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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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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?"
The heavy, jagged bone of the ancient crown rested upon the painted parchment map of Skyrim, completely eclipsing the small wooden figurines of the Imperial and Stormcloak armies. The silence in the war room was absolute, heavy with the suffocating weight of history and myth violently crashing into the present.
General Tullius stared at the crown. His veteran eyes, forged in the bloody, pragmatic campaigns of Cyrodiil and the Great War, did not see a religious relic. He saw an ugly, heavy piece of primitive bone jewelry.
But he was a master tactician, and he could instantly read the atmosphere of the room. He could see the stark, unadulterated shock radiating from his officers. He could see Legate Rikke, his most trusted, iron willed commander, trembling as if she had just seen the ghost of Talos himself.
General Tullius remained perfectly solemn. He did not reach out to touch the artifact. Instead, he slowly turned his head to look at his second in command.
"Legate," General Tullius commanded, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the frozen tension. "Breathe. And then explain to me exactly what I am looking at. Why has the air just been sucked out of my strategy room?"
Legate Rikke swallowed hard. She physically forced herself to tear her gaze away from the razor sharp dragon teeth adorning the rim of the crown, looking up at the General.
"Sir, you... you haven't yet been fully briefed on the deeper cultural mythologies of the Nord succession," Legate Rikke began, her voice unusually tight, laced with a profound, almost terrifying reverence.
She gestured toward the artifact with a steel gauntleted hand. "That is the Jagged Crown. It is the ancient, original symbol of the true High King of Skyrim. It dates back to King Borgas, forged from the bones of dragons. It was lost for eras, buried in the crypts of Korvanjund."
She took a steadying breath, her tactical mind finally overriding her historical awe.
"General, if Ulfric Stormcloak were to march into the Moot wearing that crown," Legate Rikke explained, her tone deadly serious, "it wouldn't matter how many legions we march north. It wouldn't matter that he murdered Torygg. In the eyes of the traditional, old blood Nords... the crown legitimizes the ruler. It is the ultimate legitimize. Our spies reported just yesterday that Ulfric was preparing to dispatch his right hand, Galmar Stone-Fist, to tear Korvanjund apart looking for it. If Ulfric had secured this... the rebellion would have gained an unstoppable momentum."
General Tullius listened to the briefing in perfect silence. The sheer, irrational reality of Nordic politics washed over him. A war that should be decided by supply lines, siege engines, and disciplined infantry was actively being swayed by a dusty, archaic piece of headgear.
The General let out a sharp, deeply frustrated click of his tongue.
"Damn the Nords, and damn their archaic rules and traditions," General Tullius murmured bitterly, running a tired hand over his thinning hair. "A continent burns because of a myth."
"Sir!" Legate Rikke snapped immediately, her Nordic pride instantly bristling at the casual dismissal of her culture's most sacred traditions, even from her commanding officer.
General Tullius held up a pacifying hand, offering a grim, exhausted nod. "I know, Legate. I understand. The traditions are the battlefield, whether I like them or not. We play the board as it lies."
Tullius turned away from his Legate, his sharp, evaluating eyes locking fully onto the towering High Elf standing calmly on the other side of the map table.
The General's perspective of Aerion underwent a violent, instantaneous paradigm shift. This was no longer an eccentric, wealthy Altmer trying to buy his way into a military uniform. This was a man who possessed the raw power and the terrifying foresight to actively outmaneuver the entire Stormcloak intelligence network.
"I am... profoundly impressed, Aerion," General Tullius admitted, the rough edge of his voice softening into genuine, military respect.
He looked from the High Elf to the dark cloaked assassin, and then to the heavily armored Housecarl. "And I did not expect this. You are telling me that you managed to breach a sealed, ancient Nordic crypt, navigate its depths, and secure this artifact with just yourself and your two retainers?"
Aerion offered a small, perfectly calibrated, highly modest smile. He didn't boast, he projected the aura of a scholar who had simply stumbled into greatness.
"It was certainly a grueling endeavor, General," Aerion replied smoothly, his melodic voice echoing in the vaulted stone chamber. "Though, if I am being entirely honest, my acquisition of the crown was something of a fortunate accident. I did not march into Korvanjund specifically seeking a for the crown."
He clasped his hands behind his back, weaving a flawless, utterly believable fabrication.
