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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Ysolda slowly lifted her head, looking up into his face. Her bright blue eyes were wide, her breath coming in shallow, quick gasps, a brilliant, fiery blush rapidly spreading across her cheeks. Neither of them moved to break the embrace. The bustling noise of the Whiterun market completely faded away, leaving only the sound of their shared, rapid breathing in the cool afternoon air.
The world had narrowed down to the space between them. The noise of the bustling Whiterun market, the clanging of the weapons and armors being traded in the stalls, the shouts of the merchants, the barking of stray dogs, seemed to fade away, muffled by the sudden, intense rushing of blood in Aerion's ears.
Ysolda was looking up at him, her bright blue eyes incredibly wide, her breath catching slightly as she stared into his golden face. The heat of her body pressed against his chest was undeniable. The rational, calculating transmigrator mind that usually dictated his every movement was completely silenced, entirely overridden by a raw, profound surge of genuine affection.
He didn't think about the cheese monopoly. He didn't think about the dragons. He simply looked at the woman in his arms.
Slowly, almost unconsciously, Aerion lowered his head. Ysolda didn't pull away, she remained perfectly still, her hands still gripping his shoulders tightly. Her eyes fluttered closed, her chin tilting up slightly as the distance between them evaporated. He could feel the soft, warm exhalation of her breath against his lips.
The magnetic pull was absolute. They were a fraction of an inch away.
"Whooooo-weeee! Look at that!"
"Get a room, you two!"
The deeply intimate, suspended moment shattered violently.
The sound of loud whistling, raucous hooting, and heavy, mocking laughter suddenly exploded from the surrounding market. The ambient noise they had tuned out rushed back with deafening volume.
Ysolda's eyes snapped open, a look of profound, absolute shock crossing her face.
The bustling market square had entirely stopped to watch them. Standing near the city well, a group of off duty guards were grinning and elbowing each other. From her vegetable stall, Carlotta Valentia was leaning over her cabbages, a massive, highly amused smirk on her face, letting out a loud, teasing whistle.
"Well, well, Ysolda!" Carlotta called out, her voice carrying over the square. "Seems you've finally snagged the Lord of the Tundra! Don't let Hulda hear, or she'll make trouble by teasing you all day nonstop!"
But the reaction was not entirely jovial.
Standing near the edge of the square, a cluster of rough looking, dirt stained Nordic farmers had stopped unloading their cart. Their faces were twisted into ugly sneers of pure, culturally ingrained prejudice.
"Disgusting," one of the farmers spat onto the cobblestones, his voice dripping with venom. "A true daughter of Skyrim, throwing herself at a filthy High Elf. Go back to the Summerset Isles, knife ear, if you want to bed down! We don't want your kind poisoning our bloodlines!"
"Aye! Sleeping with the enemy!" another Stormcloak sympathizer shouted angrily. "Have you no shame, woman?!"
The absolute, jarring contrast between the teasing of her friends and the sudden, vicious racist venom of the farmers hit Ysolda like a physical blow.
The sheer, overwhelming public spectacle of the moment crashed down upon her. The realization of what she had been about to do, in the absolute dead center of the crowded market in the city, in broad daylight, flooded her system with pure, unadulterated embarrassment.
A brilliant, burning, violently bright shade of crimson instantly consumed Ysolda's entire face, spreading rapidly down her neck.
She violently shoved herself backward, breaking Aerion's protective grip around her waist. She didn't say a word. She didn't look back. Completely overwhelmed by the sudden public scrutiny, Ysolda spun on her heel, picked up the hem of her dress, and practically sprinted up the stone stairs, wading frantically through the crowd to seek the safety of the Bannered Mare.
Aerion stood perfectly still on the cobblestones.
He let out a long, heavy, shuddering breath that he hadn't even realized he was holding. The intense, irrational wave of affection instantly vanished, entirely replaced by the cold, calculating clarity of his transmigrator mind returning to the forefront.
He looked around the market. Most of the citizens, having enjoyed the brief spectacle, were already turning back to their business, chuckling softly. Carlotta offered him a sympathetic, highly amused wink before turning back to her apples.
