If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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The two heavily armed guards immediately flanked Aerion, their hands resting cautiously on the hilts of their swords, ensuring the highly suspicious trio didn't try anything lethal in the corridors. "Right this way," one of the guards muttered, pushing open the heavy oak doors of the keep. Aerion smiled, a cold, utterly victorious expression hidden beneath his scholarly mask. He stepped into the dimly lit, torch lined halls of Castle Dour, marching directly into the heart of the Imperial war machine here in Skyrim.
As Aerion, Jenassa, and Lydia stepped over the threshold, the architectural and military reality of the fortress instantly asserted itself. This was not the simplified, heavily condensed command post that Aerion remembered from the digital game of his past life. The true Castle Dour was a sprawling, multi leveled, labyrinthine citadel of cold gray stone, roaring hearths, and organized, relentless martial chaos.
The air inside was thick and heavy, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of oiled steel, the scent of burning pine pitch from the wall sconces, and the underlying, undeniable musk of hundreds of sweating, heavily armored soldiers.
Messengers sprinted down the vaulted corridors clutching sealed missives. Quartermasters shouted logistical orders over the din of clanking armor. Squads of fresh recruits were being aggressively drilled in the lower courtyards, their synchronized shouts echoing through the stone hallways.
And the moment the towering, aristocratic High Elf stepped into the main concourse, the chaotic noise in their immediate vicinity abruptly died.
It was a physical, palpable wave of sudden silence. Imperial Legionnaires paused in their tracks. Officers stopped their tactical discussions. Dozens of eyes, hardened by years of brutal, bloody conflict, snapped toward the entrance.
In the current geopolitical climate, a High Elf walking freely into the absolute heart of the Imperial Legion was a walking contradiction. To the men and women bleeding in the mud of Skyrim, the golden skin and sharp features of the Altmer were synonymous with the Aldmeri Dominion, the very Thalmor oppressors who had forced the Empire to its knees during the Great War.
The hostility radiating from the soldiers was thick enough to cut with a broadsword. Hands instinctively drifted toward the pommels of standard issue Imperial swords.
Jenassa's crimson eyes narrowed, her hand resting casually but lethally near the hilt of her dagger. Lydia immediately squared her shoulders, her heavy steel armor clanking as she shifted into a protective, vanguard stance, ready to draw her blade the absolute second a threat come out.
Aerion did not flinch. He did not slow his pace, nor did he acknowledge the burning glares of the veterans surrounding him.
He glided forward with flawless, untouchable aristocratic grace, his dark robes sweeping silently over the flagstones. He projected an aura of terrifying serenity, completely ignoring the tension as he and his bodyguards followed the nervous, heavily armored escort guard deeper into the keep.
They bypassed the armories and the barracks, navigating a series of winding stone corridors until the guard finally stopped before a massive, open archway flanked by two elite, red plumed Imperial sentinels.
"Right this way," the escort muttered, gesturing for them to enter.
Aerion stepped through the archway, entering the primary strategic nerve center of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim.
The war room was a massive, vaulted chamber, the walls lined with heavy tapestries bearing the golden diamond of the Empire. In the absolute center of the room sat a massive, beautifully carved wooden table.
Spread entirely across its surface was a highly detailed, sprawling parchment map of the Skyrim province. The map was meticulously littered with dozens of small, painted wooden figurines, red soldiers marking Imperial strongholds, and blue soldiers indicating Stormcloak territories.
Leaning heavily over the map, her hands planted firmly on the edges of the table, was a fiercely scarred, battle hardened Nord woman. She was clad in full, pristine heavy Imperial steel armor, her crimson officer's cloak draped over her broad shoulders.
Her heavy steel helmet rested on the table beside the map, revealing her tied back hair and an expression of profound, unrelenting tactical stress.
Legate Rikke.
She was currently engaged in a hushed, intense debate with three other armored Imperial officers, gesturing sharply toward the jagged borders of the Pale.