"I am a scholar of ancient magic and history," Aerion explained, holding Tullius's gaze. "I was exploring the ruins in search of ancient texts and lost enchantments. But the deeper we ventured, the more aggressive the resistance became. We were eventually forced to confront the master of the crypt, a highly formidable, ancient Draugr warlord."
"After we defeated the creature, I noticed the crown it was wearing. I have read enough Nordic history to recognize the draconic motifs and the specific, jagged bone structure. Realizing exactly what it was, and understanding the catastrophic damage it could cause if it fell into Ulfric's hands, I secured it and brought it here."
General Tullius slowly nodded his head, his respect deepening. He didn't care about the academic excuses; he cared about the body count.
"Defeating a high tier Draugr warlord is no small feat," General Tullius noted, his veteran eyes assessing the physical and magical density radiating from the Altmer. "Especially considering a primary crypt like Korvanjund must have been swarming with hundreds of those damned walking corpses and skeletons. A single misstep in those tombs usually results in being buried alive. For you and your retainers to clear it alone..."
General Tullius paused, crossing his arms over his armored chest.
"Your skills in the arcane, and the martial capabilities of your vanguard, must be absolutely top notch," the General concluded, rendering his final judgment. "You have handed the Empire the legitimacy of Skyrim. You have denied Ulfric his greatest symbolic weapon. The momentum this will give our loyalist Jarls is incalculable. You are entirely correct, Aerion. You do not deserve the rank of Auxiliary."
The three Imperial officers standing behind Rikke shifted uncomfortably, realizing they were currently witnessing an unprecedented, meteoric rise through the rigid Imperial hierarchy.
Tullius paced slowly along the edge of the map table, his mind working through the chain of command.
"The merit gained from this single act requires immediate, substantial recognition," General Tullius declared, his voice ringing with absolute authority. He stopped and looked directly at the High Elf. "I am commissioning you with the rank of Tribune. You will bypass the enlisted ranks entirely. You, your retainers, and any specific personnels you personally recruit into your group will operate outside the standard platoon structure. You will answer exclusively to myself, and to Legate Rikke. Do you accept this commission?"
Aerion remained perfectly still, his flawless face an unreadable mask, but his transmigrator mind was processing the offer with terrifying, localized speed.
Tribune, Aerion calculated internally.
In the overarching structure of the Imperial Legion, the rank of Tribune was a highly prestigious, senior staff officer position. It granted him immense operational freedom, priority access to military supply lines, and the absolute authority to commandeer standard Legionnaires if the tactical situation required it.
Furthermore, reporting exclusively to the Supreme Commander and his second in command meant he was entirely insulated from the petty, bureaucratic red tape of the lower officers. He would be treated exactly as the 'Player Character' was treated in the game, a highly lethal, independent asset pointed directly at the most critical objectives.
It was an excellent offer. But Aerion had not marched into Castle Dour to be excellent. He had marched in to completely dominate the board.
'Is Tribune enough to truly, unilaterally influence the macro strategy of the civil war?' Aerion debated silently. 'If I am merely a small strike group commander, I am still technically a weapon being wielded by Tullius. If I am to eventually position myself as a premier political power in this province, I require a rank that commands great territorial authority. I require a rank that can garrison forts and issue broad strategic directives.'
He decided to push his leverage to the breaking point.
Aerion let the silence stretch for three agonizing seconds, ensuring every officer in the room felt the weight of his hesitation.
"Tribune is a highly honorable rank, General Tullius, and I am deeply humbled by the offer," Aerion spoke, his voice perfectly smooth, showing absolutely no fear of the supreme commander. "However, given the sheer magnitude of the asset I have just placed upon your table... I would like to formally request that I be commissioned with the rank of Praefect."
The war room fell into a state of absolute shock. Legate Rikke's eyes widened, her jaw actually dropping slightly. The officers behind her exchanged looks of sheer, unadulterated horror.
To negotiate with General Tullius was dangerous. To actively, brazenly demand a higher rank after already being offered an unprecedented field commission was borderline suicidal. The rank of Praefect was a massive, territorial command position.
A Praefect governed entire military camps or forts, commanded vast divisions of infantry, and possessed the authority to declare martial law over specific regions. It was a rank earned through decades of bloody service to the Empire, not bought with a single artifact, no matter how mythological.
General Tullius did not explode in anger. He did not shout. He simply stared at the towering High Elf, the silence in the room growing so heavy it felt as though it could crack the stone floor.
