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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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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."
Hearing the High Elf's measured praise and the sudden shift in their geographical objective, Aeloria did not display a single ounce of disappointment or frustration. Instead, a brilliant, jovial smile illuminated her sweat streaked features.
"Morthal, then!" Aeloria agreed cheerfully, sliding the heavy Imperial steel sword back into the leather scabbard at her hip. She wiped a smudge of dirt from her cheek with the back of her bracer. "I shall follow whichever decision you make, Aerion. You are the scholar. You are the one who has spent the hours researching the ancient texts and cross referencing the maps. If you say the artifact the Court Mage requires is resting in the frozen marshes, then I trust your direction entirely. Just point me toward the enemy."
Aerion offered a smooth, approving nod. Her absolute willingness to defer to his tactical judgment made his manipulation of the timeline vastly easier to execute.
"Your trust is deeply appreciated, Aeloria," Aerion replied, his melodic voice projecting a warm, commanding authority. He cast a critical eye over her exhausted posture. "However, I strongly advise that you conclude your physical training for the evening. Do not push your muscles to the point of absolute failure today. We face a grueling, multi day expedition into one of the most hostile environments in Skyrim. If you over train now, you will be operating at a severe caloric and stamina deficit tomorrow."
Aeloria laughed softly, rolling her aching shoulders to stretch the lactic acid from her joints.
"Do not worry about me, Aerion," Aeloria reassured him, her bright blue eyes shining with unyielding Nordic resilience. "I know my own limits. A little sweat today merely sharpens the blade for tomorrow. I will not be a burden on the road."
"I never assumed you would be," Aerion conceded with a polite smile, recognizing the innate, stubborn pride of a seasoned hunter. "You know your own body best. Rest well tonight. We depart at first light."
Aeloria offered a final, respectful bow of her head before turning back to Uthgerd to help the hulking warrior stow the training gear.
With the sparring session officially concluded and the expedition roster finalized, Aerion turned away from the dusty yard. He swept his immaculate, dark robes over his shoulders and began walking toward the heavy oak doors of the main estate house, fully intending to spend the evening reviewing his systemic loadout.
"Boss! A moment of your time!"
The deep, booming baritone of Captain Sinmir echoed across the compound, halting Aerion halfway up the wooden steps of the porch.
Aerion turned gracefully, resting his hand on the wooden railing. He looked down as the massive Nord commander approached. Sinmir had removed his heavy steel gauntlets, and he was carrying a thick, leather bound ledger tucked under his muscular arm.
"Captain," Aerion greeted smoothly. "What do you require? Is there an issue with the perimeter defenses?"
"No, Boss. The perimeter is absolute iron. The men are alert, and the mammoth herd is quiet," Sinmir reported, stopping at the base of the stairs. He tapped the heavy leather book. "I simply wished to provide you with a formal operational report regarding the mercenary company. Since you've been deeply occupied with the Jarl's court and your own arcane expeditions, I thought it best to update you on our financial and contractual standing."
Aerion's golden eyes gleamed with immediate, calculating interest. While his personal wealth was staggering due to his dungeon delving and systemic integration, the long term sustainability of his private army required the company to be self sufficient.
"An excellent initiative, Sinmir. Please, proceed," Aerion encouraged, gesturing for the Captain to speak. "How fares the company in the open market? Have we secured viable contracts within the hold?"
Sinmir puffed out his broad chest, a look of profound, genuine pride washing over his bearded face. He opened the ledger, his thick finger tracing the neat, meticulously recorded columns of ink.
"We are thriving, Boss," Sinmir announced, his voice rumbling with satisfaction. "While the primary squad has been dedicated to the construction and defense of this homestead, I have been actively dispatching the secondary units to the Plains District and the surrounding farmlands to solicit short term contracts. The neutrality of Whiterun, combined with the sheer incompetence of the local guard, has created a massive vacuum in the security market. We are filling it."
