If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
...
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
"I merely dabble in the martial arts," Aerion lied smoothly, offering a charming, entirely modest smile that completely contradicted the brutal mastery he had just displayed. He turned his golden eyes toward the stunned mercenary company, his voice ringing with absolute, final authority. "The test is concluded," Aerion announced. He looked back at Aeloria. "You have proven your mettle, Aeloria Frostveil."
Aeloria stood in the center of the trampled dirt, the heavy iron greatsword resting uselessly at her feet. Despite the sweat plastering her hair to her forehead and the lingering sting of the blunt force strikes against her leather armor, a massive, brilliantly jovial smile illuminated her features.
She looked at the towering High Elf, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. The sheer, terrifying display of martial dominance he had just exhibited hadn't broken her spirit, it had ignited it.
"Well, Aerion," Aeloria panted, resting her hands on her hips and tilting her head playfully. "You have certainly proven that my assumptions about Elven frailty were entirely unfounded. You fight like a bear with the speed of a hawk."
She took a deep breath, her bright blue eyes locking onto his golden ones with intense, hopeful anticipation. "Since you have praised my instincts... does this mean I am worthy enough to follow you? May I accompany you and Jenassa into this ancient Nord crypt to retrieve the artifact the wizard requested?"
The surrounding mercenaries fell completely silent, their eyes shifting from the fiercely determined Dragonborn back to their Patron.
Aerion let out a long, heavy sigh, allowing a perfectly calculated, slightly tired smile to soften his sharp aristocratic features.
"You have more than proven your physical competence, Aeloria," Aerion conceded smoothly, his melodic voice carrying over the crackling of the nearby campfire. "Yes. You may accompany Jenassa and myself on this expedition."
Aeloria's smile widened into a beaming grin of pure victory. She pumped her fist slightly in the air.
"However," Aerion interjected, raising a single, cautioning finger to temper her immediate enthusiasm. "We will not be departing for Bleak Falls Barrow tomorrow morning. Not immediately."
Aeloria paused, her brow furrowing slightly. "Why not? Time is of the essence, is it not? The Jarl needs answers."
"Ancient Nordic crypts are not simple bandit caves that can be blindly charged into," Aerion explained, weaving his narrative with flawless, scholarly logic. "They are heavily trapped, labyrinthine structures designed specifically to entomb the dead and kill intruders. Before we delve into the dark, I must spend tomorrow compiling specific geographical and historical intelligence regarding the barrow's layout. Rushing in blind is a profound tactical error."
Aeloria processed the logic, her innate Nord impatience warring with the undeniable wisdom of his words. Finally, she gave a firm, respectful nod.
"You are the master of this expedition, Aerion. I agree with your approach," Aeloria consented. "We gather intelligence first. I will use the time to sharpen my blade and rest."
Captain Sinmir and the rest of the mercenaries murmured their vocal agreement. Proper reconnaissance was the hallmark of any successful military operation.
Only Jenassa remained entirely silent.
The Dark Elf assassin stood near the weapon racks, her crimson eyes completely unreadable as she watched the exchange. She knew, with absolute certainty, that this was all a grand, elaborate theatrical act. The Patron already possessed the Dragonstone.
It was resting securely within the unfathomable depths of his magical void. There was no intelligence to gather, and there was no artifact to retrieve. But she was his sworn shadow, and a shadow did not contradict the light. She simply sheathed her Frost Steel Sword, keeping her mouth firmly shut.
With the intense, high stakes sparring officially concluded, the atmosphere in the compound instantly relaxed back into an evening of well earned camaraderie.
Aerion casually walked over to the weapon racks, returning the two massive iron greatswords to their heavy wooden hooks. Aeloria jogged over to Gwaering, returning the Bosmer's beautifully crafted wooden bow and the quiver of iron arrows with a grateful word of thanks.
The group naturally gravitated toward the roaring warmth of the massive central campfire.
They took their seats on the scattered pine logs and heavy wooden crates surrounding the flames. The tension of the dragon attack had finally been entirely bled out through the physical exertion of the spar. The mercenaries laughed and swapped stories, eagerly dissecting the technical nuances of the bouts they had just witnessed.
Torsten enthusiastically mimed Aeloria's low slide beneath the warhammer, while Uthgerd loudly praised the absolute, terrifying efficiency of Jenassa's archery.
Aeloria threw herself entirely into the conversation, her jovial, unburdened spirit perfectly matching the rough and tumble humor of the mercenary company. She was instantly accepted as one of their own.
Aerion sat slightly apart from the main cluster of the group, resting on a sturdy oak stump. He did not actively join the boisterous laughter or the miscellaneous tavern talk. He maintained his aristocratic detachment, his golden eyes reflecting the dancing flames as he pulled up his digital interface.
The glowing, ethereal text of the system materialized in his mind's eye, hovering over the campfire.
