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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Lanterns glowed warmly outside the shops, and the loud, boisterous sound of laughter and lute music echoed down from the wind district. Aerion passed the already closed open air market stalls. He turned his boots purposefully toward the massive, familiar wooden structure dominating the center of the Plains District. He walked up the steps and pushed open the heavy doors of the Bannered Mare.
The heavy, iron bound oak doors of the Bannered Mare swung inward, instantly severing the crisp, cool autumn chill of the Whiterun evening.
As Aerion, Jenassa, and Lupin stepped across the threshold, they were immediately engulfed by a wall of roaring heat, the savory scent of roasting pheasant, and the deafening, boisterous cacophony of a packed Nordic tavern.
The central fire pit was blazing high, casting a warm, dancing orange light across the massive wooden beams and the dozens of patrons crammed into the space.
In the corner, Mikael the bard was vigorously plucking the strings of his lute, his voice raised in a spirited, slightly off key rendition of a popular tavern shanty. The music barely cut through the loud, overlapping conversations of off duty guards, traveling merchants, and hardened mercenaries sharing tankards of the Honningbrew Mead.
The arrival of the towering High Elf, the heavily armored Dark Elf assassin, and the tiny cinnamon fox trotting at their heels no longer silenced the room as it once had.
Over the past week, the trio had become a remarkably familiar, albeit highly eccentric, fixture of the Whiterun social ecosystem. A few patrons raised their tankards in silent greeting to the elf who threw gold around like water, but most simply returned to their drinks.
Aerion paused just inside the doorway, his golden eyes sweeping the crowded floorboards. He turned to his exhausted bodyguard.
"The markets are closed for the evening, and I have absolutely no desire to go knocking on Belethor's door at this hour to purchase flour and salted meats," Aerion instructed smoothly, raising his voice slightly to be heard over Mikael's singing. "We will reside here for the night. Go find an empty table in the corner, or simply retire to your rented room. You have earned your rest, Jenassa."
Jenassa let out a low, gravelly sigh of relief, rolling her aching shoulders. "A warm bed and a cold mead sound like a gift from the Ancestors, Patron. I shall leave you to your evening."
With a crisp nod, the Dark Elf navigated her way through the throng of patrons, heading straight for the wooden doors leading to the lower lofts.
Aerion watched her go before turning his attention to the heart of the establishment: the massive, sprawling wooden bar counter.
He moved through the crowd with practiced, aristocratic grace, Lupin weaving flawlessly between the heavy leather boots of the patrons to keep pace. As they reached the counter, Aerion's gaze locked onto the woman commanding the chaotic flow of drinks and food.
Ysolda was a whirlwind of focused energy. Her auburn hair was tied back to keep it out of her face, and she was currently balancing three heavy wooden tankards of ale in one hand while wiping down the sticky, mead stained wood of the bar with a rag in the other.
She was so entirely absorbed in the bustling of running her newly acquired business that she didn't even notice the towering Altmer standing directly across from her.
"The efficiency of the new management is truly a sight to behold," Aerion murmured, his melodic, smooth voice cutting effortlessly through the ambient noise of the tavern.
Ysolda jumped slightly, nearly spilling the foam from the tankards. She snapped her head up, her bright eyes locking onto Aerion's golden features.
The reaction was instantaneous and entirely involuntary. A deep, vivid shade of crimson rushed violently to Ysolda's cheeks, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears.
The moment she saw him, her mind was violently violently pulled back to their last private interaction before he had left for his dangerous expedition into the Pale. The lingering tension, the proximity, the sudden, terrifying realization of her own heart, it all came flooding back.
Ever since that day, Ysolda had been locked in a state of profound, highly confusing internal turmoil. She was a practical, ambitious Nord woman. She had always imagined her future involving a sturdy merchant from Solitude or perhaps a respected blacksmith.
She had never in her wildest dreams imagined that she would develop a genuine romantic feelings for a High Elf. And not just any High Elf, but an eccentric, dangerously powerful, wildly wealthy mage who treated ancient crypts like his personal banking vaults.
It was terrifying. But it was also exhilarating.
Just yesterday, she had confided in Hulda, the older, wiser former owner of the Mare. Hulda had simply laughed, patted Ysolda's hand, and given her a piece of painfully direct Nordic advice. "Life is short, especially in Skyrim. If the Elf makes your blood run hot and treats you with respect, just go and try, girl. The worst he can do is say no, and you still own half the tavern."
