mechanical.
She was dressed in the simple clothes of a tavern wench, but Aerion knew better. He knew the posture, too straight for a servant. He knew the alertness, the way she paused every time the front door creaked.
Aerion took a step forward, and his steel mace clinked softly against his hip.
Saadia spun around instantly, a wet bowl still in her hand, water droplets flying. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight, the tall High Elf she had served yesterday, now clad in a bizarre mix of fine robes and heavy iron, with a massive warhammer looming over his shoulder and a fox sitting politely at his feet.
"Aerion?" she asked, her voice tight, glancing past him to see if anyone else was there. "You... you startled me. Why are you sneaking around the kitchen? And..." She gestured vaguely to his armament. "What is all this? I thought you were a mage. You look like you robbed a blacksmith."
"Hush," Aerion said, raising a finger to his lips. He didn't smile. His face was serious, shedding the friendly customer persona entirely. "I need to speak with you, Saadia. In private. Not here where Hulda or Mikael might overhear."
Saadia's eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on the wooden bowl until her knuckles turned white. "I'm working, Aerion. If you want a drink, go sit at the bar. I don't have time for games or... whatever this is."
"It's not a game," Aerion stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "It's about the men looking for you. The men from Hammerfell."
The reaction was visceral. Saadia froze, the color draining from her face, leaving her looking ashen. For a split second, she looked like a deer caught in a hunter's sights, but then the "noble" facade cracked, and the fugitive survivor emerged.
Her hand dropped from the bowl and darted behind her back, reaching for the small dagger she kept hidden in her sash.
"How do you know that?" she hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and lethal intent. "Who sent you? Are you working with them? A mercenary?"
"Hold," Aerion commanded, his voice projecting a calm authority that stopped her hand mid motion. "If I were with the Alik'r, you would already be paralyzed and thrown over a horse. I am here to help you, Saadia or should I say, Iman?"
She flinched at her real name, her eyes darting to the kitchen doorway.
"Not here," Aerion insisted. "Your room. Upstairs. Now. Before Hulda turns around and wonders why her dishwasher is holding a knife on a paying customer."
Saadia hesitated, her mind racing. She looked at the mage, then at the fox, then at the empty hallway. She realized she had no choice, if he wanted to expose her, he could have just shouted it to the guards. Slowly, she released the grip on her dagger, though she didn't move her hand away from her sash.
"Upstairs," she whispered tightly. "Move."
She led the way, hurrying up the narrow wooden steps that led to the servants' quarters. Aerion followed, the heavy thud of his boots muffled by the ambient noise of the inn, with Lupin trailing silently behind like a cinnamon shadow.
Her room was small, sparse, and smelled of lavender and dust. It was the room of someone who was ready to leave at a moment's notice, no personal trinkets, no decorations, just a trunk at the foot of the bed and a small table. Saadia shut the door and bolted it, then spun around, her back pressed against the wood.
"Talk," she demanded, her voice shaking. "Fast. Who are you, and what do you want?"
Aerion stood in the center of the room, looking unbothered by her hostility. "You don't need to know how I know," he began, channeling the enigmatic aura of his race. "I know that you are a noble of House Suda. I know you fled Hammerfell after the fall of Taneth. And I know that the Alik'r warriors have been dispatched to hunt you down, and they are getting closer. They are already in Skyrim, Saadia. It is only a matter of time before they track you to Whiterun."
Saadia let out a shaky breath, running a hand through her hair. "They... they've found me? I knew it. I knew I couldn't stay here." She looked at him with desperate eyes. "If you know this, then you know they will kill me. Or worse, drag me back to be executed. Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I can make them disappear," Aerion said simply. "I can ensure that when they arrive, they find nothing but a cold trail. I can offer you protection that the city guards cannot."
Saadia looked at him, and for the first time, a spark of hope flared in her eyes, before being crushed by skepticism. She looked him up and down, taking in the scrawny elf frame, the mismatched armor, and the fox cleaning its paw on her rug.
"You?" she let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "You're going to stop the Alik'r? Do you have any idea who they are? They are the elite warriors of Hammerfell. They travel in packs. They have curved swords, paralysis magic, and years of training. You are... one elf in the end, even if you managed to defeat couple of giants. A mage playing dress up with an iron shield. And you have a fox as your only friend."
She shook her head, backing away. "You're insane. You can't fight them. They'll cut you down before you can cast a single spell."
Aerion sighed. He had expected this. His reputation as a mage aren't that great yet and there's no visible army behind him, he was just a eccentric talker to her. He needed a demonstration, something that screamed "power" without needing to blow a hole in the roof.
"I admit, I do not look like an army," Aerion said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming resonant and layered with magicka. "But I possess magic that goes beyond fire and lightning. I practice the arts of dimensional rifts. I can access spaces between worlds. I can make things... and people... vanish at will."
