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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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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."
General Tullius and Legate Rikke exchanged a long, highly communicative glance. The heavy, oppressive tension that had dominated the war room since Aerion's arrival completely evaporated, replaced by the feeling of pragmatic satisfaction. The Altmer had not merely brought them the Jagged Crown, he had brought them a bloodless and masterful diplomatic maneuver that could secure the heart of Skyrim.
"A masterstroke indeed, Tribune," General Tullius agreed, his veteran eyes assessing Aerion with newfound, absolute respect. The General leaned forward slightly, resting his gauntleted hands on the edge of the map table. But as his approval settled, the hardened military governor quickly reasserted his absolute authority.
"However," General Tullius cautioned, his voice dropping into a low, grave register, "I want you to remember something critical, Aerion. You wear the dragon of the Empire now. You are no longer just an independent wealthy scholar ands Thanes of two holds of Skyrim. You are a Tribune of the Imperial Legion. Every action you take, every sword you draw, and every word you speak to the Jarls going forward does not merely represent yourself, it represents this Legion, and it represents the Emperor."
He then pointed a thick finger at the map, emphasizing the fractured borders of the province.
"The political situation right now is incredibly delicate," the General continued, his tone uncompromising. "One wrong move, one arrogant misstep in a neutral hold, and you could inadvertently push an undecided Jarl directly into Ulfric Stormcloak's lap. I am granting you unprecedented operational freedom, but you must be careful. Operate with precision."
"I understand completely, General," Aerion replied smoothly, his golden eyes reflecting the flickering light of the wall sconces. "My actions will bring nothing but honor and tactical advantage to the Empire."
General Tullius nodded slowly, satisfied with the response. He then shifted his gaze toward the two heavily armed women standing in the shadows behind the High Elf.
"Regarding your retainers," General Tullius added, gesturing toward Jenassa and Lydia. "I tolerate their presence in this room because they helped you secure the Crown. But if they intend to fight under my banners and receive Imperial wages, they will have to swear the oath themselves. And they will start as Auxiliaries. I will not commission an entire command staff of outsiders in a single afternoon."
Aerion did not hesitate. He straightened his posture, bringing his right fist sharply across his chest in a crisp, flawless rendition of the Legion salute.
"That will not be necessary, General," Aerion stated politely but firmly, shaking his head. "They are my sworn retainers. They are not joining the Legion, nor do they seek its ranks or its wages. They will assist the Empire's endeavors strictly by my side, operating under my direct authority as Tribune. Their loyalty is to me, and my loyalty is to you."
General Tullius considered this for a moment. Having unsanctioned and armed mercenaries operating within a Legion strike force was highly irregular, but given that one was a Whiterun Housecarl and the other looked like a professional killer, he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Very well," General Tullius conceded with a weary wave of his hand. "As long as they follow your orders, and you follow mine, I will not force them into uniform. We have a war to win. You are dismissed, Tribune. Get your gear, and prepare your march on Fort Greymoor."
"Sir," Aerion acknowledged, dropping his salute.
He turned on his heel, his dark robes sweeping the stone floor, and walked out of the strategy room. Jenassa and Lydia fell silently into step behind him, leaving the Imperial command staff to marvel at the ancient bone crown resting upon their map.
As Aerion stepped back out into the vaulted corridor, the Imperial guard who had escorted them inside was waiting.
The dynamic had fundamentally, violently shifted.
The guard took one look at Aerion, immediately recognizing the subtle, unspoken shift in the Altmer's posture and the fact that he hadn't been dragged out in chains. The soldier snapped to rigid attention, bringing his fist to his breastplate in a sharp, incredibly respectful salute.
Aerion paused, returning the salute with effortless military grace.
"Lead me to the quartermaster," Aerion instructed, his melodic voice carrying the absolute authority of his newly acquired rank. "I need to secure my enlistment armor."
"Right away, Tribune," the guard responded eagerly, completely abandoning his previous suspicion.
The guard turned and began leading them back through the labyrinthine corridors of Castle Dour, heading toward the main courtyard.
As they walked, Aerion's transmigrator mind went to work. He needed to verify the macro state of the war from the perspective of the rank and file.
"Soldier," Aerion began casually, his voice echoing lightly against the stone walls. "I have been isolated in my studies for some time. What is the current condition of the Legion's deployment across the province?"
The guard glanced over his shoulder, clearly eager to please a senior officer.