As Aerion, Jenassa, and Lydia entered, the entire command staff looked up.
Legate Rikke's sharp blue eyes locked onto the towering High Elf. For a fraction of a second, genuine shock registered on her face, before it instantly hardened into a mask of cold, uncompromising military suspicion. She stood up straight, crossing her heavy steel gauntlets over her breastplate.
"Report, soldier," Rikke barked, not taking her eyes off Aerion. "Who are these people, and why in the name of the Eight have you brought them directly into my strategy room?"
The escort guard snapped into a rigid, textbook salute, his armor clattering loudly.
"Madam! These individuals approached the outer checkpoint, Legate," the soldier reported quickly, his voice slightly nervous under her piercing gaze. "They claim they wish to formally enlist in the Legion. Due to their... highly unusual bearings and retainers, the Captain felt they required your immediate, personal assessment rather than the standard quartermaster's queue."
Legate Rikke let out a harsh, incredulous snort that echoed loudly in the quiet room.
She stepped around the map table, slowly approaching the trio. She inspected Jenassa's lethal stillness, evaluated the heavy, quality steel of Lydia's steel armor, and finally stopped directly in front of Aerion.
"Highly unusual is a vast understatement," Rikke noted, her voice dripping with biting Nordic skepticism. She looked Aerion up and down, taking in the expensive fabric of his robes and the total lack of visible weaponry. "We don't turn away willing hands, but we aren't fools, either. An Altmer, walking into Castle Dour to bleed for the Empire? That is a rare sight. Some might say a suspicious one."
She planted her hands on her armored hips, leaning forward slightly.
"State your name, Elf," Legate Rikke commanded. "And give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you into the dungeons under suspicion of Thalmor espionage. Why does a High Elf want to join a war in the frozen mud of Skyrim?"
Aerion met her fierce, interrogating stare with absolute, unwavering calm. He did not act insulted by the accusation, he treated it with the logical respect a military commander deserved.
"I am Aerion," he introduced himself, his melodic voice carrying a smooth, naturally commanding resonance that commanded the attention of every officer in the room. He didn't raise his voice, but it filled the chamber completely. "I am currently the named Thane of Hjaalmarch, and the named Thane of Whiterun."
The words hit the war room like a physical shockwave.
The three Imperial officers standing behind the map table visibly flinched. The escort guard's eyes widened in sheer panic, realizing he had just treated a dual Hold noble like a common vagrant.
Legate Rikke actually took a half step backward, her jaw tightening as she rapidly reassessed the mer standing before her.
Aerion casually gestured to the two women flanking him. "This is Lydia, my sworn Housecarl appointed by Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. And this is Jenassa, my private retainer and vanguard."
He lowered his hand, his golden eyes locking back onto Rikke with an expression of cold, unyielding resolve.
"As for my reasons, Legate," Aerion continued, his tone shifting into one of profound, geopolitical seriousness. "I came to this province as a scholar, but I have claimed it as my home. I have established my estate, my economy, and my loyalties within these borders. And I am entirely exhausted by the barbaric, senseless civil war that currently plagues this land."
Aerion took a deliberate step closer to the map table, ensuring his next words hung heavily in the air.
"More importantly," Aerion stated, his voice laced with a dark, sharp edge, "I am fully aware of the shadowy, manipulative influence the Aldmeri Dominion is attempting to exert over this conflict. They wish to see the Empire and Skyrim bleed each other dry. I intend to join the Legion to crush this rebellion swiftly, and forcefully amputate any Thalmor hands that attempt to interfere in my home."
Absolute silence descended upon the strategy room.
Legate Rikke stared at him, her mind racing. A High Elf who openly, vehemently opposed the Thalmor? A foreigner who had managed to secure noble titles in two highly distinct, traditionally Nordic holds? It was almost impossible to believe.