But standing before him now, looking up into those calculating, mesmerizing golden eyes, Hulda's simple advice felt incredibly difficult to execute. She was painfully shy in this specific arena.
"A-Aerion!" Ysolda stammered, quickly setting the three tankards down on the wood before she dropped them. She hastily wiped her hands on her apron, trying desperately to compose her flushed face. "You... you've returned! I didn't see you come in."
"I try to make a habit of arriving quietly," Aerion smiled, a warm, genuine expression that reached his eyes. He leaned casually against the polished wood of the bar. "How is the business faring in my absence? Have the ledgers remained black?"
Ysolda took a deep breath, the familiar territory of commerce helping to steady her racing heart.
"The business is going incredibly well," Ysolda answered, her voice regaining its confident, entrepreneurial cadence. "The influx of the new mead from Riften has been highly popular with the guards, and our daily revenues are up by nearly twelve percent since the transition."
She lowered her voice slightly, leaning across the counter so the surrounding patrons couldn't eavesdrop. Her bright eyes searched his face, laced with genuine, lingering worry. "And... how was your... business? Did your 'looting' go as planned? You were gone longer than I anticipated. I was... concerned."
She used the word looting with careful discretion, knowing perfectly well that Aerion preferred to keep his massive wealth generation a closely guarded secret from the general public.
Aerion's smile widened. The fact that she was actively covering for him, playing the role of his trusted confidante, sent a very pleasant, completely unexpected warmth blooming in his own chest. His earlier decision to explore this connection felt increasingly correct.
"My business went exceptionally well, Ysolda," Aerion replied softly, holding her gaze. "The ruins were cold, and the occupants were remarkably uncooperative, but I have achieved exactly what I set out to achieve. The septims are secured."
Hearing the confirmation of his safety and his success, the lingering anxiety completely melted from Ysolda's features. A bright, brilliant, incredibly beautiful smile broke across her face. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated relief and genuine pride in his accomplishments.
"That is wonderful news," Ysolda beamed, her blush returning, but this time accompanied by a spark of bold affection. "Congratulations, Aerion."
Aerion found himself staring for a fraction of a second longer than was strictly polite. Her smile was remarkably radiant. In a world defined by freezing winds, blood, and rusted iron, the genuine warmth of the Nord woman was intoxicating.
Aerion let out a soft, reciprocal smile, the aristocratic mask slipping away entirely.
However, the quiet, tender moment was violently and disgustingly shattered.
"Well, well, well. Look at that smile. It's like the sun coming up over the Throat of the World!"
A loud, slurred, incredibly abrasive voice boomed from Aerion's immediate right.
Aerion turned his head slightly. Standing just inches away from him, leaning heavily against the bar counter, was a massive, heavily bearded Nord patron.
The man was an absolute mess. His leather tunic was stained with grease, his beard was tangled, and the sheer, pungent stench of cheap, sour wine and stale sweat practically radiated off him in visible waves. The Nord was heavily intoxicated, swaying slightly on his feet as he stared directly past Aerion, his bleary, bloodshot eyes locked hungrily onto Ysolda.
Because Aerion and the drunk were standing virtually shoulder to shoulder at the counter, the intoxicated Nord had completely misinterpreted the situation. He genuinely believed that Ysolda's brilliant, blushing smile had been directed entirely at him.
Ysolda's smile vanished instantly. Her expression hardened into a mask of pure, absolute disgust.
"Is there something you need, Vald?" Ysolda asked, her tone dropping fifty degrees into a freezing, professional glare.
"Oh, come now, lass," the drunk Nord, Vald, snorted, waving a massive, dirty hand through the air. He completely ignored the High Elf standing beside him. "You don't have to be shy. I saw the way you were looking at me. A woman with your beauty, your brains, and that fine body... it's only natural you'd be attracted to a real man like myself."
To punctuate his utterly delusional statement, Vald ran a thick, dirty tongue over his cracked lips in a grossly lewd, suggestive manner.
Aerion felt a sudden, cold spike of violent anger flare in his chest. His golden eyes narrowed to absolute slits.
Ysolda's face flushed again, but this time it was purely from rage. She slammed her rag down onto the bar counter with a loud, sharp crack.
