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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
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.
Sinmir stopped mid mutter. He slowly lowered his tankard, his eyes narrowing beneath heavy, bushy brows as he took in the sight before him.
It wasn't every day that the only High Elf in Whiterun, a man who was currently the subject of every whispered rumor from the market to the Cloud District, decided to invade his personal space.
"You've got a lot of nerve, elf," Sinmir rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "Everyone in this tavern knows I sit alone. And since you've been living under Hulda's roof for a few days, I reckon you know it too. So, what business does the Jarl's new favorite giant killer have with a washed up soldier?"
Aerion met the Nord's hostile gaze with a placid, unblinking stare. He didn't smile, sensing that a man like Sinmir would take a smile as an insult.
"I do know you prefer to sit alone, Sinmir," Aerion replied, his voice calm and carrying that inherent, melodic authority of his race. "I also know why. I have heard your complaints about the city guards. I have heard what you have to say about Commander Caius. And I came over here to tell you that, as an outsider and an Altmer, no less, I fully agree with every word you've said."
Sinmir blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. He had expected arrogance, condescension, or perhaps a request for directions. He had not expected validation of the complaints he have talked about all day everyday.
Aerion leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to force the Nord to listen closely. "The guards in this city are lazy. They lean on their weapons and gossip like fishwives while bandits set up camps not three miles from the gates. And Caius? He is a politician in a breastplate. He cares more about keeping his boots clean and placating the Jarl than he does about establishing a secure perimeter. The security of Whiterun is a joke."
For a long, tense moment, Sinmir just stared at him. Then, a deep, booming laugh erupted from his chest, startling a patron at the next table.
"Ha! By the beard of Ysmir, I didn't expect that!" Sinmir slammed his hand on the table, the wood groaning under the impact. "I complain to my fellow Nords, and they tell me to hold my tongue. They tell me to trust the Jarl. But it takes an Altmer mage, a milk drinker by all our traditions, to actually see the rot in the timber!"
Sinmir took a long pull from his tankard, wiping the foam from his mustache with the back of his gauntlet. The floodgates, having been nudged open, completely gave way. He launched into a long winded, passionate diatribe about the state of the city.
He complained about the crumbling western watchtower, the lack of patrols on the roads to Rorikstead, the smuggling rings operating right under the guards' noses, and how Jarl Balgruuf was too busy worrying about Ulfric Stormcloak and keeping the Civil War at bay to see the threats in his own backyard.
Aerion sat patiently, nodding at all the right intervals. Inwardly, he let out a soft sigh. It was practically verbatim the dialogue tree he had clicked through a dozen times in his past life, just slightly expanded with a few colorful Nord curses and more words.
He let the man vent. Ysolda had taught him this just yesterday, find the silent need. Sinmir's need was to be heard. He felt useless, discarded by a city he wanted to protect.
Finally, as Sinmir paused to take a breath and reach for his mead, Aerion raised a hand, cutting him off smoothly.
"I understand exactly how you feel, Sinmir," Aerion said, his tone shifting from agreeable listener to sharp businessman. "You are a warrior watching a shield wall crumble because the captain is asleep. Complaining to the bottom of a tankard will not fix the wall. But I have an offer for you. A chance to actually assuage your fears for Whiterun's security, and to prove to everyone in this city that you were right all along."
Sinmir stopped, the tankard hovering an inch from his lips. The fiery indignation in his eyes cooled into a sharp, suspicious glint. He slowly set the drink down.
"What kind of offer?" Sinmir asked cautiously.
Aerion stood up. "Follow me upstairs to my room. We can speak there without the risk of an off duty guard eavesdropping on our conversation."
Sinmir looked at the stairs, then back at Aerion. The Nord's hand drifted instinctively to the hilt of the broadsword strapped to his waist. He snorted, a harsh, humorless sound.
"Listen to me carefully, elf," Sinmir warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "I'll follow you up. But if you try anything funny, if I even see a spark of magic near your fingertips, I will cut you down faster than you can shout a spell. Understood?"
