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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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They rode for just over ten minutes, navigating the gentle curves of the road and crossing the stone bridge over the White River, until the magnificent, sturdy architecture of the Tundra Homestead finally came into view. "We have arrived," Aerion announced, pulling the reins and bringing the massive warhorse to a halt in the packed dirt clearing before the house.
Jenassa pulled her own heavily burdened bay horse to a stop beside them, the massive sacks of produce shifting with a loud rustle.
Ysolda sat perfectly still for a moment, her arms still wrapped securely around Aerion's waist, completely captivated by the view.
From the cobblestone streets of Whiterun, the tundra was merely a vast, golden expanse. But sitting here, upon the elevated, incredibly scenic plateau the homestead rested on, the sheer majesty of the land was breathtaking. The golden grass swayed like an ocean in the crisp autumn wind.
Directly behind the sturdy, masterful Nordic architecture of the house, the jagged, snow capped peaks of the Throat of the World pierced the brilliant blue sky, casting long, dramatic shadows across the plains.
Ysolda's merchant mind, always calculating value and scarcity, immediately recognized the staggering worth of the estate.
"By the Divines, Aerion," Ysolda breathed, her bright eyes wide as she took in the sprawling, fertile acreage. "You are incredibly, almost impossibly lucky that this homestead was still sitting on the Steward's ledgers waiting for a buyer."
She slowly unwrapped her arms from his waist, gesturing toward the vast, empty plains directly behind the house. "Usually, the bloated nobility or the incredibly rich clan patriarchs of the city, like Olfrid Battle-Born or Nazeem, snap up such lucrative, strategically placed homesteads the moment the deeds are signed. The soil here is perfect. They could easily establish a secondary, massive agricultural farm, or a dedicated horse breeding pasture, completely monopolizing the eastern trade routes."
Aerion offered a smooth, dismissive shrug of his broad shoulders. He swung his long leg over the saddle, dropping effortlessly to the dirt below.
"I suppose I simply have excellent timing," Aerion replied, reaching up to gently grasp Ysolda by the waist and help her down from the towering warhorse.
As her boots touched the ground, Aerion expanded on her economic observation, leaning into his role as a traveling scholar.
"However, if I were to hazard a guess at the economic trends... I would attribute my luck directly to the ongoing civil war. Uncertainty breeds extreme financial caution. The wealthy clans of Whiterun are terrified that the frontline will eventually shift to the central hold. They are afraid to sink massive amounts of their money into undefended property outside the city walls. They are hoarding their septims inside their vaults, waiting for the Stormcloaks and the Empire to bleed each other dry."
Ysolda smoothed the front of her green dress, nodding her head in profound agreement. "A highly accurate assessment. When the roads are choked with soldiers, merchants close their purses. But whatever the reason, it is undeniably your good fortune that the Jarl's fear kept this place empty."
"Indeed," Aerion smiled.
Jenassa dismounted from her own horse with a quiet grunt of exertion, immediately moving to unbuckle the heavy leather straps securing the massive sacks of produce.
Aerion stepped forward to assist.
He effortlessly hoisted the massive, fifty pound sacks of potatoes, cabbages, and raw wheat from Revan's flanks, dropping them onto the dirt with heavy, solid thuds. Jenassa mirrored the action with the carrots and apples.
Aerion reached into his dark robes, accessing his digital satchel. He produced the heavy, intricately cut iron key to the homestead.
He didn't walk to the door himself. He turned to Ysolda, offering the key to her, prioritizing the subtle, domestic intimacy of the gesture.
"If you would do the honors of opening the door," Aerion requested politely.
Ysolda's cheeks flushed a delicate, pretty shade of pink. Being handed the key to his private estate, asked to open the door for him, was a deeply symbolic gesture of trust. She took the heavy iron key in one hand, tightly gripping the small burlap sack of salt Belethor had sold them in the other, and walked up the short wooden steps to the sweeping front porch.
She slotted the key into the heavy lock. The mechanism turned with a loud, satisfying clack.
Ysolda pushed the heavy oak door open, stepping aside to let the crisp autumn light spill into the cozy, fire lit interior.
The very second the gap in the doorway was wide enough, absolute chaos erupted from within.
A tiny, vibrating blur of cinnamon red fur shot through the doorway like an arrow fired from a ballista.
"Woah!" Ysolda gasped, taking a sudden step back as the creature darted past her boots.