"You are drunk, Vald, and you are being completely disgusting," Ysolda snapped, her voice raising to ensure the surrounding patrons could hear her authority. "Shut your mouth, pay your tab, and leave. Or I will have you kicked out of my inn for being a nuisance."
The rejection, delivered so publicly and sharply, pierced directly through the thick haze of the man's intoxication. Vald's face twisted into an ugly, aggressive scowl. The fragile ego of the drunkard snapped.
Vald slammed his massive, meaty fist violently onto the bar counter, rattling the empty tankards.
"Your inn?!" Torvald roared, spittle flying from his lips. He leaned aggressively over the wood, pointing a dirty, calloused finger directly in Ysolda's face. "You listen to me, you little tavern wench! You keep your mouth shut and you learn your place! I am the paying customer here! Don't you think that just because you scraped together a few septims and bought this place from Hulda, you can talk down to me!"
The tavern around them suddenly went dead silent. Mikael stopped playing his instrument. The conversations ceased. Every eye in the Bannered Mare turned toward the bar counter.
Vald didn't stop. Emboldened by his own anger, he doubled down, his words turning utterly vile.
"You're nothing but a glorified barmaid playing at being a merchant!" Vald sneered, his voice echoing loudly in the quiet room. "Maybe if you stopped acting like a stuck up whore and learned how to properly service a man behind closed doors, you wouldn't have to work so hard pulling pints—"
Torvald's disgusting tirade was abruptly cut off.
Aerion did not draw a weapon. He didn't cast a spell. He simply uncrossed his arms, reached out with his right hand, and clamped his long, elegant fingers directly onto Vald's thick leather shoulder pad.
With a sudden, terrifying display of physical force that entirely defied his slender Altmer physique, Aerion violently yanked the massive Nord backward, physically tearing him away from the bar counter and spinning him completely around.
Vald stumbled, his heavy boots skidding against the floorboards as he was forcibly turned to face the towering High Elf.
Aerion stood at his full, imposing height. The polite, charming scholar was completely gone. His face was twisted into a dark, terrifying scowl, his golden eyes burning with absolute, lethal intent.
"You are causing a ruckus in the establishment," Aerion growled, his voice dropping into a low, vibrating register that sounded more like a territorial predator than an elf. "And you are speaking to the owner. You will close your mouth, and you will leave. Now."
Vald, staggering slightly from the forceful spin, looked up at the High Elf. The intoxication, combined with the deeply ingrained, generational racism of the Nords, flared into absolute, blind fury.
"What the hell?!" Vald spat, a thick glob of saliva flying from his mouth and landing directly on the pristine dark fabric of Aerion's robes.
Aerion looked slowly down at the spit on his chest, and then back up at the Nord. The temperature in the immediate vicinity seemed to physically drop.
"Don't you dare touch me, you arrogant, golden skinned knife ear!" Vald bellowed, his voice echoing through the silent tavern. "You Elven filth come into our city, banning us from worshipping our god, and think you can give orders to true sons of Skyrim?! I'll break your fragile, twig like arms and feed you to the skeevers!"
From the corner of his eye, Aerion saw a blur of motion near the wooden doors. Jenassa was already present, her crimson eyes blazing, her hands reaching for the dual blades at her hips. She was ready to butcher the man on the spot.
Aerion raised his left hand, flashing a sharp, subtle, commanding gesture toward the assassin. Stand down. He did not want a murder in the middle of the Bannered Mare.
He wanted to make a public point. This was a different tavern, Ysolda was under his protection, and he was more than capable of handling physical trash without relying on magic or his bodyguard.
Aerion lowered his hand, his golden eyes locking back onto the furious, swaying Nord.
"Have you quite finished your pathetic, uneducated tirade?" Aerion asked, his voice returning to a smooth, chillingly calm cadence. "Because whether you are finished or not... your time in this tavern is over."
Vald completely lost whatever fragile grip he had left on his sanity. With a raw, guttural roar of fury, the massive Nord pulled his right arm back, balling his hand into a massive, meaty fist, and launched a brutal, full force haymaker aimed directly at Aerion's jaw.
It was a punch that would have easily shattered the jaw of any normal scholar or merchant.
But Aerion was not normal.
Aerion possessed 420 points of magically reinforced, cellularly dense Health, and 400 points of boundless, explosive Stamina. His physical reaction time was operating on a level that bordered on the supernatural.
