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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Arngeir looked back at Aeloria, offering a final, guiding decree. "Finding these lost Words would be a sufficient test," Arngeir advised. "Seek them out. Absorb their meanings. It will temper your raw abilities with the necessary physical and spiritual experience to truly prepare you for what is to come."
Aeloria who hear the cryptic, frustratingly vague answers provided by the ancient monks immediately sits heavily in her mind, but she knew better than to press the issue. You couldn't force a mountain to yield its secrets before it was ready to give it's secrets on its own.
She offered Master Arngeir a slow, respectful nod, accepting the stalemate.
"I understand, Master Arngeir," Aeloria said, her voice steady and echoing slightly against the high stone walls. "I will seek out the lost Words of Power, and I will temper myself. But if I uncover more questions along my way... if I find out exactly why these dragons are returning, I will return here to seek your counsel."
Master Arngeir smiled, a gentle, ancient expression that held centuries of patience. He bowed his head deeply.
"The gates of High Hrothgar are always open to you, child," Arngeir replied, his resonant voice vibrating with a quiet blessing. "May the gods watch over you, and may the Way of the Voice guide your journey, Dragonborn."
With the formal dismissal given, Aeloria turned away. She gestured for Aerion, Jenassa, Valdemar, and Lydia to follow her. The entire group filed back through the heavy wooden doors, leaving the warm interior of the castle and marching stone through the silent, dimly lit halls of the monastery, eager to begin the long descent back to the mortal world below.
However, what the Dragonborn, her fiercely loyal Housecarls, the perceptive Morag Tong assassin, and even the terrifyingly intelligent transmigrator High Elf failed to realize... was that they were entirely the subjects of a conversation the moment the heavy entrance doors clicked shut behind them.
In the absolute center of the massive main hall, the four ancient monks slowly gravitated toward one another, forming a tight circle around the dragon relief brazier.
Master Arngeir, Master Borri, Master Wulfgar, and Master Einarth did not speak in the common tongue of men. To vocalize their true, unfiltered thoughts required the heavy, ancient, reality warping language of the Dovah.
"She leaves with a heavy heart, and a mind full of doubts," Arngeir spoke, his thrumming, whispered voice shaking the dust from the high rafters. "The Dragonborn suspects that we do not tell her the full truth. She feels the omissions that we choose to do."
Master Borri offered a slow, grim nod, his eyes closed in deep meditation.
"She is headstrong. A true daughter of Skyrim. But you were right to withhold the prophecy, Arngeir," Borri rumbled, the draconic syllables causing the flames in the brazier to flicker violently. "She is simply not ready to bear the absolute weight of the truth. If we told her that Alduin the World-Eater has returned to devour the present age... it would crush her spirit before her Voice has truly matured."
"The suffering of the peoples below are immense," Master Wulfgar added, his voice carrying a profound, ancient sorrow. "The dragons are burning the lands. And vastly worse, Alduin has already breached the veil. The World-Eater is currently terrorizing not just this mortal plane, but he feasts upon the honored dead in the halls of Sovngarde itself. Every soldier who falls in this petty civil war only feeds his strength."
Arngeir bowed his head. "It is a tragedy. But we must remain true to the Way. The Dragonborn must temper her soul through trial, even if the valleys burn in the meantime. If she faces Alduin before she is ready, all of creation falls."
The four Masters fell into a brief, heavy silence, contemplating the apocalyptic stakes of the board.
Then, Master Borri opened his eyes. He looked toward the heavy wooden doors where the strike team had just departed.
"But the Dragonborn is not the only anomaly to cross our threshold today," Borri stated, his voice dropping into a register of profound, unsettled caution. "The High Elf she brought with her. Aerion. Since his first arrival with the Dragonborn, I have felt something massive residing within his soul. Something that completely defies the natural order of Nirn."
Arngeir looked up, his expression entirely serious. "Yes. I felt the exact same presence, Borri. He projects the aura of a humble, polite scholar, but beneath that mask... there is an absolute, terrifying void. A well of magicka so deep it feels bottomless."
Arngeir looked at Wulfgar and Einarth. "Did the two of you perceive it as well?"
The two silent Masters nodded their heads in absolute agreement.
"The Elf is a vortex of power," Wulfgar rumbled thoughtfully, his draconic words weaving a prophecy of their own. "He is tethered to the Dragonborn, but he is not bound by her fate. I foresee that this High Elf will play a terrifyingly massive role in her quest. He will fundamentally shape her journey. And more than that... he will tip the scales of the civil war that currently brews in the valleys below."