Sinmir flipped a page. "We have successfully executed nearly two dozen localized bounties. The vast majority of the work has been beast extermination. The harsh winter in the mountains has driven packs of timber wolves and starving cave bears down into the lower valleys, threatening the local livestock. Uthgerd and Torsten personally cleared a nest of frost trolls that had taken up residence in a cavern near the Valtheim Towers."
"And the mercantile sector?" Aerion inquired, highly pleased with the aggressive clearing of the local threat board.
"Highly lucrative," Sinmir grinned. "We have secured several high paying escort contracts from the Khajiit caravans, protecting their flanks as they move from the Whiterun gates to the borders of the Pale. We've also taken on a few menial, heavy labor contracts for the local lumber mills when our combat roster is full. It keeps the boys and girls active and the coin flowing."
Sinmir closed the ledger with a heavy, satisfying thud.
"In the short time since our founding, entirely independent of your initial investment, the company has managed to generate a gross profit of over two thousand septims," Sinmir reported proudly. "The absolute lowest payout we accepted for a simple wolf clearing was one hundred septims. The local farmers are practically throwing coin at us for reliable protection."
Aerion raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, genuinely impressed by the sheer logistical efficiency of his commander. Two thousand septims was a staggering amount of liquid capital for a fledgling mercenary band to generate in a matter of weeks. It proved that his investment in top-tier personnel was yielding massive dividends.
"Exceptional work, Captain," Aerion praised, his melodic voice projecting absolute, undeniable approval. "You have exceeded my operational expectations."
Sinmir held the ledger out. "I brought the surplus coin in a lockbox. I assumed you would want the profits transferred to your personal vault in the main house."
"Keep it," Aerion commanded instantly, shaking his head.
Sinmir blinked, deeply confused. "Boss? Two thousand septims is a massive haul. Are you certain?"
"I am entirely certain, Sinmir," Aerion replied, leaning forward slightly. He deployed the ruthless, long term economic logic of a modern businessman. "I do not require the company's operational profits to line my own pockets. You are to deposit the entirety of that gold directly into the company's internal ledger. It is to remain as dedicated operational funding. Use it to ensure the boys and girls in the barracks are paid their wages on time, without fail. Use it to upgrade their armor, repair their weapons, and maintain the supply of food and drinks for them to eat."
Aerion offered a sharp, commanding smile. "A well fed, highly paid soldier is a loyal soldier. Reinvest the profits into the foundation of the army."
Sinmir stared at the towering High Elf, a look of profound, unshakeable loyalty settling over his hardened features. In a province where petty nobles routinely bled their hired swords dry and discarded them over a handful of copper coins, working for a Patron who actively reinvested the wealth back into his men was unheard of.
"By the Gods... thank you, Boss," Sinmir breathed, bowing his head respectfully. "The men will be ecstatic. The morale in the barracks will be absolutely unbreakable."
"See that it is," Aerion nodded. "Was there anything else, Captain?"
Sinmir hesitated for a fraction of a second, his tactical mind shifting gears.
"There is one more matter, Boss," Sinmir continued, his tone turning cautious. "With the influx of new contracts, and the necessity of keeping a permanent, heavy guard rotation on the mammoth pens, our current roster is stretched incredibly thin. I would like to formally request authorization to expand the company. I want to actively recruit and add more swords to our ranks."
Aerion paused. His transmigrator mind instantly began running the numbers.
"Expand?" Aerion asked, his brow furrowing slightly. He did a quick mental headcount. "Sinmir, between yourself, Jenassa, Uthgerd, Torsten, Varr, Gwaering, and the other core members, we currently have twelve highly specialized, elite operatives actively residing on this compound. Tell me... does a roster of twelve not already make us the largest, most formidable private mercenary company operating within the Whiterun Hold? Are there organizations vastly larger than ours?"
Sinmir let out a rough, barking laugh, shaking his head.
