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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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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!"
Aerion offered the rugged driver a smooth, acknowledging nod. "You have my thanks, Bjorlam. We are ready to depart."
He stepped up onto the sturdy iron step of the carriage, effortlessly hoisting his towering frame into the covered back seating area. Lupin did not wait for an invitation, the tiny cinnamon fox leapt nimbly from the dirt, clearing the tailgate and immediately curling up on a pile of thick woolen blankets resting in the corner.
Jenassa followed next, her movements completely silent, taking a seat near the rear edge to maintain a clear line of sight over their back trail.
Finally, Aeloria climbed aboard, careful not to let the studded leather of her Imperial cuirass snag on the wooden framing. She took a seat directly across from Aerion, a look of eager anticipation shining in her bright blue eyes.
Bjorlam looked back over his shoulder, checking the heavy wooden payload area.
"Everyone secured?" Bjorlam called out, his voice rough with years of breathing road dust. He didn't wait for a verbal confirmation. "Right then! Hold onto your teeth, folks. We ride for the swamps of Hjaalmarch!"
Bjorlam turned forward, snapping the heavy leather reins sharply against the broad back of the massive draft horse.
"Hyah!"
The carriage lurched forward with a heavy, wooden groan, the massive iron rimmed wheels grinding against the cobblestones of the Whiterun Stables. The horse built up a steady, ground eating trot, swinging the wagon onto the main western road that cut directly through the heart of the golden tundra.
As they settled into the rhythmic, swaying motion of the carriage, Bjorlam cast a glance over his shoulder, projecting his voice over the clatter of hooves and wheels.
"I don't mean to pry into your business, elf," Bjorlam shouted amiably, "but a man doesn't drive these roads for a decade without learning how to read his passengers. I can see the way you and the Dark Elf carry yourselves. And the Nord lass with the Legion steel. You folks look like you've done your fair share of adventuring around Skyrim, and perhaps far beyond."
Aerion leaned back against the wooden slats, resting his arms casually. "We have seen our share of the world, Bjorlam. Why do you ask?"
"Because the road to Morthal is a treacherous, ugly stretch of dirt," Bjorlam replied, his tone turning pragmatic. "Once we pass Rorikstead and turn north, the patrols stop. It's just wild country. If we run into any trouble on the way, highwaymen looking for an easy toll, or wild beasts driven mad by hunger, I'd consider it a massive personal favor if you folks would lend your steel to the defense of my wagon."
Bjorlam offered a self deprecating chuckle. "Usually, when I get ambushed, my only tactic is to whip the horse half to death, duck my head behind the bench, and pray to Arkay I outrun whatever's chasing me. I've managed to come out relatively unscathed every single time, despite taking a few arrows to the canopy and a stray spell to the wheels, but my luck won't hold forever."
Aerion offered an understanding, agreeable nod. "You have nothing to fear on this journey, Bjorlam. My associates and I will gladly secure the perimeter of the carriage. However, I must admit I find it highly shocking that you have managed to continuously escape heavily armed ambushes entirely unscathed using nothing but speed and prayer."
"It's the protection of the Divines, my lord!" Bjorlam laughed loudly, tapping a small amulet of Zenithar resting against his tunic. "The gods look out for honest working men. Well, that, and I know exactly when to drop my cargo and run. Sure, my carriage has taken some nasty scratches, and my poor horse has needed a few healing potions, but I've always kept my skin intact."
Sitting near the tailgate, Jenassa narrowed her crimson eyes, her mercenary curiosity piqued by the grim realities of civilian transport.
"And what of your clients, driver?" Jenassa asked, her gravelly voice cutting through the wind. "You transport unarmed merchants and traveling scholars. If they do not possess the capacity for combat, and you merely duck and run, do they not get slaughtered in the back?"
Bjorlam let out a heavy, solemn sigh, the jovial atmosphere dimming slightly.