It was Lupin. The magical fox bolted straight off the porch and sprinted directly toward Aerion. Lupin didn't stop to sniff the heavy sacks of vegetables. He skidded to a halt directly in front of the High Elf's dark boots, threw his head back, and unleashed a rapid, incredibly loud, highly aggressive barrage of high pitched yips and scolding trills.
Through their empathic link, the raw translation hit Aerion's mind like a hammer.
'You abandoned me! Starving! Where have you been?! You left me in the box for an entire night! Where is the food?!'
Aerion threw his head back and let out a rich, booming chuckle, completely ignoring the scolding tone of his familiar. He knelt down in the dirt, ruffling the thick, soft fur on the back of the fox's neck.
"I sincerely apologize for the inexcusable delay, my little friend," Aerion laughed, his melodic voice soothing the frantic animal. "I am well aware that you were left behind yesterday. But I assure you, the wait was worth it. I have brought you exactly what you would like. A mountain of fresh, crisp apples."
The word "apples" instantly shattered the fox's righteous indignation. Lupin's ears perked straight up, his bushy tail immediately beginning to wag in a frantic, vibrating blur. He let out a single, sharp yip of demand, turning his head to look expectantly at the massive burlap sacks resting in the dirt.
Ysolda, standing on the porch, watched the interaction with profound, highly amused fascination.
"By the Divines, Aerion," Ysolda chuckled, stepping back out into the sunlight. "Your pet is incredibly demanding. He is vastly more aggressive and vocal than the domestic hounds the guards keep, and he practically speaks louder than the wild timber wolves I've seen roaming the plains. I have never seen a fox act with such absolute entitlement."
Aerion shook his head, standing back up and effortlessly lifting two of the massive produce sacks over his broad shoulders.
"It is entirely my own fault, I am afraid," Aerion sighed, flashing her a self deprecating smile as he walked up the porch steps. "I spoiled him terribly after I first found him. I fed him entirely too much high quality roasted meat and sweet rolls, and now he has mutated into an absolute, unrepentant glutton."
He stepped past her, carrying the massive weight into the living room. "Frankly, considering the sheer, astronomical volume of food he consumes on a daily basis, only the Gods know why he hasn't ballooned into a fat, spherical ball of fur."
As if understanding he was being insulted, Lupin let out another sharp, indignant yip from the dirt, causing Ysolda to laugh aloud as she followed Aerion and Jenassa inside. She pushed the heavy oak door shut, sealing the warmth of the roaring stone hearth inside the house.
Aerion and Jenassa carried the five massive burlap sacks of produce across the spacious living area, depositing them heavily behind the long, polished wooden bar counter that separated the kitchen from the taproom.
With the cargo secured, Aerion immediately turned his attention to the protesting fox, who was currently scratching impatiently at the wooden floorboards near his boots.
Aerion untied the thick linen cord binding Carlotta's sack of apples. He reached inside, selecting three of the brightest, crispest, most flawless red apples from the top of the pile. He tossed them onto the thick bear pelt rug in front of the roaring fire.
Lupin didn't hesitate. The fox pounced on the fruit, his sharp little teeth crunching happily into the sweet flesh, his anger entirely forgotten in the face of breakfast.
With the familiar pacified, Aerion turned his golden eyes back to Ysolda. She was standing in the center of the room, looking up at the high wooden rafters and the beautifully crafted dining furniture, her eyes wide with appreciation.
"Now that the larder is secured," Aerion offered smoothly, extending a graceful hand toward the interior of the house. "Would you care for a proper, guided tour of the estate?"
Ysolda's eyes lit up. "I would love nothing more."
Aerion seamlessly slipped into the role of the proud homeowner. He guided her to the left side of the sprawling living room first. He pushed open the heavy oak door, revealing the massive, elevated master bedroom.
"The private quarters," Aerion narrated quietly.
Ysolda stepped inside, admiring the sturdy, flawless Nordic carpentry. The room was spacious and warm, dominating by a massive, heavy wooden king sized bed layered in thick, luxurious bear and wolf pelts.
Situated near the far wall were two smaller, perfectly crafted single beds, intended for housecarls or honored guests. Heavy iron bound chests sat at the foot of each bed, and thick, woven rugs covered the cold floorboards.
"It is incredibly cozy," Ysolda praised, running her hand along the polished wood of a tall dresser. "You could sleep through a blizzard in here and never feel the chill."
"That is the intention," Aerion agreed, leading her back out into the main living space.
