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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
"Rashid al-Dan, at your service," the Redguard purred, his accent thick with the rolling sands of Hammerfell. "I am a sellsword, pure and simple. I have fought in the sands of the Alik'r desert and the snows of Winterhold. I heard the captain was paying the bills and secure city, so I figured this outfit wouldn't be boring."
Aerion continued down the line, meeting the eyes of the remaining five Nords, all of whom carried the unmistakable aura of seasoned fighters who had survived purely on their own grit.
There was Haldir the Black, a brooding, massive man who specialized in heavy shield walls. Signy Deep-Winter, an older, grizzled woman carrying a spear who had survived countless bandit skirmishes in the frozen north. Valdar, a terrifyingly large youth who had spent his teenage years as a bouncer in Riften's roughest taverns.
Jora, a deadly accurate archer missing half of her left ear from a close encounter with a Frostbite Spider. And finally, Erlend, a disgraced former guard who looked unremarkable but carried his sword with the loose, dangerous grip of a natural born killer.
Aerion took a moment to let the silence stretch, looking at each of them, projecting the full weight of his imposing magical and physical presence. He didn't speak to them as a lord speaking to peasants, he spoke to them as a wolf speaking to the pack.
"I am Aerion," he finally said, his voice resonant and echoing slightly against the stone foundation of the storehouse. "And as Captain Sinmir has told you, I am the one funding this operation. You are a collection of exiles, deserters, and disgraced warriors. The city of Whiterun looks at you and sees failures."
Aerion paused, letting the harsh truth sting for a moment before offering the antidote. "But I look at you and I see potential. I see men and women who understand that the laws of this land are fragile, and that true security is bought with blood and steel, not with bureaucratic decrees. You will train here. You will fight for me. You will protect the assets and the people I deem valuable. In return, I will pay you better than the Jarl, I will arm you better than normal mercenaries, and I will ensure that no one in this hold ever looks down on you again."
He met Torsten's eyes, then Runa's, then Titus's. "When we are in public, you do not know me. If you see me in the Bannered Mare, you treat me as just another patron, perhaps sharing a casual joke to maintain appearances. Our connection is a secret that belongs only to the shadows. Do you understand?"
A chorus of deep, affirmative grunts and sharp nods rippled through the line of mercenaries. The gold had bought their presence, but Aerion's absolute, unwavering confidence had just bought their small begrudging respect.
"Good," Aerion smiled, a sharp, dangerous expression that promised greatness. "Captain Sinmir, get them back to their training. We have a city to secure."
Sinmir, hearing the absolute conviction in Aerion's voice and seeing the calculating, predatory glint in the High Elf's golden eyes, firmly agreed with what his employer had said. The veteran Nord understood that a true leader needed to be a shadow, a guiding hand rather than a king sitting upon a visible throne.
Pivoting on his heavy, iron shod heel to face the newly formed company of mercenaries, Sinmir clapped his leather gauntleted hands together. The sharp, cracking sound echoed loudly off the solid stone foundation of the storehouse, instantly snapping the ten men and women to attention.
"You heard the man!" Sinmir bellowed, his booming voice rolling over the frost kissed grass of the Whiterun plains. "The introductions are over. The pleasantries are done. We have a farm to secure and a reputation to build, and I will not have my company looking like a band of drunken mudcrabs when the time comes to draw steel! Pair off! I want to see your stances, I want to see your swings, and I want to see exactly what kind of warriors the boss just bought with his gold. Move!"
The mercenaries did not hesitate for a fraction of a second. They quickly dispersed across the cleared patch of dirt and packed earth that served as their makeshift training yard, eager to prove their worth to their new captain and their mysterious elven benefactor.
They paired off to cross blades, the sharp, ringing clash of iron on iron quickly filling the crisp morning air as they tested each other's footwork and guard.
"Keep that shield up, Valdar!" Sinmir barked, striding through the sparring pairs like a massive, armored shepherd. "A giant won't care how big your biceps are if he caves your skull in! Runa, watch your footing in the loose dirt! Do not over commit on the swing!"