"Thane of Hjaalmarch... and Whiterun?" Rikke repeated, her voice hushed with profound disbelief. She shook her head slowly, looking him over again. "By the gods. How does a High Elf outsider manage to convince two Nordic Jarls, especially a stubborn man like Jalr Balgruuf and a stubborn woman like Jarl Idgrone, to elevate him to their courts in the middle of a racial civil war?"
Aerion offered a small, highly polished, effortlessly charming smile.
"I possess a rather unique set of skills, Legate, and a talent for solving the catastrophic problems that plague Jarls," Aerion replied smoothly. "I am absolutely certain that the Penitus Oculatus operatives currently watching the courtyard can verify my titles and my deeds within the hour, should you require the paperwork."
He seamlessly shifted the momentum of the conversation, pressing his advantage before she could recover.
"But we can discuss my political resume later," Aerion stated. "I am standing here now. I have gold, I have power, and I have intent. Do I have your permission to enter the service of the Imperial Legion?"
Legate Rikke cleared her throat, physically shaking off her shock to re engage her military pragmatism. She looked at his robes, and the faint, lingering smell of ozone and raw magicka that naturally radiated from his heavily augmented physical form.
"Yes," Legate Rikke agreed slowly, her tactical mind seeing the immense value standing before her. "We will verify your claims, Thane Aerion, but... yes. If you are willing to swear the oath, the Empire will accept you."
She crossed her arms, a rare glimmer of genuine military approval flashing in her eyes.
"From the looks of you, and the fact that you survived earning those titles without wearing heavy plate... you are a mage," Rikke assessed accurately. "That is a massive asset. The Legion is bleeding battlemages. We don't have nearly enough arcane artillery stationed here in Skyrim, and we've lost several of our best spellcasters recently in unexpected Stormcloak ambushes in the Pale. If you can throw fire, you are precisely what we need on the front lines."
"I can assure you, Legate," Aerion noted dryly, "my arcane capabilities will exceed your logistical expectations."
Before Legate Rikke could issue the formal enlistment orders, the heavy wooden door at the far end of the war room swung open.
"What is all this commotion?" a rough, deeply exhausted, middle aged male voice demanded. "I could hear the whispering halfway down the keep."
An older Imperial man marched into the room. He was not a tall man, but he carried himself with the heavy, undeniable authority of a supreme commander. He wore beautifully crafted, highly customized brown leather and steel armor, adorned with the golden medallions of high command.
His face was deeply lined with stress, his hair thinning, and his eyes carried the profound weariness of a man attempting to hold a fractured continent together with his bare hands.
It was General Tullius.
Aerion recognized him instantly from the chaotic, fire drenched execution block of Helgen. The General had survived the World-Eater's wrath, and he looked entirely drained by the experience.
The moment Tullius entered, Legate Rikke and the other officers snapped to absolute, rigid attention, bringing their fists to their chests in a crisp Imperial salute.
"General," Legate Rikke acknowledged respectfully.
Tullius waved a hand dismissively, stepping up to the map table. He immediately noticed the towering High Elf and his heavily armed bodyguards. His tired eyes narrowed slightly.
"Legate. Report," Tullius commanded.
"General Tullius," Rikke began, her voice crisp. "This is Aerion. He has just approached us to enlist in the Legion. He claims to be the named Thane of Hjaalmarch and, significantly, the Thane of Whiterun."
General Tullius stopped perfectly still. His eyes widened slightly as the immense political and strategic weight of that specific title hit him. Whiterun was the absolute hinge upon which the entire civil war swung.
General Tullius turned fully, looking up at the towering Altmer. The exhaustion on his face was momentarily replaced by a sharp, calculating glint of purely pragmatic opportunism.
"Thane of Whiterun," General Tullius repeated, his voice dropping into a low, considering register. He stepped around the table, extending a leather gauntleted hand. "I am General Tullius, Military Governor of Skyrim. It is highly unusual to see a Mer of your standing volunteering for the mud, Aerion, but the Empire could absolutely use a man, or a well a Mer, with your specific political connections."