He walked her across the floorboards to the right wing of the homestead. He pushed open the second heavy oak door, stepping into the dedicated arcane laboratory.
The distinct, sharp scent of ozone, dried lavender, and burnt ash still hung heavily in the air from Aerion's massive, reality bending enchanting session the previous evening.
"The laboratory," Aerion introduced.
Ysolda stepped inside, her eyes immediately drawn to the two massive, intricate workstations. She looked at the bubbling glass alembics of the Alchemy lab, and the terrifying, rune-inscribed stone surface of the Arcane Enchanter, crowned with its menacing dragon skull.
"Fascinating," Ysolda murmured, keeping a highly respectful distance from the glowing blue runes of the Enchanter. "I know very little of magic, but the craftsmanship of these tables is extraordinary. It smells like a thunderstorm in here."
"A byproduct of extreme arcane friction," Aerion smiled mysteriously.
He pointed to a heavy wooden trapdoor set flush into the floorboards in the absolute center of the room, marked by a thick, rusted iron pull ring.
"And this," Aerion stated, walking over to the trapdoor, "leads down into the cellar. I must confess, Ysolda, I have not actually ventured down there myself yet. Proventus assured me it was fully excavated, but its contents remain a mystery to me."
Ysolda's curiosity spiked instantly. "Shall we explore it together, then?"
"Indeed," Aerion nodded.
He reached down, grabbing the iron ring, and hauled the heavy wooden trapdoor upward on its heavy hinges. A rush of cold, damp, completely stagnant air drifted up from the darkness below.
Aerion descended the sturdy wooden ladder first, his boots echoing loudly in the pitch black confined space. Ysolda followed closely behind him, holding her green dress slightly to avoid snagging it on the rungs.
When they reached the bottom, they were standing in absolute, suffocating darkness. The only light came from the square trapdoor opening high above them.
"It is incredibly dark," Ysolda whispered, her voice bouncing slightly off the stone walls.
"Allow me," Aerion replied smoothly.
He didn't bother pulling out the Staff of Magelight. He simply raised his right hand, snapping his long, elegant fingers.
With a sudden, explosive whoosh of rushing air, a localized, highly controlled burst of raw plasma erupted from his palm. He flicked his wrist, sending a perfectly aimed, compressed bolt of Flames directly into the ancient iron sconce bolted to the wall nearby.
The oiled rags within the sconce instantly caught fire, burning with a bright, crackling orange intensity. Aerion repeated the motion three more times in rapid succession, lighting the perimeter of the room in less than two seconds.
The sudden, brilliant illumination revealed the hidden depths of the Tundra Homestead.
They were standing in a wide, rectangular basement. The walls were constructed of heavy, expertly cut gray masonry, keeping the earth at bay. Just like the game, the immediate area at the bottom of the ladder was furnished with a few wooden chairs and empty bookcases, intended for quiet study or storage.
But it was what lay at the far end of the cellar that commanded their absolute attention.
Separating the study area from the back half of the room was a heavy, rusted iron cell door, the bars thick as a man's wrist. The heavy iron key was already resting innocuously in the lock.
Aerion and Ysolda walked up to the iron bars, peering through into the secured room beyond.
The space was a dedicated, highly organized armory. It was completely lined with beautiful, dark wood weapon plaques designed to hold greatswords and battleaxes.
Several glass display cases rested on sturdy wooden tables, intended to show off prized daggers and priceless jewelry. Furthermore, standing in the corners like silent, wooden guardians, were six perfectly crafted armor mannequins, waiting to be clad in steel and ebony.
The entire armory, however, was completely, depressingly empty. Not a single iron dagger or leather bracer broke the pristine wood.
Ysolda let out a soft whistle, gripping the cold iron bars of the cell door.
"By the Eight," Ysolda murmured, her eyes sweeping over the empty weapon racks. "Whoever originally commissioned the construction of this homestead must have been incredibly paranoid, or a fiercely dedicated collector of armaments. It looks like the private armory of a paranoid warlord. To lock it behind a heavy iron cell door inside a basement... they truly valued their steel."
Aerion nodded slowly, his golden eyes sweeping over the empty mannequins. Where Ysolda saw an eccentric past owner, Aerion saw an empty canvas waiting to be filled with the apocalyptic artifacts he intended to forge and collect.
"A man can never be too careful with his prized possessions, Ysolda," Aerion agreed, reaching out and turning the heavy iron key.