Over by the wooden fence, Jora and the Wood Elf, Gwaering, were shooting blunted practice arrows at the makeshift archery targets constructed from tightly bound bales of Pelagia's surplus hay.
Meanwhile, the heavier fighters, like the towering Torsten Iron-Arm and the brooding Haldir the Black, took turns battering the sturdy wooden training dummies with devastating, bone rattling strikes from their battleaxes and warhammers.
Aerion stepped back, moving toward the edge of the training yard near a stack of empty crates, and quietly watched them work.
Sinmir was in his element, loudly directing their forms, harshly correcting their sloppy postures, or offering gruff, surprisingly effective words of encouragement. It was a chaotic but beautiful symphony of violence, a raw display of martial potential that proved Aerion's investment was a resounding success.
Lupin, who had been sitting dutifully by Aerion's side, suddenly decided he couldn't hold his boundless vulpine curiosity back any longer.
The cinnamon colored fox trotted forward, his black nose twitching wildly as he investigated the smells of sweat, leather, and sharpened steel. To the mercenaries' mild amusement, the creature didn't show an ounce of fear toward the heavily armed strangers around him.
"Well, look at you, little one," Signy Deep-Winter cooed softly, momentarily lowering her spear as Lupin sniffed at her boots.
Lupin let out a small yip and boldly snatched a dropped scrap of dried meat from the dirt near Titus Varr's heel, darting back toward Aerion before the Imperial could even blink.
While watching the grueling physical exertion taking place in the dirt yard, Aerion suddenly felt his own blood pumping faster. A familiar, undeniable itching sensation spread across his palms. He wanted to draw a weapon. He wanted to get his hands dirty.
As he watched Torsten expertly deflect a heavy overhead swing with his shield, a profoundly logical realization washed over Aerion's gamer oriented mind.
'Why am I still paying the Companions?' he thought to himself, his golden eyes narrowing in calculation. He was currently paying Aela, Vilkas, Farkas, and Athis a staggering two thousand septims every single day just to spar with him.
That expensive tutelage had been necessary when he was a fragile novice who needed absolute masters to quickly forge his martial foundations without killing him in the process.
But now? Now he could simply train right here at the farm with his own private army. He didn't need to spend another copper piece.
While these disgraced guards and sellswords might not be as legendary or as flawlessly expert as the elite inner circle of Jorrvaskr, he didn't actually need that elite level of experience anymore.
His integrated system's passive abilities, specifically Fast Skill Levelling, did all the heavy lifting. He just needed competent training partners and someone willing to cross blades with him, a physical catalyst where he could reliably level up his skills the true gamer way through sheer repetition and combat exposure.
"Captain Sinmir," Aerion called out, his smooth, melodic voice easily cutting through the clatter of weapons. "A word, if you please."
Sinmir halted his critique of Erlend's sword grip and jogged over to the crates, his brow furrowed in mild concern. "Is there a problem, boss? Are they too loud? We can move the archery targets further down the hill if they are disturbing the peace."
"The noise is perfectly fine, Sinmir," Aerion replied, shaking his head. He gestured toward the weapon racks leaning against the side of the storehouse. "I would like to join the morning training session."
Sinmir visibly balked at the request. His thick eyebrows shot up toward his horned helmet, and he looked at Aerion's fine, embroidered robes with a mixture of confusion and apprehension.
"Are you absolutely sure about that, boss?" Sinmir asked cautiously, lowering his voice. "I don't mean to underestimate you. I know you cleared out Bleakwind Basin and brought down those giants. But you are a mage, not a frontline warrior. These boys and girls don't exactly know how to pull their punches in the ring. I wouldn't want to see you catch a stray battleaxe to the ribs."
Aerion offered a faint, confident smile. "You need not worry about my ribs, Captain. I have been secretly training with the inner circle of the Companions for the past several days. I know my way around a blade, a shield, and the crushing weight of physical exhaustion. That is precisely why I sought their tutelage, so I would not be completely helpless if my magicka reserves were to run dry."