Saadia stared at him. "Dimensional... what? That's a myth. Not even the Psijic Monks claim to do that."
"Observe," Aerion said.
He stood perfectly still. He focused his will on the heavy gear weighing him down.
Store Iron Shield. Store Steel Mace. Store Steel Warhammer.
There was no smoke. No flash of light. No incantation.
In the blink of an eye, the massive hammer on his back simply ceased to exist. The shield clamped to his arm dissolved into nothingness. The mace at his hip vanished into the ether.
One moment, he was a shield warrior mage. The next, he was standing in his pristine robes, light and unburdened, his hands empty and open.
The silence in the room was absolute.
Saadia's mouth fell open. She blinked rapidly, looking around the floor, checking behind him, trying to find where the massive weapons could have possibly gone in a fraction of a second. There was nowhere to hide a warhammer in a small bedroom. It was impossible. It was terrifying.
"Where..." she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. "Where did they go?"
"Away," Aerion said, taking a step forward, his golden eyes locking onto hers. "Into a pocket of oblivion that only I control. I can pull them out just as easily. Now, imagine if I were to apply that same principle to the Alik'r warriors hunting you. Or imagine if I were to store you safely away until the danger has passed."
It was a bluff, of course, he couldn't store living people in his inventory, but Saadia didn't know the rules of his System. To her, he had just demonstrated god like power over physical reality.
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 38!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 39!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 40!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 41!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 42!]
[LEVEL UP! You are now Level 29!]
[Attribute Points Available: 12 + 1 = 13 Total]
The notifications flashed in his peripheral vision, confirming that the display had worked. Saadia wasn't just impressed, she was terrified and awed in equal measure. Her posture slumped, the defiance draining out of her as she realized that this High Elf was something far beyond her understanding.
"You... you really are a something else," she whispered, looking at his empty hands with a mix of fear and reverence. "If you can do that... then maybe... maybe you really can help me."
"I can," Aerion promised, his voice softening. "But in exchange, Saadia, I need your loyalty. I need eyes and ears in this tavern. I need to know everyone who comes in, everyone who whispers about the war, and everyone who looks like they have coin to spend or secrets to hide. You serve the customers, but from now on... you report to me."
Saadia looked at him, then at the door, realizing that her life as a simple fugitive was over. She was now part of something much larger.
She straightened up, took a deep breath, and nodded. "If you can keep the Alik'r away... then I am yours, Aerion. My eyes and ears are yours."
Aerion smiled, a sharp, satisfied expression. "Excellent. Now, go back downstairs before Hulda misses you. And remember... act normal."
As Saadia standing tall in the room, looking dazed, Aerion looked down at Lupin. The fox yawned, unimpressed by the dimensional magic, and nudged Aerion's leg.
"Yes, yes," Aerion muttered, checking his status screen. "You were very good. You'll get your sweet roll."
Leaving Saadia to process her newly established double life, Aerion descended the wooden stairs back into the lively warmth of the Bannered Mare's main hall.
The noon crowd was beginning to thin, but the ambient noise of clinking tankards, overlapping conversations, and Mikael's persistent lute playing provided an excellent cover for moving about unnoticed.
Aerion's mind was sharp, the adrenaline of his successful persuasion still humming in his veins. Asset Two was secured. Now, it was time for Asset One.
He didn't have to look hard to find him. In a dark, soot-stained corner near the roaring hearth sat Sinmir. The man was a mountain of a Nord, clad in battered iron armor that looked like it had survived a landslide.
His horned helmet rested on the heavy wooden table beside a half empty tankard of mead, allowing the full, untamed glory of his thick beard and scarred, scowling face to be seen. He was staring into the fire, muttering darkly into his drink, a picture of absolute, brooding discontent.
Sinmir was a tragedy of Skyrim's rigid hierarchy. He was a veteran warrior who cared deeply for the city, but because he lacked the political tact to kiss the rings of the nobility, he had been sidelined.
In the game, he was destined to remain in this tavern forever, unless the Stormcloaks took the city, an outcome Aerion had absolutely no intention of allowing. Therefore, Sinmir needed a new destiny. He needed a commander who recognized his worth.
Aerion smoothed the front of his robes, adjusted the invisible weight of his magical inventory, and walked deliberately across the room. Without asking for permission, he pulled out the heavy wooden chair opposite the Nord and sat down. Lupin, acting the part of the perfect, elegant familiar, hopped up onto the bench beside Aerion, curling his bushy tail neatly around his paws.
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[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 160/160 Stamina: 150/150 Magicka: 290/290 Level: 28 ➝ 29
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire/Lightning) (Level 29/30), Persuasion (Level 42), 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), & Block (Level 16)
[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, Iron Shield, Steel Mace, & Steel Warhammer
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 = 50,771