"I don't know the high command secrets, sir, but I know what the men are saying in the barracks," the guard answered, keeping his voice relatively low. "The word around the castle is that General Tullius has completely halted all major forward advances."
Aerion raised a single, elegant eyebrow. "Halted? After capturing the rebel leader at Darkwater Crossing?"
"Yes, sir," the guard nodded emphatically as they pushed open the heavy oak doors, stepping back out into the freezing, wind swept courtyard of Castle Dour. "Ever since the General survived what happened at Helgen... things have changed. He saw the beast with his own eyes. The rumor is that General Tullius believes the dragon threat is vastly more serious than the Stormcloak rebellion. He's terrified that if he marches a full legion out into the open plains, a dragon will swoop down and burn them all to ash before they even see a rebel shield wall."
The guard gestured toward the distant, unseen borders of the central plains.
"And besides that," the guard added, "without Jarl Balgruuf choosing a side, the war is in a complete logistical stalemate. We can't march east without securing Whiterun's supply lines, and Ulfric can't march west for the same reason. So, the General is keeping our forces consolidated, defending our borders while waiting guerrills warfare, and waiting for the board to change."
Aerion processed the intelligence rapidly. It was a fascinating deviation from the purely rigid, scripted mechanics of his past life. General Tullius was not just a static NPC waiting for quest markers, he was a traumatized, highly pragmatic commander who had actively adjusted his grand strategy after surviving a mythological dragon.
The dragon at Helgen had genuinely terrified the Imperial command into a defensive posture.
'Perfect,' Aerion concluded internally. The board is entirely static. Tullius is paralyzed by the dragons, and Ulfric is paralyzed by Whiterun. They are both waiting for a catalyst.
And Aerion had just positioned himself as the ultimate catalyst.
"Thank you, soldier. Your insight is appreciated," Aerion said, offering the guard a polite nod as they crossed the courtyard.
They approached the massive, open air pavilion of the Solitude blacksmith. The intense, radiating heat of the forge was a welcome reprieve from the biting, freezing wind blowing off the Sea of Ghosts.
Beirand, the massive, heavily muscled Nord blacksmith, was currently engaged in a brutal, rhythmic battle with a glowing steel breastplate. His hammer rang out with deafening force, sparks showering across the cobblestones.
Aerion did not wait for the man to finish.
"Blacksmith," Aerion called out, his voice easily cutting through the ringing of the steel.
Beirand halted mid swing, lowering his heavy iron hammer. He wiped a thick layer of soot and sweat from his forehead, looking at the High Elf in expensive robes.
"Can I help you, traveler?" Beirand asked, his tone gruff but professional. "If you're looking for custom work, the queue is backed up for a month. The Legion takes priority."
"I am part of the Legion," Aerion corrected smoothly. "I have just been commissioned. I require the standard enlistment armor designated for the rank of Tribune."
Beirand's jaw actually dropped. He stared at the towering Altmer, his eyes darting to the Morag Tong assassin and the heavily armored Housecarl. A High Elf? A Tribune? It was absolutely unprecedented. But Beirand was a military contractor first and a Nord second. If the man had the rank, he got the steel.
"A... a Tribune, sir?" Beirand stammered slightly, quickly setting his hammer down on the anvil. He offered a hasty, respectful bow of his head. "My apologies, Tribune. I didn't realize. Please, wait right here for just a moment."
Beirand turned and quickly ducked into the interior storage room of his shop.
Aerion waited patiently, his hands clasped behind his back. A few moments later, Beirand emerged, carrying a massive, heavy stack of pristine Imperial military gear. He set it down carefully onto a sturdy wooden display table.
It was a full set of Imperial medium armor. It consisted of a thick, hardened leather cuirass reinforced with heavy steel rivets, accompanied by heavy steel greaves, steel bracers, and a closed faced Imperial officer's helmet adorned with a subtle, crimson crest to denote his senior rank.
Aerion looked down at the armor. It was incredibly well crafted, designed for maximum mobility and decent protection in the muddy, chaotic melee of a shield wall.
But for Aerion, it was entirely, functionally useless.
His transmigrator biology was already harder than the steel sitting on the table. Furthermore, wearing heavy, restrictive leather and metal would actively interfere with his aristocratic persona and his preferred, highly mobile spellcasting geometry.
Aerion was silent for a long moment, staring at the gear. He couldn't simply reject it, it was his official uniform, the literal symbol of his authority.
