If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out on P-Tang12!!!
_________________________________
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Hulda turned around, a strand of hair falling across her forehead. When she saw who it was, a genuine smile spread across her weathered face, the fatigue of the day momentarily lifting. "Ah, Aerion," she greeted, tossing her rag over her shoulder. "You're back from your morning exercise. Is there anything you need? Some fresh bread, perhaps a bowl of venison stew, or something to drink?"
"Something to drink, actually, but not for myself," Aerion replied, leaning slightly against the sturdy wooden chair next to him. "I was wondering if you happen to have the Argonian Ales. If you do, I would like to purchase a fair amount of it. Ten bottles, if you have the stock to spare."
Hulda's eyebrows shot up in mild surprise. Argonian Ale wasn't exactly a daily request, it was imported, highly potent, and possessed a uniquely harsh bite that most Nords found disagreeable compared to their beloved honey mead.
"Ten bottles of the Argonian brew?" Hulda asked, wiping her hands on her apron as she moved back toward the main counter. "Let me see what I have left in the stock. I usually only keep a small supply for the traveling merchants who pass through from Riften."
She crouched down behind the bar, rummaging through the dimly lit wooden shelves. A few moments of clinking glass and shifting timber followed before she emerged, hauling a sturdy, dust covered wooden crate onto the counter with a heavy thud.
"Ah, here it is," she said, popping the latch and opening the lid to reveal the dark, thick glass bottles nestled safely in straw. She did a quick tally with her finger. "Exactly ten bottles left in this crate. You buying so much... are you planning on throwing a party, Aerion? I wouldn't have pegged you for the rowdy type."
Aerion shook his head, offering a polite, disarming smile. "Nothing quite so festive, I'm afraid. I am merely purchasing it as a gift for a friend who has a very specific, and rather demanding, palate."
Hulda nodded, accepting the simple explanation without further probing. A merchant knew better than to question a paying customer's harmless quirks. "Fair enough. That's imported goods, though, so it's a bit steeper than the local brew. It will be one hundred septims for the whole crate."
"A very reasonable price," Aerion agreed. He reached into the small leather satchel hanging at his hip, using the physical motion to mask the mental command that pulled exactly one hundred gold pieces from his system inventory. He placed the heavy handful of septims onto the counter, the coins clinking musically against the wood.
Seeing the sheer amount of gold produced so casually, Hulda's eyes widened a fraction. She quickly pulled the coins toward her, her practiced hands separating and counting the septims with remarkable speed. "Ninety eight, ninety nine, one hundred," she murmured, before looking up with a satisfied nod. "All accounted for. The crate is yours, Aerion."
Aerion thanked her graciously, picked up the heavy wooden box, and turned toward the exit. Lupin, sensing that they were moving out, bounded ahead to the door.
As Aerion stepped out of the tavern, the bright afternoon sun caused him to squint for a moment. The Whiterun market was in full swing, a bustling nexus of commerce and conversation.
Carlotta Valentia was shouting the prices of her fresh cabbage and apples, while Anoriath was engaged in a spirited debate with a customer over a haunch of venison.
Aerion carried the crate easily, his enhanced stamina making the weight feel trivial, and his eyes scanned the perimeter of the plaza. He didn't have to look for long. Sitting on a filthy, frayed rag near the stone steps that led up to Arcadia's Cauldron was Brenuin.
The beggar looked exactly as Aerion expected, disheveled, wearing ragged clothes that hung loosely off his gaunt frame, his hair matted and unwashed. As Aerion approached the alchemy shop, Brenuin instinctively held out a cupped hand, his voice carrying the practiced, pitiful tremor of a professional vagrant.
"Spare a coin for a thirsty man?" Brenuin croaked, not entirely looking up. "Just one septim to ease the throat?"
As the beggar's eyes finally drifted up to meet the imposing figure casting a shadow over him, he immediately froze. Recognizing the tall, golden skinned High Elf dressed in fine robes, Brenuin's hand slowly lowered, and he visibly restrained himself, pressing his back slightly against the stone wall.