For a long, tense moment, General Tullius simply evaluated the sheer, unyielding audacity of the man standing before him.
"Praefect," General Tullius repeated quietly, the word rolling off his tongue like rough stone.
The General turned away, looking down at the jagged bone of the crown resting on his map. He drummed his leather clad fingers against the edge of the table, running the political mathematics through his mind.
"I would like to do it, Aerion," General Tullius finally spoke, his voice entirely pragmatic, devoid of ego. "You have handed me the war, and you clearly possess the tactical mind to command a division. But the rank is simply too high for an immediate, unproven integration. If I instantly elevate an unknown High Elf outsider to the rank of Praefect, bypassing men and women who have bled in the snow for this Empire for five years... it will cause catastrophic discontent within the ranks. I cannot risk a mutiny of morale in my officer corps to reward you."
He looked back up, his veteran eyes locking onto Aerion's with absolute, unshakeable finality.
"You will start as a Tribune," General Tullius decreed, leaving no further room for negotiation. "You will answer to Rikke and myself. You will operate with full strategic autonomy. And if you prove your worth on the battlefield... if you demonstrate that your tactical acumen matches your audacity... then we will discuss your promotion to Praefect. Do we have an understanding?"
Aerion recognized the absolute limit of his current leverage. He had pushed the boundary exactly to the edge, forcing Tullius to acknowledge his ambition, while securing the operational freedom he actually needed.
Aerion offered a slow, deeply respectful nod, bowing his head slightly in acceptance.
"We have a perfect understanding, General," Aerion agreed smoothly. "I accept the rank of Tribune."
General Tullius let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, a faint, genuine smile of relief and satisfaction touching his scarred face. He had secured a massive asset, and he had successfully maintained the integrity of his command structure.
"Good," Tullius said briskly, stepping around the table to stand directly in front of Aerion. He squared his shoulders, shifting into the formal, ceremonial posture of the Imperial Legion. "Then it is time to make it official. Stand at attention, Tribune, and repeat after me."
Aerion straightened his posture, standing tall and perfectly composed. Beside him, Jenassa and Lydia remained completely silent, bearing witness to their patron's official induction into the highest military authority on the continent.
General Tullius raised his right hand, placing it flat against his breastplate, directly over his heart.
"Upon my honor," General Tullius began, his voice echoing with deep, historical resonance throughout the vaulted stone chamber, "I do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor, Titus Mede II..."
Aerion raised his hand, placing it over his chest. His voice was smooth, melodic, and perfectly steady, betraying none of the sociopathic calculations occurring within his transmigrator mind.
"Upon my honor, I do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor, Titus Mede II..." Aerion repeated flawlessly.
"...and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire," General Tullius continued.
"...and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire," Aerion echoed.
"May those above judge me, and those below take me, if I fail in my duty," General Tullius finished, lowering his hand. "Long live the Emperor! Long live the Empire!"
"May those above judge me, and those below take me, if I fail in my duty," Aerion concluded seamlessly. "Long live the Emperor. Long live the Empire."
The moment the final syllable left Aerion's lips, the oppressive, hostile tension that had clung to the room since his arrival completely vanished. He was no longer an outsider. He was no longer a suspicious High Elf. He was an officer of the Imperial Legion.
General Tullius extended his arm, clasping Aerion's forearm in a firm, highly respectful warrior's grip.
"Welcome to the Imperial Legion, Tribune Aerion," General Tullius declared warmly, shaking his arm. "I look forward to seeing exactly what a mage of your caliber can do to Ulfric's shield walls."
"The rebellion will break, General," Aerion promised, returning the firm grip.
General Tullius released his arm and stepped back, seamlessly transitioning back into the rapid fire logistics of a military commander.
"As a Tribune, you are officially entitled to requisition high grade Imperial armor and weaponry," General Tullius informed him, gesturing toward the doors. "Report to Beirand at the forge just outside the courtyard. Tell him I sent you, and he will outfit you and your retainers with gear that reflects your station. The Empire takes care of its own."
"I shall see to my equipment shortly," Aerion nodded respectfully. He then shifted his golden eyes back to the map table. "But before I visit the quartermaster... what is my first objective? Since I answer exclusively to you and the Legate, I assume you have a specific, high priority target in mind?"