"Do you happen to have any heavy travel backpacks for sale, Beirand?" Aerion asked, glancing up at the blacksmith. "Something reinforced with leather and steel buckles?"
Beirand blinked, surprised by the request. "I do, Tribune. Standard Legion marching packs. Built to carry fifty pounds of gear through a blizzard."
"I will purchase one," Aerion decided. He offered a small, slightly apologetic smile, playing the role of the eccentric mage perfectly. "I am a practitioner of the arcane arts, Beirand. While this armor is masterfully forged, it is incredibly restrictive for the complex somatic gestures required for my spellcasting. I will store the armor in the pack. I require it primarily for formal military occasions and specific tactical engagements, rather than standard travel."
"Makes perfect sense to me, sir," Beirand nodded, understanding the physical limitations of mages. "Magic and heavy leather don't mix well. I'll fetch the pack."
Beirand retrieved a massive, incredibly sturdy leather backpack from his stock.
Aerion seamlessly accessed his digital inventory, withdrawing a heavy handful of gold. He placed exactly two hundred and fifty septims onto the wooden table.
"For the backpack," Aerion said.
Beirand's eyes widened at the generous payment, quickly scooping the gold into his apron. "Thank you, Tribune! May the Eight bless your battles!"
Aerion meticulously packed the heavy leather cuirass, the steel greaves, the bracers, and the crested helmet into the massive backpack, securing the heavy steel buckles. When it was entirely packed, it weighed nearly forty pounds.
Aerion did not sling it over his own shoulder. He turned smoothly toward his right flank.
"Jenassa," Aerion murmured, holding the heavy pack out toward the assassin.
Jenassa looked at the massive, bulky bag, and then looked up at her impeccably dressed patron. A dry, highly amused smirk touched the corner of her dark lips.
"Of course, Patron," Jenassa sighed softly, taking the heavy backpack. "What is an elite Morag Tong assassin for, if not to act as a highly lethal beast of burden?"
She swung the massive pack over her shoulders, the heavy weight settling effortlessly against her lithe, surprisingly strong frame.
"Your versatility is your greatest asset, Jenassa," Aerion praised her smoothly, a faint smile on his lips.
With the military logistics officially concluded, Aerion led his team away from Castle Dour, walking back down the main avenue of Solitude.
The adrenaline of the high stakes political negotiations was beginning to fade, replaced by a quiet, calculating satisfaction. They had achieved everything they came for.
Now, they required rest before the brutal march back to the homestead.
Aerion bypassed the bustling market stalls and the radiant Temple of the Divines, heading directly for the Winking Skeever.
The tavern was located near the main gates, nestled beneath the towering stone archways of the city. As they pushed open the heavy wooden doors, the warm, rich scent of roasting meats, spiced wine, and burning hearth wood washed over them. The establishment was lively, packed with wealthy merchants, off duty guards, and bards singing tales of the ancient heroes.
Mounted proudly above the main counter was a massive, perfectly preserved, albeit slightly terrifying, stuffed skeever.
Corpulus Vinius, the jovial, broad shouldered Imperial owner of the tavern, was wiping down the polished wood of the bar.
When he saw the towering High Elf enter, followed by his heavily armed bodyguards, he immediately recognized the wealth radiating from the trio.
"Welcome, welcome to the Winking Skeever!" Corpulus boomed cheerfully, spreading his arms wide. "The finest tavern in all of Haafingar! What can I do for you travelers today?"
"I require three of your best private rooms for the night," Aerion requested, stepping up to the counter.
He accessed his inventory, withdrawing a small stack of 30 septims and placing exactly thirty septims onto the polished wood.
Corpulus's eyes lit up at the exact, upfront payment. He quickly swept the coins into his lockbox and produced three heavy iron keys, sliding them across the bar.
"Three rooms, guaranteed safe and warm," Corpulus promised. He leaned forward slightly, gesturing toward the bustling dining area. "Now, you look like a man who has had a long morning. Can I interest you and your companions in a hot lunch? My wife just finished a fresh batch of horker stew, and we tapped a new keg of spiced mead this morning."
"That sounds entirely acceptable," Aerion agreed.
He placed another stack of thirty five septims onto the counter.
"Three servings of the stew, and three tankards of your spiced mead, if you please," Aerion ordered.
"Coming right up, my lord! Take a seat wherever you like!" Corpulus beamed, immediately shouting orders toward the kitchens.
