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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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He struck with the absolute, terrifying, flawless precision of a machine. Every single swing was perfectly angled, applying the exact mathematical amount of kinetic force required to fold and shape the high carbon steel without introducing a single microscopic stress fracture. Within minutes, the crude, blocky ingot had been flawlessly stretched and flattened into the elegant, lethal taper of a perfectly balanced Nordic broadsword.
He plunged the glowing blade into the oil trough. The liquid violently hissed and boiled, instantly tempering the steel to an unbreakable hardness.
Aerion didn't pause for a fraction of a second. He pulled the next glowing ingot from the fire.
Adrianne Avenicci stopped hammering her breastplate. She stood entirely frozen at her anvil, her jaw hanging slightly slack as she watched the towering High Elf work.
She had been a blacksmith her entire life. She had trained under the finest Imperial smiths in Cyrodiil. But she had never, ever seen someone could understand and work steel as fast and as good as he is.
The Elf wasn't sweating. He wasn't breathing heavily. He was churning out flawless grade weapons and armors at a pace that defied the laws of physics and endurance, moving with a hypnotic, rhythmic blur of absolute perfection.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Sparks violently showered across the pavilion as Aerion rapidly moved from the anvil to the heavy, spinning grindstone. He ran the freshly tempered blades across the abrasive stone, grinding the edges down to a razor sharp, mirror polished finish that could slice through heavy leather like parchment.
For three solid hours, the ringing of the hammer never stopped. Aerion methodically, ruthlessly tore through the entire backlog of raw steel.
When he finally set the heavy iron hammer down and wiped a microscopic bead of sweat from his forehead, he turned to the Imperial blacksmith.
Resting perfectly on the wooden display racks behind him were twenty flawless, mirror polished steel swords, and ten heavy, brutal, perfectly balanced steel battleaxes. Every single weapon was a masterpiece of lethal craftsmanship, far exceeding the standard quality of the city guard.
"The weapon queue is completely clear, Adrianne," Aerion announced smoothly, rolling his sleeves down and picking his dark robes back up from the barrel.
Adrianne walked over to the racks, picking up one of the steel broadswords. She tested the balance, her eyes wide with profound, professional shock. The weapon felt completely weightless in her hand, the edge honed to a terrifying, microscopic sharpness.
"By the gods," Adrianne whispered, looking up at him with sheer, unadulterated awe. "Aerion... this is... this is almost a perfect work. Eorlund Gray-Mane himself couldn't forge a blade this perfectly balanced in his early days."
"A simple application of focused metallurgy," Aerion replied modestly, fastening his robes. "I trust this alleviates your schedule?"
"Alleviates it?" Adrianne laughed, a breathless sound of pure relief. "You just saved my entire contract with the Jarl. I don't know how to thank you, Thane Aerion."
"Consider it an investment in the defense of my city," Aerion smiled, stepping out of the intense heat of the forge and back into the cool morning air.
The intense, blistering heat of Warmaiden's forge slowly faded from Aerion's skin as he walked back down the winding stone paths of Whiterun. The rhythmic, deafening ring of the iron hammer still echoed faintly in his ears, a testament to the absolute industrial miracle he had just performed for the city's armory.
As he moved gracefully through the bustling mid morning crowds, entirely ignoring the respectful, wide berths the citizens gave him, Aerion seamlessly engaged his digital interface. It was time to audit the morning's arcane and physical labor.
The familiar, semi translucent golden text cascaded across his peripheral vision.
[Skill: Smithing Leveled Up 35 Times!]
[Current Smithing Level: 57]
[LEVEL UP DETECTED!]
[You have leveled up 2 times! You are now Level 172!]
[You have gained 2 Attribute Points!]
He didn't hesitate. With his Stamina and Magicka pools already vastly expanded from the previous night's massive allocation, he funneled the new rewards directly into his physical resilience.
[Attribute Point Allocated: Health x2 (+20 Points)]
A sudden, flush of profound vitality washed through his veins. His transmigrator biology optimized further, his bone density increasing by a microscopic but critical fraction, and his cellular regeneration accelerating. The sheer, compounding durability of his physical vessel was becoming monstrous. He dismissed the interface with a satisfied thought, his golden eyes locking onto the heavy wooden doors of the Bannered Mare just ahead.
He pushed the doors open, stepping back into the warm, fragrant atmosphere of the tavern. The morning rush had subsided, leaving the common room comfortably sparse.
Ysolda was standing behind the main counter, carefully organizing a stack of trade ledgers and wiping down the polished wood. When she saw him enter, her professional demeanor instantly softened into a beautiful, affectionate smile.