"It's a mixed bag, to be brutally honest with you," Bjorlam admitted, looking straight ahead at the road. "The wealthy merchants usually have the coin to hire a few sellswords to ride shotgun alongside the carriage. They're usually safe. But the poorer folks... the ones who can barely scrape together the fifty septims for the fare... they don't have protection. When the bandits strike, they just duck down into the blankets with me and hope for the best as I drive us out of the kill zone. I've lost a few passengers to stray arrows over the years. It haunts a man."
Aerion shook his head slowly, a look of genuine, solemn respect crossing his features. "To drive these roads without armor or magic, knowing the lethal variables... it is an incredibly dangerous profession you have chosen, Bjorlam."
"Aye, it is that, my lord," Bjorlam agreed, his voice firming with unyielding Nordic resolve. "But I love the open road. I love seeing the corners of this province that most city dwellers only read about. And more importantly... it puts food on my table and a roof over my family's head. A man has to do what a man has to do in this world, isn't that the truth of it?"
"A universal truth, indeed," Aerion murmured, perfectly matching the man's philosophy.
With the terms of their defense officially established, the conversation naturally faded, allowing the group to sink into the hypnotic, swaying rhythm of the long journey.
They rode westward across the sprawling Whiterun plains for hours. The sun climbed high into the sky, warming the canvas canopy. They watched the massive, towering silhouette of the Throat of the World slowly recede into the distance behind them, entirely replaced by the jagged, rocky crags of the western holds.
By the time the sun began its slow descent into the early afternoon, the golden grass of the tundra gave way to rich, terraced farmlands. They passed through the quiet, prosperous agricultural settlement of Rorikstead. The local farmers, busy tending to their massive cabbage crops, barely spared the carriage a passing glance.
Leaving Rorikstead behind, they continued until the main road split at a massive, ancient stone marker.
To the left, the road wound its way deep into the rocky, Forsworn infested canyons of the Reach, leading toward Dragon Bridge and Solitude.
Aerion pulled up his digital system map in his mind, confirming the geography. Left to Dragon Bridge, right to Morthal.
Bjorlam, who knew the winding roads of Skyrim better than the lines on his own hands, didn't hesitate. He pulled the heavy leather reins, guiding the draft horse onto the right hand fork, officially turning them due north.
The geographical shift was incredibly, violently rapid.
The moment they turned north, the temperature plummeted. The bright, warm sunlight of the plains was swallowed entirely by a thick, oppressive ceiling of gray clouds. The golden grass died away, replaced by dead, twisted pine trees, frozen mud, and a thick, clinging blanket of white fog that rolled across the ground like a physical entity.
They had entered the borders of Hjaalmarch.
The ride became significantly tenser. They passed the dark, ominous ravine known as Forebears' Holdout, the shadows thick with the unseen eyes of local predators.
A few miles later, they rattled past a dilapidated, abandoned wooden structure, Meeko's Shack. Aeloria leaned out of the carriage slightly, her hunter's eyes spotting a lone, ragged dog sitting loyally on the porch of the ruined shack, waiting for a master who would never return.
They pressed deeper into the gloom. Emerging through the thick fog on their left was the massive, crumbling stone silhouette of Fort Snowhawk.
The ancient military installation was an intimidating ruin, its broken towers occupied not by soldiers, but by the dark, swirling necrotic energies of a deeply entrenched coven of necromancers.
Bjorlam visibly tensed, whipping the horse to a faster pace to clear the perimeter of the dark fort as quickly as possible.
They navigated the winding, treacherous dirt road until they reached another three way intersection, situated at the base of a towering, snow covered mountain ridge that served as the natural border between Hjaalmarch and the Pale.
It was here, in the freezing, absolute isolation of the northern wilderness, that the ambush struck.
It didn't come in the form of bandit arrows. It came with a deafening, terrifying, bone rattling roar.
RROOOAAAARRR!