Aerion didn't dodge. He didn't flinch.
He simply raised his right hand, keeping his palm open.
SMACK.
The sound of the impact echoed sharply like a whip crack. Aerion caught the Nord's massive, swinging fist perfectly in the center of his palm.
Vald's eyes widened in absolute, unadulterated shock. It was as if he had just punched a solid, immovable wall of solid granite. The kinetic force of his haymaker completely vanished, entirely absorbed by the High Elf's terrifying physical density. Aerion's arm didn't even buckle; he held the massive fist suspended in mid air with effortless, humiliating ease.
A collective, sharp gasp rippled through the watching crowd of patrons.
"I gave you a warning," Aerion whispered softly, his fingers slowly closing around Vald's fist, beginning to squeeze the bones with crushing, agonizing pressure.
Vald grunted in pain, desperately trying to yank his trapped fist backward. When he realized he was physically outmatched, panic set in. Relying on the dirty tactics of a tavern brawler, Vald shifted his weight and drove his heavy, plated knee violently upward, aiming a devastating strike directly at the High Elf's gut.
Aerion saw the strike coming a mile away.
In a single, fluid motion, Aerion violently shoved Vald's trapped fist backward, releasing his grip.
The sudden, forceful shove completely shattered the Nord's precarious balance. Vald's knee strike missed entirely, striking empty air, and the massive man stumbled backward, his arms flailing wildly as he nearly slipped on a patch of spilled ale on the floorboards.
Before Vald could regain his footing, Aerion stepped inside his guard.
Aerion's fists became a blur. He didn't swing wild haymakers, he delivered a rapid, devastatingly precise, three strike combination directly into the unprotected center of Vald's gut.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The heavy, sickening sound of knuckles impacting dense muscle and organ tissue echoed in the silence. The strikes were surgically placed, driving the air completely from the Nord's lungs.
Vald's eyes bugged out of his skull. He let out a strangled, wheezing gasp, completely folding forward at the waist, his arms dropping uselessly to his sides as he desperately fought for oxygen.
The physical confrontation was already over, but Aerion intended to leave an indelible, highly visible impression on every single patron in the room. He tapped into the obscure, deeply buried memories of his past life. He remembered watching the athletic spectacles of professional wrestling, the choreographed violence masking highly effective leverage techniques.
As Vald doubled over in agonizing pain, Aerion moved with flawless, terrifying speed.
Aerion stepped to the side, wrapping his right arm tightly around the front of Vald's thick neck. Simultaneously, he drove his left hand beneath the Nord's right armpit, locking his hands together in a vice like grip behind the man's head.
It was a textbook, flawless headlock takedown.
Aerion forcefully twisted his hips, utilizing Vald's massive, unstable weight against him. With a sudden, explosive exertion of force, Aerion drove the heavy Nord violently downward toward the floorboards.
CRASH.
Vald hit the sticky wooden floor of the tavern with an earth shattering impact, his heavy leather armor rattling the floorboards.
But Aerion didn't let go.
Following the momentum of the takedown, Aerion seamlessly transitioned the momentum. He wrapped his long, incredibly strong legs around Vald's torso, maintaining absolute top control. He kept his right arm locked viciously under Vald's chin, sinking the crook of his elbow deeply against the Nord's carotid artery, and clamped his left hand onto his own right bicep.
He secured a flawless, inescapable submission lock. A classic sleeper hold.
Aerion applied the pressure.
The crowd of patrons erupted. The initial shock gave way to absolute pandemonium. Traveling mercenaries let out roaring cheers of approval at the sheer, technical brutality of the takedown, while several merchants jeered and shouted in excitement.
Tavern brawls were common, but seeing a towering High Elf physically dismantle a massive Nord using complex grappling techniques was a spectacle none of them had ever witnessed.
Behind the bar counter, Ysolda was leaning over the wood, her hands gripping the edge so tightly her knuckles were white.
"Aerion!" Ysolda cried out, a mixture of profound awe and genuine panic in her voice. "Aerion, stop! You're going to kill him!"
Aerion completely ignored her. His golden eyes were cold, locked onto the struggling man trapped in his arms.
On the floorboards, Vald was in absolute agony. The pressure against his neck was immense, rapidly cutting off the blood flow to his brain. He thrashed wildly, his heavy boots kicking uselessly against the floor. He tried to claw at the thick dark fabric of Aerion's sleeve, but the Altmer's grip was like iron bands.