The cell door swung open with a loud, grinding screech of rusted hinges. They stepped into the armory, exploring the empty display cases.
"It is a magnificent space," Aerion noted, running his hand along the polished wood of a greatsword rack. "I shall have to make an effort to fill these racks with weaponry worthy of the craftsmanship."
Having thoroughly explored the subterranean depths, they turned around and ascended the wooden ladder, leaving the damp chill of the cellar behind and returning to the warm, lavender scented air of the arcane laboratory.
As Aerion closed the heavy wooden trapdoor with a solid thud, Ysolda turned to him, a bright, deeply impressed smile on her face.
"It is a beautiful place, Aerion," Ysolda complimented sincerely, smoothing her dress. "It is incredibly cozy, highly functional, and extremely defensible. With a bit of work, you could easily renovate that basement into a massive, secure storage vault for your more lucrative acquisitions, or whatever other function you desire."
"That is precisely my intention," Aerion nodded, gesturing for her to lead the way back out into the living room. "I have vast, sprawling plans for the expansion of this homestead. The architecture you see today is merely the foundation of a much larger vision. I intend to build—"
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The sudden, incredibly loud, heavy knocking on the solid oak front door echoed like thunder through the quiet house, completely cutting off Aerion's sentence.
Ysolda jumped slightly, startled by the aggressive volume.
Jenassa, who had been sitting quietly by the fire sharpening a spare dagger, was on her feet in an instant. She didn't draw her weapons, but her posture shifted immediately into a state of lethal readiness. She walked swiftly to the front door, pulling the heavy iron latch back and swinging the wood inward.
Standing on the front porch, sweating profusely under the crisp autumn sun, were Gwaering the Bosmer, Signy Deep-Winter, and Valdar.
The three heavily armored mercenaries looked completely exhausted. Slung over their massive shoulders were three enormous, incredibly dense burlap sacks that clanked loudly with the unmistakable, heavy sound of solid iron hardware.
They had returned from Team Three's procurement mission.
"Patron," Gwaering called out, stepping into the doorway and dropping his massive sack onto the floorboards with an earth-shaking crash.
Aerion walked out of the arcane laboratory, followed closely by Ysolda. He immediately dropped the charming, domestic tone he had been using with the merchant, shifting seamlessly into the sharp, authoritative cadence of a commander.
"Come in, Gwaering, Signy, Valdar," Aerion commanded, gesturing toward the center of the room.
The two hulking Nords stepped inside, dropping their own massive burdens beside the Bosmer's sack, panting heavily from the long, grueling march back from the city carrying hundreds of pounds of solid iron.
"Report," Aerion demanded, his golden eyes locking onto the Bosmer archer. "How did the procurement go? Were you able to secure the necessary supplies?"
Gwaering wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead, standing at attention despite his exhaustion.
"It went flawlessly, Patron," Gwaering reported, his voice crisp. "We completely cleared out Warmaiden's reserve stock. Adrianne Avenicci sold us every iron fitting, heavy nail, iron hinge, and reinforced lock she had forged this week. We then went to Belethor's General Goods to acquire the heavy carpenter's tools, saws, hammers, and chisels."
The Bosmer paused, a look of genuine, residual surprise crossing his face.
"Surprisingly, Patron," Gwaering continued, "both Adrianne and the slimy Breton gave us a rather significant discount on the final tally. Because we were buying in such massive, unprecedented bulk, Belethor actually knocked off ten percent of his usual exorbitant markup. Because of their generosity, we did not spend the entire fifteen hundred septims you allocated."
Gwaering reached into his heavy leather cloak, pulling out a smaller, jingling coin purse. He extended his hand, offering the excess funds back to the High Elf.
"We have exactly one hundred and twelve septims remaining from the procurement fund, sir," Gwaering stated honestly.
Aerion didn't reach for the gold. He looked at the three exhausted, heavily burdened mercenaries who had just hauled hundreds of pounds of iron across the plains without a single word of complaint, and who possessed the absolute, unwavering honesty to return the unspent change to their employer.
Absolute loyalty was forged through generous leadership, not stingy accounting.
Aerion held up a single, elegant hand, gently pushing the coin purse back toward the Bosmer's chest.
"Keep it, Gwaering," Aerion ordered smoothly, his voice projecting benevolent authority. "You do not need to return the excess funds to me. You three executed a flawless, highly efficient procurement under a heavy physical burden. Divide the remaining septims evenly between yourselves. Consider it a tip for your exemplary logistical work."