Bursting violently from the deep, blinding white snowbanks of the mountain ridge were two massive, towering horrors.
Frost Trolls.
They were absolutely terrifying apex predators. Standing nearly eight feet tall, their massive, heavily muscled bodies were covered in thick, matted white fur perfectly adapted to camouflage them in the snow.
Their long, disproportionately massive arms ended in razor sharp, ice hardened claws capable of ripping a man in half, and their three, pitch black eyes burned with unadulterated, ravenous hunger.
"Trolls! Gods blind me, Frost Trolls!" Bjorlam screamed in absolute terror.
The driver didn't try to fight. He violently cracked the reins, screaming at the draft horse, desperately trying to swerve the heavy carriage away from the massive beasts charging down the embankment.
Aeloria reacted with the pure, explosive speed of a seasoned hunter. She didn't panic. She drew her Imperial steel sword in a blinding flash, dropping into a low, braced stance at the edge of the carriage, fully prepared to hack the beasts to pieces the moment they attempted to climb aboard the moving wagon.
But she didn't need her sword.
Jenassa, kneeling at the tailgate, had her heavy Dwarven Bow fully drawn before the trolls had even taken their third step.
THWIP.
The heavy steel arrow, glowing brightly with its lethal fire enchantment, tore through the freezing fog. It struck the lead troll directly in its massive, heavily muscled shoulder. The fire enchantment exploded upon impact, searing the beast's thick white fur and causing it to shriek in sudden, agonizing pain.
But it was Aerion who delivered the absolute, devastating annihilation.
The High Elf did not stand up. He didn't even look stressed. He simply leaned slightly out from under the canvas canopy, his golden eyes locking onto the charging beasts.
Frost Trolls possessed a terrifying, supernatural ability to regenerate their health almost instantly from physical wounds. But they possessed one fatal, highly exploitable biological weakness: they were incredibly, devastatingly vulnerable to raw thermal energy.
Aerion raised both of his hands.
He didn't cast a continuous stream of flames. He tapped directly into his massively expanded 620 point Magicka pool, channeling the absolute maximum kinetic output of his Destruction matrix.
A barrage of blindingly bright, superheated Fireballs materialized in his palms.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Aerion literally spammed the explosive magic. He hurled the massive spheres of condensed plasma with terrifying, machine gun like rapidity.
The fireballs streaked across the snowy intersection, slamming directly into the two massive beasts. The explosions were deafening, sending massive shockwaves of heat radiating through the freezing fog. The concussive force of the blasts physically lifted the massive, eight hundred pound monsters off their feet, throwing them violently backward into the snowbanks.
The intense, apocalyptic heat instantly negated their regenerative abilities. The trolls' thick white fur caught fire like dry kindling.
They didn't even manage to close within thirty feet of the moving carriage. The two apex predators collapsed onto the frozen dirt road, shrieking in absolute agony as they were rapidly reduced to massive, burning, blackened carcasses.
The intense, rapid fire casting against high level enemies triggered a massive surge of systemic progression in his transmigrator mind.
[Destruction (Fire) Leveled Up 11 Times! Current Level: 85]
Aerion calmly lowered his hands, blowing a wisp of smoke from his fingertips, entirely unbothered by the violence.
Up on the driver's bench, Bjorlam slowly pulled back on the reins, bringing the panicked draft horse down from a frantic gallop to a steady, heavy breathing trot.
The driver turned his head, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared at the two massive, roaring bonfires of troll flesh illuminating the foggy intersection behind them. The acrid smell of burning hair and charred meat drifted heavily through the cold air.
"By the blood of Ysmir," Bjorlam breathed, his voice thick with absolute, unadulterated awe. He looked back into the carriage, staring at the towering High Elf as if he had just witnessed a god descend from the sky.