Seconds ticked by. Vald's face began to shift from angry red to a dangerous, terrifying shade of purple. The wild thrashing began to slow down as oxygen deprivation set in.
Finally, broken, humiliated, and rapidly losing consciousness, Vald raised his trembling, dirty hand and frantically slapped his palm against the floorboards three times.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was the universal sign of absolute, unconditional surrender.
Aerion held the lock for exactly one second longer, ensuring the message was fully, painfully received, before suddenly and completely releasing the pressure.
Aerion uncoiled his legs and stood up with effortless, aristocratic grace, smoothing the wrinkles from his dark robes as if he had just finished a mild stroll.
Vald remained on the floorboards, rolling onto his side, coughing violently and gasping desperately for air, clutching his bruised throat.
Aerion looked down at the defeated man, his voice echoing clearly over the murmurs of the crowd.
"You will never speak to her in that manner again. You will never spit on the floors again," Aerion commanded, his tone dripping with absolute, freezing authority. "If you ever cause trouble in this inn again, I will not be so merciful as to simply put you to sleep."
Aerion turned his head, looking toward the far corner of the tavern where two off duty Whiterun guards were sitting, wide eyed, tankards halfway to their mouths.
"Gentlemen," Aerion called out to the guards, pointing a long finger at the wheezing Nord on the floor. "This man has destroyed the peace of the establishment, and is heavily intoxicated. I would consider it a personal favor if you would drag this trash out of the tavern and throw him into the street."
The two guards, having just witnessed the terrifying physical competence of the Jarl's newest favored citizen, didn't hesitate. They slammed their tankards down, stood up, and marched quickly across the room.
They grabbed Vald by the armpits, hauling the groaning, utterly defeated Nord to his feet, and forcefully dragged him out the heavy front doors, tossing him into the cool night air of Whiterun.
The heavy doors slammed shut behind them.
The Bannered Mare was quiet for a moment. And then, Mikael the bard, possessing excellent comedic timing, struck a triumphant, lively chord on his lute, instantly resuming his song.
The tavern immediately exploded back into its loud, boisterous, chaotic normality, the patrons eagerly returning to their mead with a brand new, highly exciting story to tell.
Aerion turned his attention back to the bar counter.
Ysolda was staring at him. Her chest was heaving slightly, her bright eyes wide and filled with a complex, swirling tempest of emotion. The shock of the violence was there, yes. But beneath it, burning brighter than the hearth fire, was a look of profound, absolute adoration. He hadn't just defended her honor, he had physically, decisively ensure it as well.
Aerion stepped back up to the polished wood, offering her a soft, entirely genuine smile. "Now then, Ysolda," Aerion asked, his voice melodic and calm, as if the brawl had never happened. "I believe I am quite parched from my travels. May I trouble you for a flagon of the finest mead?"
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 420/420 Stamina: 400/400 Magicka: 570/570
Level: 99
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+2)/Lightning(+1)/Frost) (Level 54/19/89), Restoration (Healing/Purify) (Level 76/MAX), Alteration (Level 35), Alteration (Level 20), Illusion (Level 42), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning) (Level 37/MAX), Persuasion(+1) (Level 30), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak (Level 33), One Handed (Level 76), Two Handed (Level 65), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 72), Enchanting (Level 66), Light Armor (Level 53), Block (Level 70), & Pickpocket (Level 8)
Shouts: Fus (Force), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), & Feim (Fade)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, Mammoth Tusk, the Golden Claw, Calm Spellbook, Arvel's Journal, Inkwell & Quill, Thief Book, Scroll Of Summoning (Wolf), Scroll Of Healing, Weak Potion of Paralysis, Dragonstone, Golden Staff of Flames, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, Orcish Dagger, Jagged Crown, The Mirror, Glass Sword, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Reanimate Corpse Tome, Staff of Lightning, Meridia's Beacon, & Deed to Tundra Homestead
2x Potion Of Ultimate Magicka, Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), & Elven Sword
3x Glowing Mushrooms, Potions of Minor Stamina, & Black Soul Gems (Filled)
4x Potions of Minor Magicka & Spider Eggs
5x Lesser Soul Gem
8x Iron Arrows & Ancient Nord Arrows
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
Weight: 74.39KG / 500 KG
Septims: 78,779