It was time to allocate the raw, cosmic power he had accumulated during the subterranean battles of Helgen and the sparring match. He possessed three unspent Attribute Points.
His physical endurance and carrying capacity were already monstrous, but his Magicka reserves were the absolute, foundational core of his reality bending supremacy. The more fuel he possessed, the longer he could sustain apocalyptic dual cast spells.
He mentally funneled the points into his matrices.
[Health increased by 10! Current Health: 440/440]
[Magicka increased by 20! Current Magicka: 620/620]
A deep, profound wave of absolute, terrifying power washed over his entire cellular structure. A cooling, infinite rush of arcane energy aggressively expanded the neural pathways in his brain, while a solid, fortifying warmth instantly hardened the physical density of his muscles and bones.
Aerion dismissed the golden text, a highly satisfied, imperceptible smirk touching his lips. He was rapidly approaching the power threshold of a minor deity.
He was just about to shift his focus back to the conversation when a sudden, distinct sound echoed from the dark, open tundra beyond the compound's walls.
Clop. Clop. Clop.
It was the heavy, rhythmic, exhausted sound of iron horseshoes striking the packed dirt road.
The laughter around the campfire instantly died. Captain Sinmir shot to his feet, his hand dropping to the hilt of his greatsword. "Someone approaches. Guard the entrance!"
But as the heavy footfalls drew closer, passing through the open perimeter of the main yard and heading directly toward thestable overhang, the tension shattered into absolute, profound disbelief.
Aerion stood up from his oak stump, his golden eyes widening in genuine, unadulterated surprise.
Walking slowly into the flickering light of the compound's torches were two riderless horses. One was a sturdy, battle scarred bay mare. The other was an absolutely massive, towering black destrier.
"Revan?" Aerion breathed, stepping away from the fire.
He had genuinely, pragmatically written the two magnificent beasts off as acceptable casualties of the timeline.
He had assumed that when Alduin rained apocalyptic fire and collapsing masonry down upon Helgen, the horses tied outside the inn had either been crushed by falling rubble or incinerated by the dragon's breath. He had already mentally budgeted the septims required to purchase new mounts from Skulvar in the morning.
But here they were. Exhausted, covered in a thick layer of gray ash and sweat, their manes tangled with soot, but undeniably, miraculously alive.
Jenassa, who rarely displayed any overt emotion, practically sprinted across the yard. The Dark Elf assassin reached her bay mare, throwing her arms around the horse's thick neck.
"By Azura's grace," Jenassa murmured softly, burying her face in the mare's ashy mane, her gravelly voice cracking with genuine relief. "You clever, stubborn girl. You survived."
Aerion approached the massive black destrier. Revan let out a low, exhausted, fluttering nicker, aggressively nudging his heavy, velvet nose against Aerion's chest.
Aerion didn't just pet the beast. He closed his eyes, instantly engaging the absolute maximum bandwidth of his Animal Affinity matrix. He bypassed the language barrier entirely, projecting his consciousness directly into the primal, sensory memories of the warhorse.
"What happened to you, my friend?" Aerion said gently.
The mental response from Revan was a chaotic, terrifying flood of raw sensory input and base equine emotion.
Aerion felt the sudden, ground shaking tremor. He saw the sky turn black. He felt the sheer, blinding, suffocating heat as a massive, flying shadow descended upon the town. He experienced the absolute, primal terror as the wooden inn beside them spontaneously burst into roaring flames.
But Revan was a highly trained destrier, not a simple farm horse. When the panic set in, he didn't freeze.
The horse communicated the sensation of violently rearing back, snapping the thick leather reins that had tethered them to the wooden hitching post. He snorted and neighs, telling how the bay mare following his lead. They had galloped blindly through the choking, burning streets. They had found a massive, heavy iron portcullis, the northern gate,nthat had been jammed open by a falling chunk of masonry.
They had bolted through the gap just seconds before the gatehouse entirely collapsed, fleeing into the freezing safety of the alpine forest.
"We ran, Master," Revan conveyed, the mental projection filled with exhaustion and pride. "We ran until the fire was gone. We wandered the dark paths. Then, we found the town with the loud, churning water wheel. The town we passed before. I knew the scent of the road. I followed the road back to the herd."
Aerion opened his eyes, a look of profound, genuine respect washing over his aristocratic features. The sheer intelligence and survival instinct of the beast were staggering.
"You are magnificent," Aerion praised softly, his voice filled with genuine warmth as he firmly patted the destrier's muscular neck. "You navigated an apocalypse and found your way home. You have done incredibly well, Revan."
He turned to look at Jenassa, who was actively brushing the ash from her mare's coat with her gloved hands.