"The largest? No, Boss, not by a long shot," Sinmir corrected him, offering a sobering dose of geopolitical reality. "We are certainly one of the most prominent, and undoubtedly the wealthiest, but we are not the largest in terms of raw manpower. There are established free rider companies and organized bandit coalitions operating in the shadows of the hold that boast rosters of more than twenty, sometimes thirty men."
Aerion fell completely silent.
A profound, jarring realization washed over his Gamer mind.
He was still, occasionally, subconsciously operating under the fundamental, hard coded limitations of the video game engine he remembered.
In the vanilla version of Skyrim, seeing a group of twelve NPCs gathered in a single location was a massive, system taxing event. A bandit camp usually consisted of three or four enemies. A "large" mercenary band was half a dozen men.
But this is not a game engine restricted by technologies limitations, Aerion reminded himself brutally, mentally slapping his own hubris. This is a living, breathing, massive continent. The population density is real.
A mercenary company of twelve people is barely a glorified squad. If an established bandit king decides to march thirty desperate, starving men against the homestead to steal the mammoth cheese, twelve swords might not be enough to hold the palisades.
The scale of the world had fundamentally shifted, and his tactical planning needed to instantly adapt to the true reality of Nirn.
"However," Sinmir quickly added, misinterpreting Aerion's silence as displeasure. "If we compare pure, raw combat skill... our company is vastly superior to the largest bands in the hold. A group of thirty unarmored highwaymen swinging rusted iron axes would break against Uthgerd and Torsten's shield wall in minutes. We have built this company on absolute quality over quantity."
"And that is exactly the philosophy we shall maintain," Aerion agreed firmly, dismissing his internal shock and reasserting his control over the conversation.
He looked down at his commander, fully empowering him.
"Sinmir, I told you when I hired you that I would not micromanage the daily operations of this army," Aerion stated clearly. "You understand the tactical landscape and the martial requirements of this hold far better than I do. Therefore, I leave the decision of expansion entirely in your capable hands. You have my official permission to recruit."
Aerion raised a single, cautionary finger.
"However, there are two strict conditions," Aerion stipulated. "First, the quality of our personnel must never be diluted. I do not want desperate tavern brawlers or undisciplined thugs wearing my crest. You vet them thoroughly. Second, the expansion must remain economically sustainable. Do not hire so many men that our operational funds become dangerously tight. The company must remain a profitable enterprise."
Sinmir offered a crisp, flawless military salute, a wide, predatory grin returning to his face.
"Understood, Boss. Quality and sustainability," Sinmir confirmed enthusiastically. "I already have my eye on a couple of seasoned Legion veterans who were recently discharged and are looking for honest work. I will begin the vetting process immediately."
"Excellent. Good evening, Captain," Aerion dismissed him smoothly.
With the logistical administration concluded, Aerion turned and pushed through the heavy oak doors, finally entering the quiet sanctuary of the main house. He locked the door behind him, shedding his heavy outer robes, and spent the remainder of the evening resting his mind, mentally preparing for the grueling geographical leap they would make the following day.
The next morning, Aerion awoke to the absolute, profound silence that only the deep tundra could provide.
He opened his golden eyes, staring up at the heavy wooden beams of the ceiling. He sat up, swinging his long legs over the edge of the luxurious mattress.
Across the spacious master bedroom, Jenassa was already fully awake and preparing for war. The Dark Elf assassin was sitting cross legged on her own bed, a whetstone in her hand, methodically and silently drawing the abrasive stone along the razor sharp edge of her Frost Steel Sword.
Her heavy leather armor was already strapped securely in place, and her crimson eyes burned with cold, professional focus.
Aerion stood up, stretching his limbs.
Down by his boots, a soft, demanding yip broke the quiet.
Lupin the fox was sitting squarely in the center of the bear fur rug. The tiny familiar was staring up at Aerion, his large ears perked forward, his bushy tail thumping rhythmically against the floorboards.
"Yes, I am fully aware you desire breakfast, you bottomless pit," Aerion murmured dryly, shaking his head at the demanding animal.
Aerion dressed swiftly, donning his set of immaculate, mager robes, and strapped the heavy leather sword belt containing the Black Prism around his waist.