The Altmer were not known for their charity, in fact, they were generally known for their disdain of the lesser races, and a beggar was as low as one could get in Skyrim's social hierarchy.
Aerion looked down at the man, completely ignoring the racial tension that had caused the beggar to shrink away. "Stand up," Aerion said, his voice calm but brokering no argument. "And follow me."
Brenuin blinked, his eyes darting to the heavy crate in Aerion's hands and then down to the fox sitting patiently by the elf's boots. "W-what?" the beggar stammered, pulling his ragged shawl tighter around his shoulders. "What does a highborn elf want with the likes of me? I haven't done anything wrong, I swear."
Aerion let out a quiet sigh, knowing that honey caught more flies than vinegar. "If you would like to get your hands on some Argonian Ale and a pouch of septims to call your own, you will stand up and follow me into the alleyway."
Hearing those specific words, Brenuin's demeanor shifted instantly. The fear evaporated, replaced by the sharp, desperate spark of a man whose primary vice had just been dangled in front of his nose.
"Argonian Ale, you say?" Brenuin muttered, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "And... and septims as well?"
Aerion simply nodded, turning on his heel.
Brenuin scrambled to his feet with a speed that belied his malnourished appearance. As the beggar stood, the wind shifted, and a potent, eye watering stench of stale alcohol, sweat, and unwashed dirt washed over Aerion.
It was a smell that commanded a wide berth, and Aerion had to consciously force his face to remain an impassive mask, refusing to let his Altmer sensibilities show any disgust.
Aerion walked briskly toward the narrow, shadowed gap between the exterior wall of the Bannered Mare and the side of Arcadia's Cauldron, a secluded spot where the noise of the market was muffled and prying eyes were blocked by stacked barrels and empty crates. Brenuin followed close behind, his worn boots shuffling against the dirt.
Once they were safely out of sight, Aerion set the wooden crate down on a flat stone block. Brenuin immediately hovered over it, his eyes wide. Aerion flipped the lid open.
When the beggar saw not just one, but ten dark glass bottles nestled in the straw, he let out a sharp gasp, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch the glass, verifying that it wasn't a cruel illusion.
Before Brenuin could grab a bottle, Aerion reached into his satchel again, pulling out a small, heavy leather pouch containing exactly one hundred septims, and dropped it into the center of the crate right beside the ale.
Brenuin ripped his gaze away from the alcohol and stared at the gold, truly stunned. The desperation in his eyes was suddenly warring with a very sharp, very lucid street smart vigilance. A beggar survived by understanding that nothing in the world was truly free.
"Why?" Brenuin asked, his voice losing its pitiful tremor and taking on a guarded, raspy edge. He looked up at Aerion, his eyes narrowing. "Why is a High Elf giving a fortune in gold and the finest ale in the city to a man who sleeps in the dirt? What is the catch?"
Aerion smiled inwardly. This was exactly what he wanted. A desperate fool would have just grabbed the box and run, drinking himself into a stupor within an hour. A vigilant man, however, could be reasoned with, employed, and trusted to understand the value of a contract.
"There is no catch, Brenuin, only a business proposition," Aerion said smoothly, leaning his shoulder against the cool stone wall of the alchemy shop. "You are a man who spends his entire life on the streets. You are ignored by the guards, dismissed by the merchants, and completely invisible to the nobles in the Cloud District. Because they do not see you, they do not guard their tongues when you are near."
Brenuin slowly pulled his hand back from the crate, listening intently.
"I have recently come into considerable resources," Aerion continued, his voice steady and persuasive. "I am building my life here in Whiterun, and to protect my investments, I need to know what happens in this city before the Jarl himself does. I need eyes and ears on the streets. I want you to be those eyes."
Brenuin scoffed softly, shaking his head. "You want me to be a spy? For you? If the guards catch me listening to things I shouldn't, they'll throw me in the Dragonsreach dungeon, and nobody will ever ask where old Brenuin went."