General Tullius smiled, a sharp, purely tactical expression. He gestured toward the fiercely scarred Nord woman standing by the map.
"Your first set of orders will come directly from Legate Rikke," He deferred smoothly. "She manages the localized, tactical deployments across the holds. And I am absolutely certain that the Legate can find an excellent use for a man of your specific... talents."
Legate Rikke stepped forward. The historical awe she had felt toward the Jagged Crown was carefully tucked away, completely replaced by the cold, calculating focus of a battlefield commander. She looked at Aerion with newfound respect.
"Welcome to the ranks, Tribune," Legate Rikke nodded firmly. She turned her attention to the massive map, grabbing a small red flag and planting it decisively into the center of the parchment. "Your first task is a surprise strike. I need you to march south and completely secure Fort Greymoor."
Aerion's eyes narrowed slightly, Fort Greymoor was a massive, sprawling, ancient stone fortification located directly on the western borders of the Whiterun tundra. It was heavily fortified, highly defensible, and currently entirely overrun.
"Fort Greymoor," Legate Rikke briefed him rapidly, her voice crisp. "Intelligence indicates that it is currently heavily infested with a massive, highly organized syndicate of bandits, supplemented by a dangerous cadre of rogue, outcast mages. They are using the fort to actively raid the primary trade routes leading into the capital. I need you and your retainers to march in there and completely eradicate the threat. Leave no survivors."
Aerion processed the tactical objective, but his political acumen immediately saw the massive, glaring diplomatic flaw in the deployment.
"Legate," Aerion questioned smoothly, holding up a single, elegant finger. "I have absolutely no issue with eradicating bandits and rogue mages. But we must address the possible fallout of this operation."
Legate Rikke frowned, crossing her arms. "What fallout, Tribune?"
Aerion stepped up to the map, pointing directly at the location of the fort.
"Fort Greymoor is situated entirely within the sovereign borders of Whiterun Hold," Aerion explained, his voice laced with the deep, pragmatic understanding of his home territory. "Jarl Balgruuf has intentionally ignored the bandit infestation there for months because he refuses to spend his limited Whiterun Guard resources on a protracted siege when the civil war is looming on his borders."
He looked directly at Rikke, his golden eyes sharp.
"If I march in there, clear the fortification, and then the Imperial Legion moves troops in to station a permanent garrison..." Aerion analyzed coldly, "Jarl Balgruuf will undoubtedly view it as a hostile act of military occupation. He will view it as the Empire aggressively moving an army into his backyard without his permission. He will likely send his own army to retake it by force to maintain his neutrality. We risk sparking a war with Whiterun before we even engage the Stormcloaks."
Legate Rikke listened to his flawless, deeply cynical political analysis, and a slow, highly approving, genuinely dangerous smile spread across her scarred face.
She let out a short, sharp laugh, looking over at General Tullius. "He really is a Thane of Whiterun, General. He sees the political board perfectly."
Legate Rikke turned back to Aerion, shaking her head.
"We are not sending a garrison to hold it, Tribune," she corrected him smoothly, revealing the true brilliance of the Imperial strategy. "We aren't going to occupy it at all."
She leaned over the table, tapping the red flag.
"After you and your team breach the walls and slaughter every last bandit inside," Legate Rikke instructed, her voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial register, "you are to take the keys to the fortress, walk directly into Dragonsreach, and hand them personally to Jarl Balgruuf."
Aerion's eyes widened a fraction of an inch as the absolute mastery of the soft-k power maneuver clicked into place.
"You are to tell him, privately and respectfully, that the cleared fortification is a gift," Legate Rikke continued, her smile widening. "A gift directly from the Imperial Legion to the people of Whiterun. You will not demand an oath. You will not ask for anything in return. You will simply ask him to kindly reconsider his position regarding the war."
She straightened up, her blue eyes flashing with strategic victory.
"We won't force him to join us," Legate Rikke concluded. "We will simply remind him that while Ulfric murders High Kings... the Empire cleans his backyard and hands it back to him for free. That is how we win Whiterun."
Aerion stared at the map, a deep, deeply appreciative smirk slowly forming on his face. He had underestimated the diplomatic cunning of the Imperial command. " masterstroke of political leverage, Legate," Aerion praised genuinely, offering a slight bow of his head. "Consider Fort Greymoor cleared. The Empire's gift will be delivered."
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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