He left the bedroom, descending the wooden stairs to the ground floor, followed closely by Jenassa and the trotting fox.
He walked into the kitchen area, firing up the central hearth with a quick, effortless snap of his fingers. He didn't bother with a complex culinary endeavor, they needed practical, functional calories for the road.
He retrieved several large potatoes, carrots, and a head of cabbage from the pantry, utilizing his flawless, magically enhanced knife skills to dice the vegetables into perfect, uniform cubes. He tossed them into an iron pot with fresh water and a generous pinch of salt, bringing the mixture to a rapid boil.
Within twenty minutes, a simple, hearty, and incredibly nourishing vegetable soup was ready.
Aerion, Jenassa, and Lupin sat at the heavy oak dining table, consuming the hot meal in quiet, efficient silence. The hot broth banished the lingering morning chill from their bones, preparing their bodies for the long march to the city.
Once the bowls were clean, Aerion stood up, pulling his heavy traveling cloak over his shoulders.
"It is time," Aerion announced.
They exited the main house, stepping out onto the sun drenched porch of the homestead.
Standing in the center of the dusty yard, already waiting for them, was Aeloria Frostveil.
The Dragonborn looked rested and entirely prepared for the expedition. However, as Aerion's highly analytical eyes swept over her, a massive, glaring geopolitical liability instantly registered in his mind.
Aeloria was still wearing the complete, highly recognizable set of Imperial Legion Light Armor she had scavenged from the Helgen keep. The studded leather cuirass, the distinctive bracers, and the standard issue Imperial steel sword strapped to her hip practically screamed her affiliation to anyone with functional eyesight.
Aerion walked down the wooden steps, stopping a few feet away from her. His brow was furrowed in deep, critical thought.
"Good morning, Aeloria," Aerion greeted her smoothly. He gestured directly to the studded leather covering her chest. "That armor presents a significant problem for our current objective."
Aeloria looked down at herself, genuinely confused. She patted the sturdy leather. "A problem, Aerion? It fits relatively well, and it provides vastly more protection than the ragged tunic I was wearing yesterday. What is the issue?"
"The issue is not the quality of the leather, it is the crest it represents," Aerion explained, his voice taking on the tone of a strict political science professor. "You must understand the geopolitical landscape we are entering. We are leaving the strict, enforced neutrality of the Whiterun Hold. We are traveling directly to Morthal, the capital of Hjaalmarch."
He crossed his arms, his golden eyes narrowing.
"Hjaalmarch is a hold that fiercely and officially supports the Empire," Aerion lectured. "The city is heavily garrisoned by actual, documented soldiers of the Imperial Legion. If you walk into Morthal wearing full Imperial regalia, the local commander will immediately demand your identification, your unit assignment, and your commanding officer's name."
"When you inevitably fail to produce official deployment papers, you will not be treated as a civilian. You will be immediately captured, branded as a deserter or an active imposter, and thrown directly into the dungeons. The pardon you received in Whiterun will mean absolutely nothing to an Imperial officer in Morthal."
Aeloria's eyes widened as the sheer, terrifying reality of the political borders crashed down upon her. She had been so focused on surviving the physical dangers of the dragons and the crypts that she had completely forgotten the bureaucratic nightmare of the civil war.
"By the Eight," Aeloria whispered, a look of profound realization washing over her face. She looked at the Imperial sword at her hip as if it were a venomous snake. "I didn't even think of that. I was just happy to have something thicker than linen between my skin and a draugr's axe. What do I do? If I take it off, I am completely unprotected."
"You will not go unprotected," Aerion assured her instantly, his voice projecting absolute confidence. "We will simply solve the problem with gold. Once we arrive in Morthal, before we even step foot near the swamps or the ancient crypt, we will visit the local blacksmith or the general goods merchant. I will personally purchase you a new, highly subtle set of armor. Something of equal or superior quality, perhaps a reinforced set of boiled leather or iron armors, that does not bear the crest of the Empire or the Stormcloaks."