Aerion didn't care about the teasing. And, logically, he didn't care about the racism. He was an Altmer in Skyrim during a civil war fueled by anti elven sentiment, he already got slurs everywhere he go and some problems along the way. But he couldn't burn down an entire city simply because a few uneducated peasants held prejudiced views. It was unsound to react to every insult like that.
He gripped the heavy burlap sack of supplies in his left hand, turning toward the city gates.
But as he turned, his highly sensitive elven hearing picked up the continued, low muttering of the group of Nordic farmers.
"Little tavern wench thinks she's too good for an honest Nord, does she?" the lead farmer sneered to his companions, his voice low and ugly. "Spreading her legs for Thalmor gold. Maybe we ought to wait for her to walk home tonight. Teach her what a real man from Skyrim feels like. Remind her where her loyalties should lie."
The group of men chuckled, a dark, deeply predatory sound.
Aerion stopped completely dead in his tracks.
The cold, calculating Gamer logic vanished entirely. It was violently replaced by a dual, utterly overwhelming wave of absolute rage. It was the fierce, deeply ingrained aristocratic pride of his Altmer body, combined seamlessly with the genuine, protective fury of the mer who had just held Ysolda in his arms.
Nobody threatens what is mine, Aerion thought, his golden eyes narrowing into terrifying, glowing slits of pure lethal intent.
Aerion turned slowly, his boots grinding against the cobblestones. He didn't draw the Black Prism. He didn't need steel.
He walked deliberately toward the group of farmers. He didn't shout. He didn't raise his voice. He moved with the slow, terrifying, inevitable grace of an apex predator cornering its prey.
The farmers noticed him approaching. The smirks instantly vanished from their faces, replaced by nervous bravado as the towering High Elf closed the distance.
"What do you want, Elf?" the lead farmer challenged, puffing out his chest and resting a hand on the hilt of a cheap iron dagger at his belt. "Didn't you hear us? We don't want your kind—"
"I heard exactly what you said," Aerion interrupted, his melodic voice dropping into a dark, vibrating register that seemed to chill the very air around them.
Aerion stopped three feet away from the men. He didn't blink.
"You will not go anywhere near Ysolda," Aerion commanded softly, his voice devoid of anger, but heavy with the absolute promise of death. "Because if you so much as look at her with ill intent again, I promise you, not even Jarl Balgruuf himself will be able to protect you from what I will do."
"You threatening us?!" another farmer barked, taking a step forward. "You're just one Elf! There's four of us! We'll gut you right here in the—"
Aerion didn't argue. He simply raised his empty right hand.
He didn't cast a standard fireball. He tapped directly into the absolute, maximum threshold of his +2 Level 74 Destruction skill, drawing upon the terrifying, reality warping power he had previously reserved only for fighting dragons and undead armies.
He compressed the ambient Magicka into his palm.
A sphere of pure, superheated plasma ignited in his hand. But it wasn't the bright, dancing orange of a normal flame.
The fire instantly deepened into a dark, terrifying, violently churning crimson red, burning so incredibly hot that the air around it visibly warped and distorted.
The sheer, overwhelming wave of thermal radiation blasted outward.
The surrounding market instantly fell completely, terrifyingly silent. The ambient chatter ceased. The citizens standing nearby physically recoiled, throwing their arms up to shield their faces from the sudden, intense heat.
The four Nordic farmers froze in absolute, primal terror. The massive, dark red fireball was hovering mere inches from their faces. The sheer heat radiating from the spell instantly singed their eyebrows and dried the sweat on their foreheads. They could feel the skin on their cheeks blistering.
They weren't warriors. They were dirt farmers who owned cheap iron daggers. They had absolutely no concept of how to fight a master mage holding a miniature sun in his hand.
The bravado completely evaporated, entirely replaced by the stark, terrifying realization that they were a fraction of a second away from being instantly incinerated into ash.
The lead farmer opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His hands trembled violently, falling completely away from his dagger.
"Hey! What's going on here?!"
The sudden, authoritative shout broke the terrifying silence.
Three heavily armed Whiterun guards sprinted across the market square, their halberds lowered, their eyes wide as they saw the massive, dark red fireball illuminating the afternoon shadows.
"Mage! Stand down!" the lead guard commanded, stopping a safe distance away. "Extinguish that magic immediately, or by the Jarl's orders, you will be thrown in the Dragonsreach dungeons!"