General Tullius didn't waste time on pleasantries. He immediately moved to exploit the asset.
"Jarl Balgruuf has been stubbornly, infuriatingly sitting on the fence for months," General Tullius stated bluntly. "If you truly possess his ear, if you are a recognized member of his court... I need you to ride back there. I need you to persuade Balgruuf to finally commit his forces and openly side with the Em—"
"I apologize, General Tullius," Aerion interrupted smoothly, his voice cutting through the supreme commander's orders with effortless, shocking audacity. "But I must decline that specific assignment. I will not persuade Jarl Balgruuf."
The entire war room collectively held its breath. The three Imperial officers behind the table looked utterly horrified. Legate Rikke's jaw tightened. You did not interrupt the General of the Imperial Legion, and you certainly did not flatly refuse his direct orders before you had even sworn the oath.
General Tullius slowly lowered his extended hand. He didn't look angry, he simply looked incredibly tired, as if he had fully anticipated the diplomatic roadblock.
"I see," General Tullius sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Disappointing, but not entirely unexpected. Balgruuf is a stubborn old bear, and he guards his neutrality fiercely. But whatever his current hesitations, Balgruuf knows which side is the right side in this war. He will eventually see reason, or Ulfric will force it upon him."
General Tullius dropped his hand, his sharp eyes locking back onto Aerion. The brief moment of political hope had passed, now, they were back to military reality.
"So," General Tullius continued, his tone shifting into the cold, authoritative cadence of a commander addressing a recruit. "You and your retainers wish to join the fighting force. Very well. The Empire welcomes your loyalty. However, noble titles and soft robes do not buy rank in my army. You will swear the oath, and you will start from the absolute bottom. You will be assigned as an Auxiliary, taking orders from the local commanders until you prove your worth in the field."
Aerion stood perfectly still. He did not bow his head, and he did not accept the terms.
He slowly, deliberately shook his head.
"I am afraid that is unacceptable, General," Aerion stated, his melodic voice completely devoid of fear or deference. "I feel that I would serve the Empire vastly, significantly better if my rank were considerably higher than a mere Auxiliary. I am not a foot soldier, and I will not be commanded by one."
The collective gasp from the Imperial officers was audible. Even Jenassa shifted slightly in the shadows, her crimson eyes darting toward the heavily armed guards near the door, fully anticipating the command to have the arrogant Elf arrested for insubordination.
Legate Rikke took a step forward, her hand dropping to her sword hilt. "Watch your tone, Elf. You are speaking to the Military Governor of—"
"Stand down, Rikke," General Tullius commanded sharply, holding up a hand.
General Tullius was not angry. He was intrigued. He had spent his entire life navigating the treacherous, venomous politics of the Imperial City in Cyrodiil. He recognized a master player when he saw one. An Elf who walked into the heart of a hostile military base and demanded a high ranking commission from the supreme commander was either entirely insane, or possessing leverage so profound it justified the arrogance.
General Tullius crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as he studied the towering mage.
"You possess significant audacity, Aerion," General Tullius noted, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching the corner of his scarred lips. "I will give you that. But as I just stated, even if you wear the amulets of two Thanes, it does not mean you get special treatment in my ranks. The Legion is built on merit, not nobility. Why exactly do you believe you deserve to bypass the chain of command?"
Aerion's golden eyes burned with absolute, untouchable supremacy. The trap had been flawlessly sprung.
"Because, General Tullius," Aerion replied smoothly, his voice dropping to a low, incredibly dangerous register. "I possess a gift for the Empire. A gift that will unilaterally break the psychological back of Ulfric's rebellion before the winter snows even begin to melt."
Aerion didn't wait for General Tullius to question him. He turned slightly toward his right flank.
"Lydia," Aerion commanded softly. "Your pack."