Wulfgar shook his head slowly, his ancient brow furrowing in deep concern. "But the direction he will push the world... whether his ultimate influence will be for the salvation of Skyrim, or for its absolute subjugation... remains completely obscure to me. His fate is not written in the Elder Scrolls."
The four Masters absorbed the terrifying implication. A mortal walking Nirn whose fate was unwritten was a dangerously unpredictable variable.
Finally, Master Einarth, who had been completely silent during the exchange, raised his head. His eyes were not looking toward the doors, but staring fixedly northward, completely piercing the stone walls of the monastery to gaze across the vast distances of the continent.
"There is another matter," Einarth whispered, his Voice sending a chill through the warm hall that had nothing to do with the freezing blizzard outside. "I feel a disturbing, deeply malignant presence in the far north. Far beyond the borders of Skyrim. Across the Sea of Ghosts."
Arngeir frowned, reaching out with his own spiritual senses. "I feel it too. It is faint, masked by the ocean and the ash... but it is growing. A dark, twisting Thu'um that seeks to exert its will upon the minds of men. Do you know what it is, Einarth?"
"I do not," Einarth confessed softly. "But it is ancient. And it is deeply hostile."
The four Greybeards exchanged a final, heavy look of unified understanding.
"The board are already set, and the pieces are moving faster than we anticipated," Arngeir concluded, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "Alduin in the skies. The unwritten High Elf walking beside the Dragonborn. And a dark presence stirring in the far north. They are all linked to the return of the Last Dragonborn, and they are all parts of a journey that we cannot control. We can only pray she finds the strength to face them."
Meanwhile, completely oblivious to the apocalyptic geopolitical analysis occurring at the peak of the mountain, the strike team was making excellent time on their descent.
The heavy, punishing stone steps were vastly easier to navigate on the way down. The freezing blizzard of the peak slowly faded into the damp, misty fog of the mid mountain, and eventually transitioned back into the crisp, autumnal air of the Rift's lower elevations.
But while the physical exertion was lighter, Aeloria's mood was significantly darker.
"I swear by the blood of Ysmir, they are just playing games with me," Aeloria complained loudly, her voice echoing off the jagged pine trees flanking the ancient staircase. She kicked a loose pebble off the edge of the cliff in frustration. "Did you hear the way Master Arngeir was talking in circles? Half of the things he said about destiny and ancient prophecies were things we already figured out on our own, either from your logical deductions or from Delphine's paranoid espionage rants."
Aerion, gliding effortlessly down the stone steps in his dark robes, offered a calm, perfectly measured smile.
"The Greybeards are ascetic monks, Aeloria, not military tacticians," Aerion reminded her smoothly, playing his scholarly persona to absolute perfection. "They are not going to simply hand you a comprehensive dossier detailing the enemy's weaknesses and operational bases."
Aeloria huffed, adjusting the heavy straps of her steel armor. "I know that. And I know that bringing them the Horn was the only way to get them to officially, fully accept me as the Dragonborn. But even after I proved myself... I could literally feel it in the air. They are still holding back. They know exactly why the dragons are returning, and they absolutely refused to tell me."
"Patience, Aeloria," Aerion advised gently, his golden eyes sweeping the misty path ahead. "You must remember the historical stories of their order. According to the ancient texts I have studied, the Greybeards have operated in this exact, highly infuriating manner since they were founded by Jurgen Windcaller in the First Era. They believe that knowledge without wisdom is a lethal weapon. They only speak when they feel it is absolutely necessary, or when they believe you have reached the spiritual maturity to handle the truth."
Aeloria let out a massive, highly exasperated sigh, throwing her hands up in the air.
"Well, the dragons aren't waiting for my 'spiritual maturity' to burn down settlements," Aeloria countered bitterly. "So, what exactly should we do now, Aerion? The dragon menace is actively multiplying. And worse, we have absolutely no idea what Delphine is plotting down in Riverwood. If she actually goes through with her crazy plan to mess with the Thalmor Embassy... she's going to drag us all into a massive diplomatic disaster. Messing with your race, especially the Dominion, in the middle of a civil war feels like a phenomenally bad idea."
Aerion's internal, sociopathic smirk widened slightly. Aeloria was leaning heavily on him for guidance, exactly as he had engineered.
He slowed his pace slightly, falling into step right beside the frustrated Dragonborn. He placed a gentle, reassuring hand upon her heavy steel pauldron.
"Calm down, Aeloria," Aerion reassured her, his melodic voice completely steady, radiating absolute, unshakable confidence. "You do not need to be afraid of the political fallout, and you do not need to shoulder the burden of the Thalmor alone. I am your friend, and I am your companion. Whatever grand, paranoid scheme Delphine concocts, and whatever dragons fall from the sky... I will be right beside you to help you handle it. We will face it together."