"They broke their tethers when the fire started," Aerion translated for her, projecting his voice so the rest of the amazed camp could hear. "They escaped through the northern gate just before it collapsed, and managed to retrace our exact route through Riverwood. Their survival instincts are unparalleled."
Aerion looked back at the two exhausted horses.
"Tonight, you rest," Aerion promised the beasts, reinforcing the words with a soothing wave of magical affinity. "Tomorrow, you shall have a double portion of the finest sweet apples, a massive measure of fresh oats, and a thorough, deep brushing to remove the ash from your coats. You have more than earned it."
Both Revan and the bay mare let out simultaneous, highly satisfied, rumbling neighs, entirely understanding the promise of luxury.
With the horses safely stowed in the warm, hay filled stalls of the new stable, the sheer, crushing exhaustion of the past forty eight hours finally caught up with the High Elf and his shadow.
Aerion and Jenassa bid their goodnights to Aeloria, Froki, and the mercenary crew. They walked up the wooden steps and entered the quiet, lavender scented interior of the Tundra Homestead.
They retreated to the master quarters on the second floor. The room was spacious, featuring Aerion's massive, luxurious double bed on one side, and a highly respectable, sturdy single bed on the opposite wall that Jenassa had claimed.
No words were exchanged. The need for sleep was absolute. Aerion removed his boots and his heavy outer robes, collapsing onto the soft mattress. The darkness took him instantly, pulling him into a deep, dreamless void.
The next morning, Aerion awoke to the crisp, bright light of the tundra sun streaming through the wooden shutters.
He lay perfectly still for a moment, listening to the quiet of the homestead.
From the opposite side of the room, the slow, incredibly rhythmic, deep breathing of the Dark Elf confirmed that Jenassa was still fast asleep, recovering from the grueling physical toll of the dragon attack.
A loud, distinct CRUNCH sounded from the floorboards near his bed.
Aerion tilted his head over the edge of the mattress.
Lupin the fox was sitting comfortably on the thick bear fur rug, his tiny paws wrapped tightly around a massive, pristine red apple. The familiar was happily gnawing a large chunk out of the fruit, completely unbothered by the fact that he was an obligate carnivore.
Aerion let out a soft, amused sigh, shaking his head. He knew instantly that the tiny menace had used his bizarre, gravity defying agility to scale the kitchen counter downstairs and steal the fruit directly from Carlotta's burlap sack.
"You are an absolute thief," Aerion muttered softly, pushing himself up from the mattress.
Lupin simply wagged his bushy tail, taking another loud, defiant bite of the apple.
Moving with the silent, fluid grace of his absorbed Thief Stone mastery, Aerion gathered his clean, immaculate dark robes and dressed himself without waking his bodyguard.
He slipped his boots on, checked the secure weight of the Black Prism at his hip, and quietly exited the bedroom.
He descended the wooden stairs, pushing open the heavy front door and stepping out onto the porch.
The crisp, clean morning air of the tundra was invigorating. The compound was already bustling with activity, the mercenaries were awake, running through their morning drills, while Froki and Haming were walking toward the mammoth pens with massive pitchforks of hay.
Aerion leaned against the wooden railing of the porch, closing his eyes and enjoying the momentary peace.
Then, he engaged his Gamer mind, pulling up the digital, interactive map of Skyrim in his consciousness.
The glowing, topographical projection materialized before his eyes. He needed to formulate his immediate tactical objective.
He had successfully lied to Aeloria. He had told the Dragonborn that they needed to delay their expedition to Bleak Falls Barrow to "gather information." It was a necessary fabrication to buy him time.
He already possessed the Dragonstone. If he simply marched her up the snowy mountain, walked into the crypt, and pretended to find it, the illusion would hold.
However, his transmigrator memory suddenly flagged a massive, highly inconvenient detail.
'I left a note,' Aerion realized, a slight frown touching his lips.
When he had butchered the Draugr Overlord and claimed the Dragonstone weeks ago, his Gamer mind had compelled him to leave a signed parchment note upon the sarcophagus, explicitly designed to invite the future Dragonborn to him.
'If I take Aeloria into the barrow now, and she finds a note signed by an anonymous friend which was me, claiming I already took the artifact... the entire fabricated narrative instantly collapses. She will know sooner or later that I lied. The trust I have so meticulously cultivated will shatter.'
Bleak Falls Barrow was compromised. He could not take her there. He needed to pivot his strategy, and he needed to do it immediately.
He mentally scrolled the glowing map, scanning the vast, snowy expanse of the northern holds. He bypassed Whiterun, scrolling past the frozen swamps of Hjaalmarch, moving north of Morthal and far to the west of Dawnstar.
His mental cursor locked onto a specific, highly significant ancient ruin icon.
[Ustengrav]
The name echoed in his mind, instantly triggering a massive cascade of vanilla lore memories.