Aerion walked straight to the counter, leaning in slightly to keep their conversation private over the ambient noise of the tavern.
"The backlog at the forge has been entirely cleared," Aerion murmured, his melodic voice warm. "Adrianne should be able to breathe freely for the next week."
"You never cease to amaze me, Aerion," Ysolda smiled, reaching across the counter to lightly touch his hand. "Are you staying for a midday meal?"
"I am afraid not, my dear," Aerion replied, offering a soft, apologetic smile. "I must return to the homestead now and organize my assets. And tomorrow, at the very first light of dawn, I ride for Solitude."
Ysolda's smile faltered just a fraction, the reality of his grand, dangerous political ambitions settling over her once more. She knew he was walking into the lion's den of the Imperial Legion, navigating a hierarchy that would likely view a powerful High Elf with extreme, lethal suspicion. But she also knew she could not anchor a man whose mind was constantly moving the pieces of a continent spanning chessboard.
She squeezed his fingers gently.
"Then I won't keep you from your preparations," Ysolda said softly, her bright eyes filled with genuine care. "Just... promise me you will be careful, Aerion. On the ride back to the estate today, and on the long road to Solitude tomorrow. The world is changing too fast, and I want you back here in one piece."
"You have my absolute word, Ysolda," Aerion promised, bringing her hand up to press a lingering kiss to her knuckles. "I will send word when I have secured my position in the capital."
With a final, warm look, Aerion turned and exited the tavern, stepping back out into the bright Skyrim sun.
He navigated the winding cobblestone paths of the Plains District, heading straight for the massive, iron reinforced main gates of Whiterun. However, as he approached the final slope leading down to the gatehouse, his sharp, golden eyes immediately locked onto a highly unusual, tense confrontation actively unfolding in the courtyard.
Standing just inside the archway of the main gates were several tall, imposing men. They were not Nords, and they were certainly not Imperial soldiers.
They were Redguards.
They were dressed in the distinct, highly pragmatic, flowing desert garb of Hammerfell, wrapped turbans, light but incredibly durable leather lamellar, and thick cloth sash belts. But what truly marked them as a lethal threat were the weapons resting securely at their hips, masterfully forged, wickedly sharp curved scimitars.
Aerion slowed his pace, his footfalls becoming entirely silent as he seamlessly melted into the shadows of the guardhouse wall, observing the standoff with cold, calculating detachment.
He recognized them instantly. The Alik'r Warriors.
Led by a scarred, fiercely authoritative man named Kematu, the Alik'r were a specialized, highly lethal mercenary faction from the deserts of Hammerfell. And Aerion knew exactly why they had marched all the way to the central plains of Skyrim. They were hunting a fugitive.
They were hunting Saadia.
Fascinating, Aerion mused internally, his transmigrator mind rapidly processing the geopolitical variables. The 'In My Time of Need' narrative sequence has officially initiated.
Saadia, the quiet, unassuming Redguard barmaid who worked for Ysolda at the Bannered Mare, was actually Iman, a disgraced noblewoman from House Suda in Hammerfell. The Alik'r claimed she had sold out the city of Taneth to the Aldmeri Dominion during the Great War. Saadia claimed the exact opposite, that she had spoken out against the Thalmor, and that the Alik'r were the ones acting as Dominion assassins sent to silence her.
Aerion honestly did not care which version of the geopolitical history was true. The petty squabbles of Hammerfell nobility were entirely irrelevant to his grand strategy.
What mattered to Aerion was leverage.
After all, Aerion had actively uncovered Saadia's true nature and had seamlessly coerced her into becoming his primary set of eyes and ears within the Bannered Mare. She was his intelligence asset. She reported the whispers of traveling merchants, the drunken boasts of mercenaries, and the shifting moods of the city directly to him.
The Alik'r Warriors were currently threatening his asset.
'If I simply allow them to hunt her down, I lose a valuable informant,' Aerion calculated, his golden eyes narrowing as he watched Kematu argue with the local guards. 'So as promised, I will intervene, and systematically eliminate this Alik'r threat and ensure her permanent safety, Saadia's debt to me will transition from simple coercion into absolute, unbreakable, life long loyalty. She will be mine, soul and mind.'
The decision was effortless. Kematu and his men were dead, they just didn't know it yet.
Aerion remained in the shadows, listening as the confrontation at the gate escalated.
Kematu, his face a mask of disciplined frustration, was currently attempting to reason with the Whiterun guard blocking their path.