Aeloria looked at the towering High Elf, the genuine warmth and absolute reliability in his golden eyes instantly washing away her anxiety. A bright, deeply grateful smile broke through her frustration.
"I know you will, Aerion," Aeloria said softly. "Thank you. Truly."
With the tension defused, the group continued their rapid descent in a much lighter mood. They navigated the final, winding stretches of the dense birch forests, the rushing sound of the mountain river growing louder and louder in their ears.
Finally, they stepped off the very last, wide stone slab of the Seven Thousand Steps, their boots hitting the soft, damp dirt of the riverbank.
Directly ahead of them, spanning the churning, freezing waters, was the ancient stone bridge leading into the quiet village of Ivarstead.
And sitting entirely leisurely on the absolute edge of the stone bridge, his legs dangling casually over the rushing water, was Bjorlam. The carriage driver had procured a long, flexible wooden fishing rod from the village, and he was currently humming a cheerful, off key tavern tune as he waited for a bite, his heavy wooden wagon parked safely nearby.
Aerion, stepping onto the stone bridge with his usual, completely silent, magically muffled footfalls, walked right up behind the driver.
"A peaceful afternoon for fishing, Bjorlam?" Aerion greeted him smoothly, projecting his voice just slightly above the roar of the river.
The result was a complete hilariousl disaster.
Bjorlam, entirely lost in his own little world and completely unaware of the strike team's silent approach, violently jumped out of his skin. He let out a loud, undignified yelp of pure shock. His entire body jerked, and his hands flew up in the air in surprise.
The long wooden fishing rod slipped completely through his calloused fingers.
Plop.
The rod hit the churning white water below and was instantly, aggressively swept away by the violent current, disappearing down the river in a matter of seconds.
Bjorlam froze, his arms still raised. He slowly, tragically looked down at his empty hands, and then stared down at the rushing water where his relaxing afternoon had just vanished.
For the very first time since arriving in Nirn, Aerion's flawless, aristocratic mask cracked. He stood there, entirely stunned by the sheer, mundane clumsiness of the interaction. A tiny, incredibly rare flash of genuine awkwardness crossed his features.
"Ah," Aerion managed, clearing his throat softly. "My... sincere apologies, Bjorlam. I did not intend to startle you quite so violently."
Standing a few feet behind him, Aeloria watched the exchange. The sheer, utterly ridiculous contrast of the situation, the terrifying, overpowered High Elf mage who had effortlessly shot a dragon out of the sky yesterday, now awkwardly apologizing for accidentally scaring a carriage driver into dropping his fishing pole, was vastly too much for her to handle.
Aeloria burst into a loud, booming, entirely unrestrained fit of belly laughter.
Valdemar and Lydia desperately tried to maintain their stoic Housecarl professionalism, but small, highly amused smiles broke across their faces as well. Even Jenassa let out a soft, dry chuckle from the shadows of her hood.
Bjorlam turned around, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish, highly embarrassed grin. He looked at the laughing Dragonborn, and then at the awkwardly apologizing High Elf.
"By the Eight, my Thane," Bjorlam laughed, shaking his head. "You move quieter than a grave wraith. It's alright. The fish weren't biting anyway."
Aerion gracefully recovered his composure, reaching into his dark leather satchel into his inventory. He pulled out a heavy gold coin and smoothly pressed it into the driver's hand.
"Another fifty septims for the express ride back to Whiterun," Aerion instructed, adding a polite nod. "And a bonus twenty septims to cover the cost of the lost fishing equipment."
"You are too generous, my Thane," Bjorlam grinned, pocketing the coin and hopping off the stone bridge. "Alright, folks! Climb on into the back! Next stop, the golden plains!"
The strike team heavily boarded the wooden carriage, their armor clanking loudly as they took their familiar seats.
Bjorlam snapped the heavy leather reins, and the draft horse pulled them away from Ivarstead, following the winding, dirt roads back toward the central holds.
As the carriage rumbled and jolted over the uneven terrain, Aeloria leaned her head back against the canopy and promptly fell asleep, entirely exhausted by the emotional and physical toll of the mountain. Jenassa closed her eyes, resting in the corner, while Valdemar and Lydia quietly discussed shield maintenance.
Aerion, however, remained entirely awake.
He sat near the front, staring out at the passing pine trees, his golden eyes cold and highly calculating. He was deep in his thoughts, his mind mapping out the massive, continent spanning geopolitical chessboard.
'Delphine is currently holed up in Riverwood, burning through her contacts to formulate an infiltration plan for the Thalmor Embassy,' Aerion calculated rapidly. 'That operation, 'Diplomatic Immunity', will take her at least several weeks to properly prepare. She needs to secure invitations, forge identities, and bribe the right guards.'