Before Sinmir could process that stunning revelation, Aerion leaned in slightly, his golden eyes locking onto the Nord's. "But beyond simply keeping my skills sharp," Aerion whispered, "there is a deeper reason. I need to gain the genuine, blood forged respect of these men and women."
Sinmir frowned, listening intently.
"I am a High Elf, Sinmir," Aerion continued, his voice barely a breath against the morning wind. "I know they must harbor deep seated prejudices or outright hatred toward me. I completely understand it, given the political climate of Skyrim and the actions of the Aldmeri Dominion. But I need to physically show them that I am different. I am not a haughty, fragile Thalmor aristocrat who hides behind walls of magic while lesser men die for him. I need them to know that I bleed the exact same red blood that they do."
Sinmir's eyes widened slightly as the profound, strategic wisdom of the Altmer's words sank in. A slow, respectful smile spread across his bearded face, and he gave a firm, heavy nod.
"You are a rare breed, boss," Sinmir said, a new layer of profound respect coloring his tone. "Most nobles would rather buy loyalty with extra coin than earn it with sweat. You want into the ring? You've got it. But I won't tell them to go easy on you."
"I would fire you if you did," Aerion replied simply.
Shedding his outer robes and draping them carefully over a crate, Aerion walked confidently into the training yard. He purposefully chose not to took out the weapons he used and tucked away in his spatial inventory.
Instead, he approached the racks and picked up a standard, slightly nicked iron sword, a heavy wooden backed iron shield, a cumbersome iron battleaxe, and a simple wooden hunting bow with a quiver of standard iron arrows.
As he strapped the iron shield to his left arm and gripped the iron sword, a noticeable hush fell over the mercenaries. The clashing of steel slowed to a halt as they turned to stare at the tall, golden skinned elf stepping into the sparring ring.
The thinly veiled racial prejudice was immediate.
"What is this?" Torsten Iron-Arm muttered to Runa, leaning heavily on his warhammer. "The boss thinks he's a shield brother now? He's going to snap his wrist trying to swing that iron."
"Let the milk drinker try," Erlend sneered quietly, wiping sweat from his brow. "Maybe he'll learn that real combat isn't like waving his hands around and sparking fire."
Gwaering, the Wood Elf, simply glared from the archery targets, his dark eyes filled with the lingering trauma of the Thalmor purges in Valenwood. To him, every Altmer was a reminder of the ashes of his homeland.
Aerion ignored the whispers. He walked directly toward the center of the yard and pointed his iron sword at the largest man there.
"Torsten," Aerion called out, his voice calm and commanding. "Raise your hammer. Let us see if your strike is as heavy as your boasting."
Torsten blinked, looking at Sinmir for confirmation. The captain simply crossed his arms and nodded. A feral grin spread across Torsten's scarred face. "Alright, Elf. Don't say I didn't warn you."
Torsten lunged forward, raising the massive iron warhammer high above his head and bringing it down with bone crushing force. It was a strike meant to shatter timber and break arms.
Aerion didn't flinch. His Gamer mind analyzed the trajectory in a fraction of a second. He bent his knees, angled the heavy wooden shield upward, and braced his shoulder against the impact.
CLANG!
The sound was deafening. The wood of the shield groaned, and Aerion's boots slid back an inch in the dirt, but his guard held perfectly firm. He didn't buckle. He didn't fall.
Before Torsten could recover from the sheer shock of his hammer being stopped dead by a mage, Aerion stepped inside the Nord's guard and brought the pommel of his iron sword crashing upward into Torsten's breastplate, knocking the massive man backward, gasping for air.
The yard went dead silent.
"Your swing is too wide, Torsten," Aerion said calmly, lowering his shield. "You telegraph your intent with your shoulders. Again."
Torsten let out a booming laugh, rubbing his dented breastplate. "By Ysmir, you've got stone in those arms, boss! Alright, let's go!"
The toxic atmosphere of prejudice instantly shattered, replaced by the universal language of warriors. The mercenaries forgot about the Aldmeri Dominion and the Great War, they only saw a man who could hold the line.