The Housecarl did not hesitate. Without breaking eye contact with the surrounding guards, Lydia smoothly swung her heavy, reinforced leather backpack off her shoulders, stepping forward to present it to her Thane.
Aerion reached out, plunging his long, elegant arm deep into the main compartment of the leather bag.
To everyone in the room, it looked as though he was simply retrieving a stored item from his physical luggage. In reality, the backpack was a perfectly orchestrated physical prop. The moment his hand passed beneath the leather flap, out of the line of sight, Aerion mentally engaged his digital inventory.
He completely bypassed the physical limitations of space, accessing the infinite void of his system inventory. He targeted the specific, mythological artifact he had preemptively ripped from the depths of Korvanjund weeks ago, long before the civil war had even realized it was in play.
[Item Retrieved: The Jagged Crown]
[Inventory Weight Decreased by 1.00 KG.]
Aerion gripped the heavy, ancient object, hauling it out of the void and pulling his arm free from the leather backpack.
He stepped forward, approaching the beautifully carved wooden map table. With a slow, incredibly dramatic, deliberate motion, Aerion placed the heavy object directly down into the center of the map of Skyrim.
CLACK.
The heavy, ancient bone slammed against the wood, scattering several of the small red and blue figurines.
The entire war room froze. The air was violently sucked from the lungs of every single Nord present.
Resting upon the map of the province was an absolute nightmare of ancient Nordic metallurgy and raw draconic mythology. It was a massive, incredibly heavy, jagged crown forged entirely from the bleached, indestructible bone and razor sharp teeth of ancient dragons. The heavy iron bands binding it together were etched with glowing, dormant runes of power. It radiated an aura of ancient, bloody authority that made the hairs on the back of the neck stand up.
It was the Jagged Crown of King Borgas. The ultimate, mythological symbol of the true High King of Skyrim.
One of the officers let out a ragged, trembling gasp. All the color instantly drained from his face. He stumbled a half step forward, his steel gauntleted hands hovering over the artifact, terrified to touch it, as if fearing it was a mirage.
"By the breath of Talos..." The officer whispered, his voice cracking with profound religious and historical shock. "It's... it's real. The legends were true. The Crown of the Ancients."
General Tullius, not possessing the deep, mythological reverence of the Nords, doesn't understood the catastrophic political weight of the object resting on his table. His veteran eyes were looking at, staring at the jagged bone.
He doesn't really catch the information yet, that Ulfric Stormcloak desperately needed that crown. It was the only artifact that could legitimize his bloody claim to the throne in the eyes of the traditional Nordic Jarls.
As for Legate Rikke, she literally just been reviewing preliminary intelligence reports regarding its possible location in the ruins of Korvanjund, preparing to mount a massive, highly dangerous military expedition to recover it before the rebels could.
And this High Elf had simply pulled it out of a backpack.
General Tullius slowly tore his eyes away from the Jagged Crown, looking up into the calm, perfectly composed, deeply sociopathic golden eyes of the transmigrator standing before him.
Meanwhile from the side, Legate Rikke who was also shocked let out her thoughts yet again. "How?" Legate Rikker demanded, her voice dropping to a harsh, breathless whisper. "How in Oblivion did you acquire this?"
Aerion smiled, a cold, majestic expression of superiority.
"I have a talent for foresight, Legate," Aerion replied smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back. "I knew the rebellion would seek it. So, I walked into the crypts, slaughtered the ancient dead, and took it first. The symbol of Skyrim's throne now belongs to the Empire."
Aerion tilted his head slightly, his melodic voice ringing with the undeniable authority of a kingmaker. "Now, General Tullius," Aerion pressed gently. "Shall we discuss the rank that I truly deserve, not the auxiliary one?"
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 630/630 Stamina: 660/660 Magicka: 830/830
Level: 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, 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: 94.21 KG / 630 KG
Septims: 81,897