Gwaering froze, his hand hovering in the air. Signy and Valdar, the two hulking Nords, exchanged a wide eyed look of absolute shock. Over thirty septims each simply for carrying a few sacks of iron from the city? It was more than wnought for them mercenaries to spend it several days in the inn or tavern, eating and drinking good.
"Patron... we..." Gwaering stammered, genuinely overwhelmed by the generosity.
"You earned it. Put the gold away," Aerion insisted firmly. "Now, haul those heavy sacks into the arcane laboratory to the right. Keep them out of the main living space until the timber arrives and the construction can officially begin."
"Yes, Patron! Thank you, Patron!" the three mercenaries chorused in unison, their exhaustion instantly evaporating under the blinding light of unexpected wealth. They eagerly hoisted the massive sacks of iron back onto their shoulders and hurried toward the right wing of the house.
As the clanking of iron faded into the laboratory, the room fell quiet once more.
Aerion turned around.
Ysolda was standing perfectly still near the bar counter, her bright eyes wide with intense, calculating curiosity. She had watched the entire military style debriefing unfold with profound surprise.
She looked from the doorway of the arcane laboratory back to Aerion's composed face.
"Aerion," Ysolda asked, her voice hushed but entirely direct. "Who exactly are those men? They called you 'Patron'. Are they the laborers you hired in preparation for expanding the homestead? They look entirely too heavily armored to be simple carpenters."
Aerion paused. The situation was a razor's edge of operational security.
His hyper analytical mind instantly weighed the variables. On one hand, he was currently actively attempting to explore a genuine, romantic relationship with the woman standing before him. Honesty was the foundation of any lasting connection.
On the other hand, he was the shadow ruler of the continent. His grand, overarching objective, the complete, invisible manipulation of the Dragonborn and the geopolitical landscape of Skyrim, required absolute, flawless secrecy.
The existence of a private, heavily armed mercenary company operating directly under his command was a closely guarded secret. If word spread through the gossip networks of Whiterun that the eccentric High Elf scholar was raising a private army in the tundra, the Jarl would grow terrified, the Imperial Legion would investigate, and his entire cover story would be annihilated.
Trust is earned over time, not given in a day, Aerion concluded ruthlessly. The romance is an exploration. The operational security of my empire is absolute.
He had to lie. And he had to do it perfectly.
Aerion smoothed his expression, offering a light, slightly exasperated sigh, flawlessly projecting the image of a wealthy landowner dealing with eccentric contractors.
He intentionally raised the volume of his melodic voice just a fraction of a decibel, ensuring the sound carried clearly into the arcane laboratory where the three mercenaries were currently depositing the iron.
"Yes, Ysolda, they are the laborers I recently contracted to build a stable, couple of storageshouses, and the perimeter fences," Aerion answered clearly, his tone casual and open. "And your observation is exceptionally keen. They are indeed warriors in their own right. They are wandering mercenaries."
Aerion stepped closer to her, shaking his head with a mild, amused smile. "You must understand, finding dedicated, highly skilled carpenters willing to drag themselves out into the open tundra to build heavy palisades is incredibly difficult. Most prefer the safety of the city walls. Therefore, I was forced to hire a band of roaming mercenaries looking to earn some extra coin. This construction project is merely their 'side work' while they wait for their next violent contract."
Inside the arcane laboratory, Gwaering, Signy, and Valdar froze.
They heard the loud, incredibly clear explanation their employer was giving the merchant woman. As seasoned, intelligent mercenaries operating under Sinmir's strict orders to maintain their public cover, they instantly recognized the verbal cue. The Patron was actively establishing their alibi.
They were not his private army, they were just random hired swords picking up a construction gig for extra septims.
Gwaering shot the two Nords a sharp, knowing look, tapping the side of his nose. They nodded silently. They understood the game.
"It makes sense, I suppose," Ysolda mused, her merchant logic accepting the practical reality of the labor shortage. She looked toward the laboratory door. "Though I imagine asking hardened killers to swing a carpenter's hammer must require a highly... generous paycheck to keep them motivated."
"Indeed it does," Aerion laughed smoothly, the lie perfectly secured. "But as you just witnessed, I find that a heavy purse of gold ensures even the most brutal mercenary can learn to love the intricacies of laying a stone foundation."
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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: 78,379