"I have been driving these roads for ten years," Bjorlam stammered, shaking his head in pure disbelief. "I've hauled mercenary captains, battlemages, and heavily armed escorts. But that... that was the absolute cleanest, most terrifyingly efficient fight I have ever seen in my life. The beasts didn't even manage to get close enough to scratch the paint on the wagon!"
Aerion offered a smooth, completely modest smile, adjusting his pristine dark robes as if he had just swatted a fly.
"You are incredibly lucky to have met us today, Bjorlam," Aerion replied softly, his melodic voice contrasting sharply with the burning carnage behind them. "The Divines provide, do they not?"
Bjorlam let out a loud, breathless laugh. "Aye, my lord! That they do!"
The carriage continued its steady, rolling pace down the frozen, fog choked road. The adrenaline faded, replaced by the biting, damp cold of the northern swamps.
A short time later, the dense, twisting trees finally broke, revealing the sprawling, murky waters of the Hjaal River delta.
"We're here!" Bjorlam announced, pointing toward the gloom. "Welcome to Morthal!"
Aerion leaned out of the carriage, his golden eyes sweeping over the landscape.
As he took in the sight of the hold capital, a profound wave of surprise washed over his Gamer mind.
In the vanilla version of Skyrim he remembered playing, Morthal was arguably the most pathetic, defenseless capital in the entire province. It was barely a town, just a loose collection of miserable wooden shacks sinking into the swamp mud, completely devoid of any defensive walls, completely exposed to the vampires and frostbite spiders that infested the surrounding marsh.
But the Morthal rising out of the fog before him was drastically, vastly different.
This was a living, breathing, terrifyingly real universe, and the Jarl of Hjaalmarch had clearly adapted to the lethal realities of the swamp.
The town was heavily fortified. A massive, towering wooden palisade, reinforced with thick, rough hewn stone foundations, completely encircled the capital.
Heavy iron braziers burned brightly atop heavily manned watchtowers, casting sharp beams of orange light through the thick, clinging fog. The size of the town itself had expanded significantly, Aerion could see the sloping wooden roofs of dozens of large, sturdy structures peaking over the walls, built safely upon elevated, heavy timbered docks to avoid the sinking mud.
The mods I installed in my past life have actively rewritten the geography and architecture of this world, Aerion realized with a deep, calculating thrill. The world is vastly larger, vastly more defensible, and entirely unpredictable.
Bjorlam pulled the carriage to a smooth halt in the large, packed-dirt clearing situated directly before the massive main gates of the fortified town.
"End of the line, folks," Bjorlam called out, securing the brake.
Aerion gracefully stepped down from the carriage, offering his hand to assist Aeloria down, while Jenassa and Lupin quickly followed.
"You have my deepest thanks for the swift and steady transport, Bjorlam," Aerion said, offering the driver a polite bow of his head. "Safe travels back to Whiterun."
"And safe travels to you, my lord!" Bjorlam grinned, tipping his hat. "If you ever need a ride again, you know where to find me!"
As Bjorlam turned his carriage around, Aerion led his heavily armed group toward the massive wooden gates of Morthal.
Standing before the heavy iron portcullis were two heavily armed, incredibly tense Hjaalmarch guards. They wore the iconic, dark green padded armor of the hold, their faces obscured by heavy steel helmets.
The moment the guards spotted the group approaching through the fog, their hands dropped instantly to the hilts of their steel swords. Their eyes locked with laser like, hostile precision directly onto Aeloria.
To an Imperial aligned hold, seeing a woman marching out of the wild swamps wearing a highly recognizable, fully studded set of Imperial Legion Light Armor, accompanied by a High Elf and an assassin, was the absolute definition of suspicious activity.
"Halt right there!" the lead guard commanded sharply, stepping forward to block the path. He pointed a heavily gauntleted finger directly at Aeloria. "State your business in Morthal immediately. What are your intentions here? And you, woman, identify your unit and your commanding officer. Are you an active courier for the Legion, or a deserter fleeing the front lines?"