Aerion did not immediately comply. He held the terrifying red flame steady, his golden eyes locked intensely onto the terrified faces of the farmers, ensuring the absolute, visceral fear of his power was permanently burned into their memories.
Finally, after three agonizing seconds, Aerion slowly closed his right hand into a fist.
The dark red fireball instantly vanished. The oppressive, warping heat dissipated, leaving the cool afternoon air rushing back in.
The farmers let out collective, shuddering gasps, staggering backward, clutching their scorched faces.
Aerion turned his head slowly, looking at the approaching guards with a mask of absolute, bored aristocratic calm.
"There is no need for alarm, guard," Aerion replied smoothly, his melodic voice completely steady. "I was merely demonstrating a minor pyromancy technique. The matter is concluded."
The lead guard frowned deeply, keeping his hand near the hilt of his sword. The guards of Whiterun had been explicitly briefed by Commander Caius regarding the towering High Elf.
They knew he was a highly favored guest of the Jarl, a massively wealthy landowner, and a man possessing terrifying magical capabilities. They were ordered to treat him with profound respect, but they couldn't ignore blatant disturbances.
"You know the law, Aerion," the guard warned sternly, though his tone lacked the aggression he would have used on a common citizen. "The Jarl appreciates whatever you have done and also having that mammoths farm here, but we will not turn a blind eye if you start hurling fireballs in the middle of a crowded market. You cause a disturbance like this again, and we will be forced to act."
"I perfectly understand the law," Aerion nodded gracefully. He cast a final, dark, completely unreadable glance back toward the trembling farmers. "But I cannot make any absolute promises regarding my restraint if I am forced to listen to such profoundly ignorant, violently abhorrent threats in the future."
He didn't wait for a response. Aerion turned on his heel, hefting the heavy burlap sack of supplies in his left hand, and walked with smooth, unhurried grace toward the main gates, completely ignoring the terrified stares of the market.
The guards immediately turned their attention to the trembling farmers, demanding to know what they had said to provoke the Jarl's favored mage.
Aerion exited the city, the heavy iron portcullis closing behind him.
He walked down the winding stone ramp toward the stables. His Gamer mind was completely back in control, the irrational surge of rage neatly compartmentalized and filed away. The tactical objective was secured. He had the supplies, and he had permanently ensured Ysolda's safety through sheer, overwhelming intimidation.
He approached Skulvar, who had just finished giving Revan a magnificent, deep brushing. The destrier's black coat gleamed in the late afternoon sun, entirely free of Helgen's ash.
Aerion mounted the warhorse, riding back out onto the golden tundra.
When he arrived back at the Tundra Homestead, the sun was beginning to dip below the western mountains. The compound was peaceful. As he rode toward the stables, he spotted Froki and Haming standing near the massive wooden palisades of the mammoth pen.
The old hunter was carefully tossing massive, heavy pitchforks of fresh hay over the fence, while Haming watched in wide eyed wonder as the alpha bull gently scooped the hay up with its trunk. The beasts were completely docile, exactly as Aerion had commanded.
Aerion dismounted, leading Revan into the stables.
Before he could even begin to remove the saddle, Jenassa materialized from the shadows of the stable overhang. The Dark Elf assassin crossed her arms, her crimson eyes narrowing slightly in genuine confusion.
"Patron," Jenassa greeted, her tone demanding an explanation. "You left the homestead without me. Why did you ride to the city alone?"
"Peace, Jenassa," Aerion replied smoothly, unbuckling Revan's girth strap. "I'm not entering into a dangerous area, I'm just going to the city. I merely rode to the market to secure necessary provisions for our upcoming expedition. I did not wish to disturb your rest."
He gestured to the heavy burlap sack resting on the dirt.
Jenassa looked at the sack, her brow furrowing deeper.
"Provisions for Bleak Falls Barrow? We are riding to the snowy peaks near Riverwood. We could have purchased supplies from Lucan Valerius on the way, since you wanted to keep up the act Patron. Why ride all the way to Whiterun?"
Aerion hoisted the heavy saddle from Revan's back, placing it on the wooden rack. He turned to face his shadow, deciding to reveal the geographical pivot.
"We are not going to Bleak Falls Barrow, Jenassa," Aerion stated calmly.