"You will not be sneaking into palaces or picking locks," Aerion corrected, holding up a hand to soothe the man's fears. "I want you to do exactly what you do every single day. Sit. Ask for coin. But while you do it, I want you to listen. I want to know about strange travelers passing through the gates. I want to know what the merchants are complaining about when they think no one is listening. I want to hear the rumors about the Civil War, the Khajiit caravans, and the movements of the city watch."
Aerion pointed down at the crate. "You convey anything interesting, weird, or mysterious to me. You relay that information back, and in return, you will receive a steady, continuous supply of this ale, and enough septims to ensure you never have to go hungry or beg for scraps again. You will work for me, Brenuin. And I take very good care of my employees."
The beggar looked down at the crate, the immense temptation pulling at his very soul, but his mind was spinning with the implications. "And what if I don't hear anything useful? What if it's a quiet week?"
"Then you get paid your base wage for being at your post," Aerion countered effortlessly, anticipating the objection. "I am not paying you for miracles, Brenuin. I am paying you for vigilance. If you prove yourself reliable, this crate is only the beginning. You could have a warm bed, new clothes, and respect. You just have to decide if you want to remain a beggar, or become an asset."
Brenuin stared at the tall elf, weighing the words. He had been kicked, spat on, and ignored for years. Now, this mysterious foreigner was offering him not just wealth, but purpose.
The beggar's natural paranoia fought bitterly against the sheer logic of the offer, but Aerion's tone was so reasonable, so perfectly calibrated to alleviate his fears and stroke his underlying desire for dignity, that the resistance finally crumbled.
"Alright," Brenuin breathed out, his shoulders dropping as he made his choice. "Alright, you have a deal, elf. I... I accept. I'll keep my ears open. You won't regret this."
As the beggar eagerly reached down to claim the heavy pouch of gold and cradle his precious crate of ale, a brilliant, familiar golden light cascaded across Aerion's vision.
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 49!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 50!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 51!]
[LEVEL UP! You are now Level 30!]
Aerion felt the rush of newfound power expanding his internal reservoir, the raw energy of the level up coursing through his veins and clearing the lingering fatigue from his morning training session.
He mentally acknowledged the new attribute point, adding it to his growing, unspent pool, now totaling fourteen points waiting to be distributed.
"I am glad to hear it, Brenuin," Aerion said, stepping back out toward the main street. "Enjoy your evening. I will find you when I require a report."
With Lupin trotting happily at his side, Aerion emerged from the alleyway and blended back into the flow of the Whiterun market. He had a guard captain, a tavern spy, and now a master of the streets.
The sun was beginning its slow descent toward the jagged peaks of the Reach, casting long, golden shadows across the cobblestones. As he walked, his mind drifted away from the immediate concerns of recruitment and settled onto a much broader, far more dangerous subject: economics.
In his past life, sitting behind a screen with a keyboard and mouse, gold was merely a number. When he had installed the cheat chests behind Warmaiden's, it was simply a matter of convenience, a way to bypass the tedious grind of selling iron daggers to vendors with limited coin purses. He could pull a million septims from a barrel and the digital world wouldn't blink.
But this was reality. Skyrim was a living, breathing province with a fragile, war torn economy.
If Aerion simply walked to those invisible mod chests every single day and dumped tens of thousands of septims into the local market, the consequences would be catastrophic.
He understood the basic principles of inflation well enough to know that flooding a closed economy with an infinite supply of currency would cause the value of the septim to plummet.
Suddenly, a loaf of bread wouldn't cost two coins, it would cost two hundred. The farmers of the Pelagia estate would starve, the Khajiit caravans would abandon their trade routes, and the very foundation of Whiterun would collapse not from dragon fire, but from hyperinflation.
He had to be careful. He needed to be rich enough to fund his private militia and grease the necessary palms, but he had to simulate a natural accumulation of wealth. From now on, he decided, he would only draw from the mod chests once every few days, establishing a strict withdrawal schedule until he had built a steady, legitimate stream of income through Ysolda and his future investments.
_____________________________
[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 160/160 Stamina: 150/150 Magicka: 290/290 Level: 29 ➝ 30
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire/Lightning) (Level 29/30), Persuasion (Level 51), 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 = 50,571