Aeloria froze, the stark realization of Aerion's earlier warning hitting her. She opened her mouth, but she had absolutely no idea how to lie about military deployments.
Aerion did not miss a beat. He stepped smoothly in front of Aeloria, shielding her from the guard's intense scrutiny.
He tapped directly into his Persuasion skill, wrapping his melodic voice in an aura of absolute, unquestionable, bureaucratic authority.
"Peace, guardsman," Aerion spoke, his tone incredibly calm and disarming. "There is absolutely no need for hostility or interrogation. We are merely wandering adventurers and independent scholars seeking the quiet respite of your town."
He gestured gracefully toward Aeloria, effortlessly spinning a flawless, highly plausible cover story.
"As for my associate," Aerion lied with terrifying ease, "she is indeed an active, fully documented soldier of the Imperial Legion, currently assigned to the Falkreath garrison. However, she has recently been granted a highly deserved, extended leave of absence by her commanding officers following a grueling campaign in the south. She is a close, personal friend of ours, and she has elected to spend her leave traveling the northern holds with my expedition. We seek nothing but warm beds and hot meals."
The magical persuasion hit the tense guards like a heavy, soothing blanket. The aggressive suspicion instantly melted from their faces. The explanation was perfectly logical, and the towering High Elf's aura of wealthy respectability was undeniable.
[Persuasion Leveled Up 7 Times! Current Level: 60]
"Ah. Apologies for the hostility, my lord," the lead guard grunted, visibly relaxing and removing his hand from his sword. "The swamps have been restless lately, and we've had reports of Stormcloak scouts creeping near the borders. We can't be too careful. If the soldier is on active leave, she is welcome here. Go on inside. Keep to the main paths."
"Your diligence is commendable. Good evening," Aerion nodded gracefully.
They passed through the heavy wooden gates, entering the damp, murky, lantern lit streets of Morthal. The air smelled strongly of peat bogs, stagnant water, and woodsmoke.
Aerion didn't stop to admire the modded architecture. He immediately directed the group toward the largest building in the center of the town.
"We make directly for the Moorside Inn," Aerion commanded softly, keeping his voice low as they navigated the wooden boardwalks. "We shall rent private rooms for the next couple of days to establish a secure base of operations. For tonight, we will consume whatever hot meals the innkeeper has boiling in the pot. We will conserve our specialized expedition supplies for our descent into the crypt tomorrow."
Walking slightly behind him, Aeloria's brow furrowed in genuine, profound confusion.
She stopped walking, looking around Aerion's dark robes, and then down at his hands.
"Supplies?" Aeloria asked, her voice hushed but entirely bewildered. "Aerion... what supplies? When you came out of the homestead this morning, you weren't carrying anything. You don't have a backpack. I assumed we were simply traveling light and buying our provisions here in Morthal."
Aerion stopped, turning to face the Dragonborn. He looked at Jenassa, sharing a brief, knowing glance with his shadow.
A slow, highly amused, incredibly mysterious smile spread across Aerion's flawless golden features.
"I assure you, Aeloria, we are incredibly well provisioned," Aerion replied softly, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "I have the supplies safely secured. It is... a highly specialized, deeply esoteric secret regarding spatial manipulation. I will gladly share the provisions with you when we reach the depths of the barrow."
He leaned in slightly closer, his golden eyes locking onto hers with a look of absolute trust.
"However," Aerion added smoothly, perfectly cementing her inclusion into his inner circle. "I must ask that when you do witness this secret, you keep it strictly between us. Jenassa is the only other soul in Skyrim who knows the true extent of my carrying capacity. I trust you will protect this confidence?"
Aeloria's eyes widened in profound awe, the mystery of the High Elf deepening even further. A massive, honored smile touched her lips. "You have my absolute word, Aerion," Aeloria swore quietly. "Your secrets are completely safe with me."
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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 85/41/98), 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 60), 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