"We are not here to spill blood in your streets, guardsman," Kematu stated, his voice a deep, resonant rumble, thick with the accent of the Alik'r desert. He kept his hands strictly away from the hilt of his scimitar, demonstrating peaceful intent. "As I have told your captain before, we are simply looking for a specific Redguard woman. A fugitive from our homeland. We only wish to question the citizens, find her, and leave in peace."
The Whiterun guard, entirely unimpressed by the exotic mercenaries and fiercely protective of the city's neutrality, crossed his arms over his yellow scaled breastplate.
"Look, I don't care what you're doing or who you're looking for," the guard barked, his Nordic accent thick with irritation. "You've already been told by the Commander that your kind aren't allowed inside the walls. Turn around and go back the way you came."
One of Kematu's men bristled at the disrespect, stepping forward with his hand dropping toward his curved blade. "You dare speak to us like—"
"Hold!" Kematu snapped, throwing an arm out to physically block his subordinate. The leader of the Alik'r knew that drawing steel inside the gates of a major Hold capital would result in a diplomatic bloodbath that they could not win.
They were here for a bounty, not a war.
The Whiterun guard sneered, stepping closer to the gate.
"After what happened the last time you lot tried to sneak in here in the dead of night, you're lucky I don't toss every single one of you into the Dragonsreach dungeons right now," the guard threatened, pointing a heavy, gauntleted finger out toward the open plains. "I said get lost. Now."
Kematu clenched his jaw, his dark eyes burning with suppressed fury. He was a proud warrior, and being dismissed like a common vagrant grated on his honor. But he was also a pragmatist. He offered a sharp, curt nod to his men, signaling them to fall back.
"We leave," Kematu ordered gruffly.
As the Alik'r Warriors began to turn around to exit the gates, Kematu's sharp, combat honed instincts suddenly prickled. He felt the weight of a gaze upon him.
He turned his head slightly, his eyes scanning the shadows of the gatehouse wall. He immediately spotted the towering, impeccably dressed High Elf standing perfectly still, watching the entire exchange with an expression of mild, detached amusement.
Kematu paused. High Elves were a rare sight in Whiterun, and one dressed in such obviously expensive, aristocratic dark robes clearly possessed influence. An influential noble might just possess the intelligence network the Alik'r desperately needed since they were locked out of the city.
Kematu broke off from his men, walking deliberately toward Aerion.
"You, there," Kematu called out, his tone shifting from frustrated anger to a measured, professional mercenary cadence. He stopped a few feet away, assessing the High Elf. "I noticed you have been watching us. Listening to our plight."
Aerion smoothly stepped out of the shadows, projecting an aura of effortless, aristocratic superiority. He didn't look intimidated by the heavily armed Redguard in the slightest.
"It is rather difficult to ignore a heated dispute occurring directly in the main thoroughfare of my city," Aerion replied, his melodic voice dripping with casual, refined curiosity. "What brings the warriors of the Alik'r desert so far from the warm sands of Hammerfell? It is quite the geographic leap."
Kematu did not have the time or the patience for Elven pleasantries. He cut straight to the point.
"We are looking for someone hiding in Whiterun," Kematu stated bluntly, his dark eyes locking onto Aerion's golden ones. "And we are willing to pay very good money for reliable information. If you are a man who hears whispers in this city, perhaps you can help us."
Aerion smiled, a slow, highly calculated expression that invited further negotiation without giving away a single shred of intent.
"I am a scholar, my friend, but I am certainly not opposed to a lucrative exchange of information," Aerion offered smoothly, folding his hands casually before him. "Who exactly are you and your friends looking for?"
Kematu lowered his voice, casting a wary glance toward the Whiterun guard who was still watching them suspiciously.
"A woman," Kematu detailed precisely. "A foreigner to these frozen lands. A Redguard, like us. She is likely attempting to blend in, working a menial job, and she is absolutely not using her true name. She is a dangerous fugitive, and we have been contracted to bring her to justice."
Kematu patted a heavy leather pouch hanging from his sash.
"We will pay a small fortune in gold for any actionable intelligence regarding her current location," the mercenary promised.
Aerion let out a soft, highly amused chuckle, shaking his head with a look of feigned, aristocratic exasperation.
"A Redguard woman hiding in Whiterun," Aerion repeated, drawing the words out thoughtfully. "My friend, you do realize that Whiterun is the primary trade hub of the entire province, do you not? The merchant caravans bring dozens of foreigners through these gates every single week. Your description is phenomenally vague. With criteria that broad, I could simply point you toward any dark skinned woman selling apples in the market and demand your gold."
Kematu clicked his tongue in deep annoyance. He knew the description was thin, but it was all the intelligence they had to work with.