"You have my word," Aerion said, placing a hand over his heart in a gesture of sincerity. "No funny business. Just a conversation between two men who want to see this city secure."
Aerion turned and walked toward the stairs, Lupin trotting obediently at his heels. He could hear the heavy, metallic clank of Sinmir's boots following close behind, the Nord keeping his hand resting heavily on the pommel of his sword.
When they reached the second floor, Aerion pushed open the door to his rented room. He walked inside but deliberately left the door wide open. It was a calculated move. An open door meant there were no traps, no ambushes, and their voices wouldn't carry over the noise of the tavern below anyway. It immediately eased the tension in Sinmir's broad shoulders.
The Nord stepped into the room, eyeing the sparse furnishings before turning his harsh gaze onto the High Elf.
"Alright, elf. The door is open, my hand is on my steel. Speak. What is this 'chance' you're offering?"
Aerion turned to face him, clasping his hands behind his back. "You know that the city guard is inadequate. You know that Commander Caius will never give you a position of authority because you do not play his political games. So, I propose we bypass Caius entirely. I propose we bypass the Jarl."
Sinmir's eyes widened slightly. "Bypass the Jarl? Are you talking treason, mage? Because if you are—"
"I am talking about privatization," Aerion interrupted, his voice cutting through the Nord's rising anger like a hot knife through butter. "I am talking about creating a mercenary company. A private security force, funded entirely by my funds, but trained, commanded, and led by you."
Sinmir stared at him, the concept taking a moment to penetrate his traditional Nord worldview. "A mercenary company... operating in Whiterun?"
"Operating wherever they are needed," Aerion corrected. "I have recently acquired a significant amount of capital, Sinmir. I intend to build businesses here, establish trade routes, and perhaps even purchase property. I cannot rely on Caius's lazy guards to protect my investments. I need a dedicated force. I need men who are disciplined, fiercely loyal, and capable of handling threats both inside and outside the city walls."
He took a step closer, letting his persuasion skills weave into the cadence of his words. "You will recruit the men. You will train them to your exacting standards. You will set the patrols and dictate the tactics. Officially, you will be a mercenary guild for hire. Unofficially, you will be my private militia. We will handle the bandit camps that Caius ignores. We will secure the roads that the Jarl abandons. We will do the job that the city guard is failing to do."
Sinmir shook his head, looking overwhelmed but undeniably intrigued. "You... you want me to be a captain? Of a private army? Why me? Why would an Altmer trust a Nord who despises magic to run his security?"
"Because you care, Sinmir," Aerion said, hitting the emotional linchpin. "You sit in that tavern every day because it pains you to see this city vulnerable. You are loyal to Whiterun, not to the bureaucracy that strangles it. I don't need a politician. I need a wolf to guard the flock. And I am willing to pay you handsomely to be that wolf."
The internal struggle was clearly visible on Sinmir's scarred face. He paced the small room, his heavy boots making the floorboards groan. He was a proud man, and taking coin from a High Elf stung that pride. But the alternative was going back downstairs, drinking cheap mead, and complaining to a hearth fire until he died of old age.
"This isn't cheap, elf," Sinmir argued, trying to find a flaw in the plan to protect his ego. "Arming a dozen men, feeding them, paying them a wage to risk their necks... that takes a small fortune. You cleared one giant camp. That doesn't make you the Emperor."
Aerion smiled. It was the "silent need" again. Sinmir needed reassurance that this wasn't a fleeting fantasy.
"Funding is not an issue," Aerion assured him, his voice laced with absolute certainty. "I have secured resources that far exceed the bounties of the Jarl. You will have a generous operating budget. Your men will wear quality steel, not the rusted iron the city guard passes off as armor. They will be the elite."
Aerion played his final, most devastating card. "Think about it, Sinmir. Think about the look on Commander Caius's face when a band of private mercenaries brings in the bandit chiefs he failed to catch. Think of the absolute humiliation he will feel when the merchants of Whiterun start paying your guild for protection instead of relying on his guards. You won't just be securing the city. You will be proving, publicly and undeniably, that you were right all along."