Aerion, Jenassa, and Lydia claimed a large, sturdy wooden table in a quiet corner of the tavern, giving them a clear view of the main doors. Jenassa gratefully unbuckled the massive, heavy Imperial backpack, setting it heavily on the floorboards beside her chair.
The lunch was exceptional. The horker stew was incredibly rich and thick, perfectly seasoned with mountain herbs that chased the biting cold of Solitude from their bones. The spiced mead was strong and flavorful, providing a comfortable, relaxing warmth.
They ate in relative silence, the ambient noise of the tavern providing a perfect, insulating cover. Aerion's mind was already mapping out the tactical assault on Fort Greymoor, calculating the optimal deployment of his Destruction magic to eradicate the bandit infestation with maximum psychological impact.
After the heavy meal, the sheer physical toll of the previous days' rapid travel finally caught up with them.
Aerion dismissed his retainers to their respective rooms. He retired to his own private quarters, a comfortable, well furnished room overlooking the bustling streets of Solitude. He didn't bother checking his system interface. He simply removed his boots, lay back on the soft feather mattress, and allowed himself to fall into a deep, dreamless, restorative sleep.
The next morning, long before the sun had fully illuminated the towering stone arches of Solitude, the strike team was awake and ready to move.
Aerion walked down the wooden stairs of the Winking Skeever, leaving the three heavy iron keys on the empty counter for Corpulus to find. They stepped out into the freezing, misty dawn, the city streets still quiet and largely deserted.
They marched quickly down the massive, winding stone ramp, exiting the capital and arriving at Katla's Farm just as the roosters began to crow.
Geimund the stable master was already awake, pitching hay in the main barn.
"Your beasts are rested and fed, my lord," Geimund reported, quickly leading Revan and the bay horse out into the courtyard.
"Your service is appreciated," Aerion nodded, taking Revan's heavy leather reins.
He swung up into the saddle. Jenassa mounted the bay horse, with Lydia climbing up heavily behind her, securing the massive Imperial backpack to the side of the saddle.
"We ride hard today," Aerion commanded, his voice crisp in the cold morning air. "We do not stop until we see the palisades of home."
He flicked the reins, and Revan surged forward.
The ride back to the Whiterun tundra was a brutal, grueling test of pure physical endurance. Unlike their measured, strategically paced journey to the capital, today was a relentless, high speed forced march.
They rode continuously, the massive muscles of the horses churning beneath them. They tore through the freezing, misty pine forests of Haafingar, the trees blurring into a solid wall of dark green. They bypassed the bustling military checkpoint of Dragon Bridge without slowing down, the roaring waters of the Karth River fading rapidly behind them.
As the morning bled into afternoon, the landscape shifted. They descended into the rugged, dangerous hills surrounding Rorikstead, keeping their pace incredibly fast to reach to Whiterun as soon as possible.
Aerion felt the sheer, continuous kinetic shock of the heavy saddle, but his vastly augmented Health pool absorbed the punishment effortlessly. He was a machine, entirely focused on the horizon.
The sun finally dipped below the jagged peaks of the western mountains, plunging the province into darkness.
They did not stop. They pushed the horses through the twilight, and into the deep, freezing night of the open tundra. The only sounds were the rhythmic, deafening thunder of heavy hooves against the dirt roads and the harsh, ragged breathing of the beasts.
Finally, as the moons rose high into the starry sky, signaling the absolute dead of midnight, the familiar, towering silhouettes of massive wooden palisades materialized from the darkness of the plains.
The Tundra Homestead.
The heavy iron reinforced gates were firmly shut, illuminated by the flickering orange light of the perimeter braziers. As the exhausted horses approached, the mercenary guards on the walls immediately leveled their crossbows into the dark.
"Halt!" Sinmir's booming voice echoed from the palisades. "Identify yourselves!"
"Stand down, Captain," Aerion called out, his melodic voice cutting clearly through the freezing night air.
"It's the Patron! Open the gates!" Sinmir roared, immense relief flooding his voice.
The heavy wooden doors groaned open, revealing the warm, secure, torch lit courtyard of the homestead.
Aerion rode Revan inside, bringing the exhausted, lathered warhorse to a gentle halt. He slid from the saddle, his boots hitting the dirt. He had successfully secured his military commission, acquired the necessary leverage, and returned to his homestead in a single, breathless rotation of the board. The Tribune of the Imperial Legion was finally home, and Fort Greymoor was next on the list.
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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: 81,582