"Her true identity is none of your concern, Elf," Kematu fired back, his patience wearing thin. "All you need to know is that we are paying for a specific face. We are not welcome here in Whiterun, thanks to the Jarl's paranoid guards. We will be pulling back and setting up our base of operations in the village of Rorikstead, out to the west."
Kematu took a step back, rejoining his men.
"If that gold doesn't interest you, feel free to walk away and forget we spoke," Kematu concluded, his tone absolute. "But if you learn anything... if you see a Redguard woman trying too hard to hide... you will find us in Rorikstead. Remember my words."
"I have an excellent memory, Kematu," Aerion smiled smoothly, completely undisturbed by the mercenary's harsh tone. "If I stumble across your ghost, I shall know exactly where to send word."
Kematu offered a final, curt nod, then turned and led his band of Alik'r warriors out of the city, their curved scimitars glinting in the morning sun as they marched out onto the dirt roads of the tundra.
Aerion stood near the gates, watching them leave.
He shook his head slowly, a dark, incredibly cold smirk forming on his flawless features. The sheer arrogance of the mercenaries, walking into a foreign province and expecting the locals to simply hand over their residents for a pouch of gold, was almost admirable in its foolishness.
Rorikstead, Aerion cataloged the location flawlessly. Swindler's Den is their operational base.
He had no intention of riding out to Rorikstead today, but he would absolutely return to permanently silence Kematu and secure Saadia's eternal loyalty before he left for Solitude, or perhaps shortly after he returned. The board was set.
With the brief, entertaining geopolitical distraction concluded, Aerion turned and exited the city gates.
He walked down the winding cobblestone path, passing the Khajiit trading caravans setting up their tents, and approached the bustling Whiterun Stables.
Skulvar Sable-Hilt, the grizzled old Nord who ran the stables, looked up from brushing a standard brown carriage horse. When he saw the High Elf approaching, he quickly wiped his hands on his tunic and offered a respectful bow.
"Good morning to you, Thane Aerion!" Skulvar greeted him loudly. "Your beautiful beast is watered, fed, and entirely ready for the road."
"Your diligence is appreciated, Skulvar," Aerion nodded, stepping into the shade of the stable overhang.
Revan, the massive black warhorse, immediately let out a loud, affectionate snort, tossing his heavy mane as his master approached. Aerion stepped up, gently patting the thick, powerful muscles of the horse's neck, slipping a fresh apple from his robes to feed the magnificent animal.
"I shall take him from here," Aerion said, easily swinging up into the dark leather saddle.
He flicked the heavy leather reins, and Revan eagerly trotted out of the stables, his heavy hooves clacking rhythmically against the cobblestones.
The ride back to the homestead was short, but profoundly refreshing.
The mid morning sun hung high in the clear blue sky, casting a brilliant, warm light across the sprawling, golden grass of the tundra. The crisp, clean air whipped through Aerion's dark hair as Revan broke into a smooth, powerful gallop along the main road.
Aerion allowed his mind to empty for a few brief minutes, simply enjoying the perfect, unbroken harmony between rider and beast, silently thanking his max level Animal Affinity for the flawless communication.
Before long, the massive, imposing, spiked wooden palisades of his private estate rose from the plains.
As he approached, the heavy iron reinforced gates swung open. The mercenary guards on duty snapped into crisp salutes, recognizing their Patron instantly.
Aerion rode into the wide dirt courtyard, bringing Revan to a gentle halt near the newly expanded stables. He smoothly dismounted, handing the reins to one of the younger stable hands with instructions for a thorough brushing.
The compound was alive with activity. Near the right side of the estate, Adrianne Avenicci's hired masons were actively laying the heavy stone bricks for the new forge, working diligently under the massive, intimidating shadow of the bronze dragon skull resting nearby. Several mercenaries were conducting combat drills in the center yard, the clash of training swords ringing sharply in the air.
But it was a different sound that drew Aerion's attention.
Coming from the far left side of the compound, near the comfortable, open air seating area arranged around a massive, roaring stone campfire, was the sound of boisterous, unrestrained laughter.
Aerion walked quietly across the courtyard, his dark robes swishing softly against the dirt.
Gathered around the crackling flames, completely relaxed and entirely out of their heavy steel armor, were the warrior women of his strike team and his mercenary company.
Aeloria was sitting on a heavy wooden log, dressed in a simple, comfortable linen tunic that showed off her heavily scarred, powerfully muscled arms. She was currently locked in a highly animated, deeply amusing storytelling session with Uthgerd the Unbroken and three of the other female mercenaries Sinmir had hired.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 630/630 Stamina: 660/660 Magicka: 830/830
Level: 170 ➝ 172
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 57), 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