Sinmir stopped pacing. He looked at Aerion, and the fire in his eyes had returned, not the dull, angry fire of a drunkard, but the sharp, focused fire of a soldier who had just been handed his sword back.
He fought the idea for a few more minutes, throwing up token resistance about logistics and where they would base their operations, but Aerion deflected every concern with smooth, calculated logic. He promised autonomy. He promised resources. He promised a purpose.
Finally, the massive Nord let out a heavy breath, his hand slipping away from the hilt of his sword.
"You have a silver tongue, mage," Sinmir growled, though there was a grudging respect in his tone. "I don't trust your kind. I probably never will. But... I trust your gold. And I trust my own ability to bash heads into shape. If you provide the coin, I will provide the steel. I'll build your company."
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 43!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 44!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 45!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 46!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 47!]
[Persuasion Skill Leveled Up to 48!]
The cascade of text in Aerion's mind was deafening. Persuading a stubborn, racially biased, depressed Nord veteran to become the captain of a secret militia was no small feat, and the system rewarded him handsomely.
"Then we have an desl, Captain Sinmir," Aerion said, extending his hand.
Sinmir looked at the slender, golden hand for a moment before gripping it with his own calloused, massive palm. He gave it a firm, bone crushing shake.
"Aye. We have an accord, boss," Sinmir said. "I'll start looking for recruits today. There are plenty of good fighters rotting in the gutters of this city because the guards won't have them."
"Take your time, but be thorough. Quality over quantity," Aerion instructed. "I will provide you with your initial operational funds tonight. For now, go back downstairs. Finish your mead. Tomorrow, your new life begins."
Sinmir nodded, a dangerous, eager grin spreading across his face beneath his beard. He turned and marched out of the room, his footsteps sounding noticeably lighter, more purposeful, than they had when he walked in.
Aerion closed the door behind him and let out a long exhale, feeling the mental strain of the negotiation wash over him. Lupin trotted over and nudged his hand, clearly sensing his master's satisfaction.
Two assets down. He was building an intelligence network within the tavern with Saadia, and now he had the foundation of a private military with Sinmir. His web was growing, spinning outwards from this tiny room in the Bannered Mare.
With Captain Sinmir's recruitment firmly secured and the foundation of his private militia quietly taking root in the tavern below, Aerion's mind smoothly transitioned to the next piece of his puzzle.
A blade in the dark and a shield on the wall were vital, but without eyes to guide them, they were useless. He needed a spy. Or, more accurately, he needed someone who was entirely invisible to the bustling, arrogant populace of Whiterun.
His thoughts naturally gravitated toward Brenuin. In the context of the game, the resident beggar of the Wind District was little more than a minor distraction, a ragged man who asked the player to steal a single bottle of Argonian Ale from the Bannered Mare because Hulda had cut off his tab.
It was a petty theft quest, simple and straightforward. But in this breathing, living reality, Aerion saw no reason to resort to petty larceny when he possessed the wealth of a minor lord. Why risk a confrontation with Hulda over a single stolen bottle when he could simply purchase a crate of the stuff and buy the man's absolute loyalty?
Aerion opened the door to his room and stepped out into the hallway, his soft leather boots making scarcely a sound on the floorboards. Lupin, ever the dutiful and curious companion, immediately trotted out after him, his bushy tail swaying in a relaxed rhythm.
Descending the wooden staircase, Aerion scanned the main room. The afternoon crowd was beginning to filter in, filling the tavern with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of wooden plates. He spotted Hulda near the back of the room, wiping down a large circular table where a group of off duty guards had just vacated.
Aerion approached her with a measured, polite stride, calling out her name over the din of the tavern.
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?"
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[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 160/160 Stamina: 150/150 Magicka: 290/290 Level: 29
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire/Lightning) (Level 29/30), Persuasion (Level 48), 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