Ustengrav was the ancient, trap infested resting place of Jurgen Windcaller. In the original timeline, after the player defeated the first dragon at the Whiterun watchtower and was summoned by the Greybeards, they were sent to Ustengrav to retrieve Jurgen's legendary horn as a final test.
But when the player arrived at the end of the crypt, the horn was missing.
Aerion's mind raced, recalling the frustrating vanilla questline. In the game, the Horn was stolen right out from under the player. It was Delphine. The paranoid, Thalmor obsessed innkeeper of Riverwood and also the Blades members.
Delphine had stolen the horn and left an arrogant note signed "A Friend," forcing the Dragonborn to fast travel back to Riverwood just to meet her. And even after stealing the artifact and holding the quest hostage, she still aggressively refused to believe the player was the true Dragonborn until they killed a dragon for her.
Her irrational, blinding hatred for the Thalmor caused her to completely derail the narrative, wildly pinning the return of the ancient dragons on an Aldmeri Dominion conspiracy, despite all evidence to the contrary.
A slow, incredibly dark, highly amused smile spread across Aerion's golden features.
'If I march into Ustengrav right now, entirely sequence breaking the main questline, and secure the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller before Delphine even knows the Dragonborn exists... I completely sever her geopolitical leverage.'
Aerion loved the plan. It was ruthlessly efficient. He would secure the Horn now, holding it in his void as the ultimate bargaining chip for when the Greybeards eventually summoned Aeloria. He would entirely bypass Delphine's paranoid, manipulative scavenger hunt.
However, Ustengrav was located deep in the freezing, hostile marshes of Hjaalmarch. It was a massive geographical distance from Whiterun.
'Riding Revan all the way to Morthal would take days, and the horses are still recovering from their apocalyptic marathon,' Aerion calculated logically. 'We cannot afford the stamina drain before a dungeon dive.'
The optimal logistical solution was obvious. He would utilize the province's existing infrastructure. He would travel to Whiterun, hire the private carriage driver stationed outside the gates, and pay the gold to transport himself, Jenassa, and Aeloria directly to the frozen swamps of Morthal in comfort. From there, it was a relatively short, manageable hike to the ruin.
To execute a deep dive expedition into Ustengrav, however, he needed to replenish his physical inventory. He required much needed supplies of foods and drinks for him, Jenassa and also Aeloria. Aerion dismissed the glowing map. He turned and walked off the porch, heading directly toward the newly constructed stables.
Revan was awake, happily munching on a massive pile of fresh oats. The black destrier looked significantly better after a night of rest, though his coat still bore the faint gray dusting of Helgen's ash.
"I apologize, my friend, but your brush will have to wait until this afternoon," Aerion murmured, grabbing the heavy leather saddle and throwing it over the warhorse's broad back. "We have a short errand to run in the city."
Aerion mounted the destrier, spurring him into a smooth, easy trot out of the compound. He did not wake Jenassa, the short ride to the city market was entirely safe, and she needed the sleep.
The morning air was crisp as he rode along the cobblestone path toward Whiterun.
He arrived at the Whiterun Stables in record time. He tossed a gold coin to Skulvar Sable-Hilt, instructing the stablemaster to finally give Revan the deep, thorough brushing he had promised the beast, before walking up the stone ramp toward the main gates.
He passed through the heavy iron portcullis, entering the bustling, loud, incredibly lively atmosphere of the Plains District. Merchants were shouting their wares, the forge was ringing, and children were running through the streets.
Before he hit the alchemy shops, Aerion made a conscious, highly deliberate tactical detour.
He walked directly toward the heavy oak doors of the Bannered Mare.
He wanted to see Ysolda.
As he approached the inn, his highly analytical transmigrator mind turned inward, conducting a cold, rational audit of his own emotional state.
He recalled the evening they had spent together by the hearth, the warmth of her laughter, the sheer, unadulterated ambition in her bright blue eyes when he revealed the mammoth monopoly, and the soft scent of her hair when he had lifted her from her horse. As he placed his hand on the iron handle of the tavern door, Aerion paused.
'I am not entirely immune,' Aerion admitted to himself, a strange, completely foreign sensation tightening in his chest.
He still hadn't reached the point of blind, irrational, overwhelming romantic love. His Gamer mind was too deeply entrenched in tactical survival for that. But he could no longer deny the subtle, persistent pit pats of genuine, blooming affection he felt whenever she entered a room.
The lines between his manipulative cover story and his actual, lived reality were beginning to dangerously, beautifully blur. Taking a steadying breath, Aerion pushed the heavy oak doors open and stepped into the warm, bustling, mead scented embrace of the Bannered Mare.
_____________________________
[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
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)
5x Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
8x Iron Arrows, Ancient Nord Arrows, & Black Soul Gems (Filled)
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
Weight: 74.92 KG / 515 KG
Septims: 77,465