He offered a firm, reassuring nod. "You will blend in perfectly. But until we acquire that new gear, you must keep your head down and your cloak drawn tightly around your shoulders to obscure the armor."
Aeloria let out a heavy sigh of relief, deeply grateful for his terrifyingly comprehensive foresight.
"I understand completely, Aerion," Aeloria agreed firmly, pulling her heavy fur lined cloak tight across her chest to hide the Imperial studs. "I will not cause any trouble, and I will keep myself completely invisible to the local guards. You have my word."
"Excellent. Then let us proceed," Aerion commanded.
The expeditionary group, the towering High Elf, the silent Dark Elf assassin, the disguised Dragonborn, and the tiny magical fox, departed the Tundra Homestead. They did not saddle the horses, Revan and the bay mare were enjoying their promised day of rest and apples in the stables.
They walked up the gentle incline of the dirt path, reconnecting with the main cobblestone trade road, and began the brisk march toward the capital.
The morning air was crisp and invigorating. The walk took less than half an hour. They crested the final hill, the massive, towering stone walls of Whiterun dominating the horizon.
They did not march up the steep stone ramp to enter the city gates. Instead, Aerion led the group slightly to the right, approaching the bustling, noisy hub of the Whiterun Stables.
Parked securely against the sturdy wooden fencing, its massive, iron rimmed wooden wheels resting in the dirt, was the primary mode of rapid public transportation in Skyrim.
The carriage.
It was a large, sturdy wooden wagon equipped with a thick canvas canopy to shield passengers from the freezing rain and snow. Hitched to the front of the heavy carriage was a massive, incredibly muscular draft horse that looked perfectly capable of pulling a mountain.
Sitting lazily on the wooden driver's bench, casually chewing on a long piece of dry wheat, was Bjorlam. The rugged, bearded Nord driver possessed a reputation for being willing to drive his carriage into the darkest, most dangerous corners of the province, provided the coin was right.
Aerion approached the carriage, his authoritative presence instantly making the driver sit up straighter.
"Good morning, traveler!" Bjorlam greeted enthusiastically, spitting the wheat into the dirt. "Where are you headed? I can take you to any of the hold capitals. Safe, fast, and remarkably comfortable, considering the roads."
"I require transport to Morthal," Aerion stated smoothly.
"Morthal?" Bjorlam repeated, a slight grimace crossing his face. "Ah, the frozen swamp. Not exactly a popular tourist destination this time of year. The roads get thick with fog, and the mud is murder on the axles. But I can get you there."
The driver looked past the High Elf, doing a quick headcount of the heavily armed Dark Elf, the cloaked Nord woman, and the vibrating fox.
"That'll be fifty septims for the standard fare, my lord," Bjorlam quoted. "But considering the size of your group, and the extra weight on the springs, it's going to cost a bit more to secure the entire carriage for a private ride."
Aerion didn't bother haggling. He simply engaged the spatial void of his digital inventory.
He didn't pull a loose handful of coins. To maintain the illusion of physical wealth, he seamlessly manifested a small, heavy leather pouch directly into the palm of his right hand.
He tossed the heavy pouch up onto the wooden bench. It landed next to Bjorlam with a deeply satisfying, heavy clink.
"There are one hundred septims in that pouch," Aerion declared, his voice ringing with absolute, wealthy authority. "I am hiring your carriage for the exclusive, private transport of myself, my two associates, and my familiar. We are departing immediately, and I expect you to drive the horses hard. I have no desire to spend the night freezing on the road."
Bjorlam snatched the heavy leather pouch, his eyes widening as he felt the sheer, undeniable weight of the gold. He didn't bother counting it, the heft was accurate. "You've got yourself a deal, my lord!" Bjorlam grinned widely, quickly pocketing the gold and grabbing the heavy leather reins of the draft horse. "Climb in the back and make yourselves comfortable! We ride for the swamps of Hjaalmarch!"
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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)
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: 77,280