Jenassa blinked, her eyes widening slightly in surprise. "We aren't? But doesn't the Court Wizard explicitly says Bleak Falls Barrow and also Aeloria is there when he says it..."
"Farengar is an academic enthusiast and he doesn't need to know where we are going right," Aerion interrupted smoothly, maintaining his fabricated narrative. "As for Aeloria, she doesn't knew where Bleak Falls Barrow actually located and even if she knew about it in the future, she would understand. The place we are going, it is hidden far to the west. Deep within an ancient, highly dangerous Nordic crypt located in the frozen marshes north of Morthal. A ruin known as Ustengrav, I have something I wanted to get there."
He didn't explain the meta knowledge of the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller or the necessity of circumventing Delphine. He simply issued the command.
"I see," Jenassa nodded slowly, her absolute loyalty overriding her confusion. If the Patron said the objective for the act had shifted, then the objective had shifted. "Morthal is a massive geographical distance away. A grueling ride across the tundra and through the swamps."
"Which is exactly why I purchased these specific supplies," Aerion nodded, picking up the burlap sack.
He left the stables, walking directly into the main estate house. He headed straight for the kitchen pantry, retrieving his heavy, high capacity leather traveling backpack from a wooden hook.
He meticulously transferred the wrapped salted meats, the crisp apples, the carrots, the heavy bread, and the five reinforced waterskins from the burlap sack into the leather backpack. He ensured the weight was perfectly distributed.
Once the pack was fully loaded, he didn't strap it to his shoulders. He simply engaged his digital interface.
With a soft shimmer of displaced light, the massive, heavily loaded backpack vanished from the physical world, absorbed seamlessly into his spatial void.
[Item Stored: Traveling Backpack (Supplies)]
[Inventory Weight Increased by 0.40 KG. Current Weight: 75.32 / 515 KG]
With his inventory secured, Aerion exited the house, walking back out into the bustling yard.
He spotted Aeloria near the newly built mercenary barracks. The Dragonborn was currently engaged in a slow, highly technical one handed sword drill with Uthgerd the Unbroken. Aeloria was utilizing her stolen Imperial sword, carefully practicing her parries against the massive, sweeping strikes of Uthgerd's steel greatsword.
Aerion approached them, his silent footfalls completely masked by the ringing of their steel.
He waited for a break in their drill before speaking.
"An excellent defensive posture, Aeloria," Aerion praised smoothly, drawing their attention. "You are learning to utilize the leverage of the heavier blade against itself."
Aeloria lowered her sword, turning to face him with a bright, sweat streaked smile. "Uthgerd is an incredible teacher, Aerion. She fights with the strength of a bear, but she explains the technique perfectly."
Uthgerd offered a gruff, appreciative grunt at the praise, resting her greatsword against the dirt.
"I am glad you are utilizing your time effectively," Aerion nodded. He classed his hands behind his back, shifting his tone to absolute, command level seriousness.
"However, I must inform you that our timeline has accelerated," Aerion announced clearly.
He looked at Aeloria, his golden eyes completely unwavering. "We depart tomorrow morning, at first light," Aerion commanded. "We will not be riding. The horses are exhausted. We will march to the Whiterun Stables and hire a private carriage to transport us directly to Morthal. From there, we hike into the swamps, heading to Bleak Falls Barrow there."
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 440/440 Stamina: 430/430 Magicka: 620/620
Level: 109
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 74/41/98), Restoration (Healing/Purify(+1)) (Level 91/56), Alteration (Level 35), Alteration (Level 20), Illusion (Level 42), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/10), Persuasion(+1) (Level 53), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak (Level 48), One Handed (Level 93), Two Handed (Level 81), 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), & Su (Air)
[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, Deed to Tundra Homestead, Garnet, Sapphire, Ruby, Dawnbreaker, & Traveling Backpack (Supplies)
2x Potion Of Ultimate Magicka, Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), & Elven Sword
3x Glowing Mushrooms, Potions of Minor Stamina, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
4x Potions of Minor Magicka, Spider Eggs, & Lesser Soul Gem (Filled) and
5x Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
8x Iron Arrows, Ancient Nord Arrows, & Black Soul Gems (Filled)
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
Weight: 75.32 KG / 515 KG
Septims: 77,380