They enthusiastically stepped into the ring, eager to train with him and teach him their own unique regional tricks and dirty fighting tactics.
Runa Shield-Breaker took him aside next. "Let's see how you handle the axe, Elf," she challenged, tossing him the heavy iron two hander. "It's not a sword. You don't thrust. You let the weight do the killing."
For an hour, Runa showed him how to properly utilize the heavy, sweeping momentum of the iron battleaxe, teaching him to pivot on his heels and cleave through imaginary targets without losing his balance.
Aerion's Fast Skill Levelling devoured the instruction, turning her experienced advice into permanent muscle memory.
Even Gwaering, putting aside his simmering racial animosity, eventually stepped forward. "Your stance is rigid, Altmer," the Bosmer said softly, gesturing to Aerion's bow. "Draw the string to your cheek, not your chest. You must account for the crosswinds coming off the Throat of the World. Feel the air on your skin before you loose."
Under this barrage of diverse, relentless martial instruction, Aerion's system interface fired off continuously in his mind, bathing his consciousness in the warm, euphoric glow of accelerated progression.
[One Handed Leveled Up to 60!]
[One Handed Leveled Up to 61!]
[One Handed Leveled Up to 62!]
[One Handed Leveled Up to 63!]
[One Handed Leveled Up to 64!]
[Two Handed Leveled Up to 60!]
[Two Handed Leveled Up to 61!]
[Two Handed Leveled Up to 62!]
[Two Handed Leveled Up to 63!]
[Two Handed Leveled Up to 64!]
[Two Handed Leveled Up to 65!]
[Block Leveled Up to 57!]
[Block Leveled Up to 58!]
[Block Leveled Up to 59!]
[Block Leveled Up to 60!]
[Archery Leveled Up to 70!]
[Archery Leveled Up to 71!]
[Archery Leveled Up to 72!]
[LEVEL UP! You are now Level 55!]
[LEVEL UP! You are now Level 56!]
All of this brutal, intensely focused physical training resulted in Aerion leveling up two complete times, pushing his overall character level to fifty six.
He felt the surge of raw energy knit his bruised muscles back together, granting him two precious attribute points from the system. In total, he now had exactly 26 attribute points securely banked in his interface, a massive hoard of potential power waiting to be unleashed.
As the grueling, hours long session finally drew to a close, Aerion walked over to the wooden water barrel near the barn to take some much needed rest. He splashed the freezing water over his sweat drenched face and golden hair, letting out a long, satisfied exhale.
"Here you go, boss," Torsten said, walking over and handing Aerion a dry rag with a respectful nod. "I have to admit, I didn't think you had it in you. But you fight like a true Nord."
"A high compliment, Torsten," Aerion smiled, wiping his face. He could physically feel the genuine, hard earned respect radiating from the men and women around him. He was no longer just the wealthy purse funding their meals, he was a potential shield brother who had bled in the dirt beside them.
But suddenly, before the peaceful camaraderie could fully settle over the camp, the tranquil silence of the farmstead was violently shattered.
Awoooooooooo!
The chilling, blood curdling sound of wolves howling incredibly loud echoed down from the nearby rocky hills, slicing through the morning air like a jagged blade. Aerion's head snapped up.
Awooo! Awoooo!
From the overlapping, chaotic sounds echoing off the rocks, there must have been more than ten of them howling in unison. The sheer volume of the noise clearly indicated that this wasn't just a simple hunting pair.
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[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 200/200 Stamina: 200/200 Magicka: 330/330 Level: 54 ➝ 56
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire/Lightning) (Level 29/30), Persuasion (Level 54), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak (Level 16), One Handed (Level 64), Restoration (Healing) (Level 7), Two Handed (Level 65), Lockpicking (Level 9), Archery (Level 72), Alteration (Level 4), Enchanting (Level 19), Light Armor (Level 40), & Block (Level 60)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Steel Dagger, Long Bow, Potions of Minor Stamina, Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, Copper and Onyx Circlet, 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: 92 KG / 400 KG
Septims = 60,651