He had a massive window of operational downtime, and he refused to waste a single second of it.
He looked over at Aeloria's sleeping form. I cannot simply leave the Dragonborn sitting idle in the homestead while we wait for the spymaster to call. Aeloria needs to continue leveling up her combat prowess, and she needs to be firmly entrenched in a powerful, respected local faction to solidify her political standing in Whiterun.
The solution was obvious.
'The Companions,' Aerion decided, a dark smirk forming in his mind. 'As soon as we return, I will personally introduce her to the Companions at Jorrvaskr. She is practically tailor made for their ranks. The mercenary work will keep her completely occupied, the training will sharpen her blade, and the eventual... 'Beast Blood' initiation will drastically enhance her physical durability.'
But while Aeloria was busy playing the honorable mercenary, Aerion had far grander, vastly more ambitious designs for his own time.
He had successfully consolidated his economic machinations in Whiterun. He had a private group of soldiers, a massive estate, a monopoly on the local trade routes, and a romantic tie to a highly ambitious merchant.
But economic power was only half the equation in Skyrim.
He needed hard, undeniable, continent spanning political authority.
'The civil war is the ultimate obstacle, and the ultimate opportunity,' Aerion mused, tapping his long fingers rhythmically against his knee. 'I have been incredibly lucky so far. We have entirely avoided the active war zones between the Imperial Legion and the Stormcloak rebellion.'
But avoidance was no longer an option. If he wanted to truly control the fate of the province and shield his assets from the impending chaos, he needed to pull the strings from the inside. He needed to be in a position where he could actively direct the war toward the conclusion he desired.
Aerion's eyes narrowed with absolute, unbreakable ambition.
'While Aeloria joins the Companions in Whiterun,' Aerion finalized his grand strategy, 'I will travel to the capital city of Solitude. I am going to walk directly into Castle Dour, and I am going to officially apply and join the Imperial Legion. With my master level Destruction magic and my absolute tactical superiority, I will rise through their ranks faster than Tullius can write the promotions. I will become a Legate, and I will command the armies of the Empire.'
The carriage rolled smoothly out of the dense forests of the Rift, the sprawling, sunlit, golden grass of the Whiterun tundra finally opening up before them. Aerion looked toward the distant, towering silhouette of Dragonsreach rising above the plains. The first phase of his plan was complete. The Dragonborn was secure. Now, it was time to enter part of the Empire.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 610/610 Stamina: 660/660 Magicka: 830/830
Level: 170
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Dragon Master (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+3)/Lightning(+2)/Frost(+1)) (Level 97/0/84), Restoration (Healing(+1)/Purify(+2)) (Level 79/50), Alteration (Level 35), Illusion (Level 50), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/38), Persuasion(+1) (Level 89), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak(+1) (Level 0), One Handed(+1) (Level 72), Two Handed (Level 81), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 72), Enchanting (Level 66), Light Armor(+1) (Level 50), Block (Level 70), & Pickpocket (Level 8)
Shouts: Fus Roh Dah (Force Balance Push), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim Zii (Fade Spirit), Su (Air), & Laas (Life)
[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, Golden Staff of Flames, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, Orcish Dagger, Jagged Crown, The Mirror, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Reanimate Corpse Tome, Staff of Lightning, Deed to Tundra Homestead, Sapphire, Ruby, Dawnbreaker, Traveling Backpack (Supplies), Potion of Minor Magicka, Vampire Armor, Vampire Boots, Movarth's Golden Ash (Unique), Dwarven Sword, Hide Boots Of Sneak, Gold Ruby Ring of Fortify Magicka, Iron Garnet Ring of Fortify Conjuration & Magicka Regen, Elven Dagger, Potion of Healing, Honed Ancient Nord Sword of Sparks, Gold Emerald Circlet, & Scroll of Fire Storm, Ring of Archery,Hide Boots of Stamina, Ancient Nord Sword of Absorbing, Iron Garnet Circlet, Iron Sapphire Circlet, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Glass Boots, Dwarven Sword, & Dwarven Shield
2x Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), Elven Sword, Amethysts, Potions of Plentiful Magicka, Scroll of Conjure Familiar, & Scroll of Magelight
3x Glowing Mushrooms, Potions of Minor Stamina, Flawless Sapphires, Gold Necklace, Iron Necklace, Petty Soul Gem (Filled), & Potions of Minor Magicka
4x Spider Eggs, Garnets, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
5x Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
7x Vampires Dust
8x Iron Arrows & Ancient Nord Arrows
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
12x Black Soul Gem (Filled)
Weight: 95.21 KG / 630 KG
Septims: 82,057