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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"Move the molds into the cellar beneath the barracks," Aerion instructed the men. "Keep them in the dark, away from the damp. In a few weeks, we will open the first wheel. If the process holds true to the giants' methods, we will possess a delicacy that the nobles of Skyrim will pay a small fortune to taste." The mercenaries hauled the heavy, stone pressed molds toward the cellars, the promise of future profits lifting their tired spirits. Aerion watched them go, a satisfied smile on his face.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of the wooden cheese presses settling into place echoed faintly in the courtyard as Aerion turned away from the cellars. Leaving Sinmir and the remaining mercenaries to oversee the curing process, the High Elf walked gracefully toward the main house.
The afternoon sun cast long, warm shadows across the estate, painting the wooden palisades in hues of amber and gold.
It had been a phenomenally productive forty eight hours. The fort was secured, his political capital with the Jarl was unassailable, and his economic monopoly was taking physical shape.
But as Aerion pulled open the heavy oak door of his private residence, the tranquil atmosphere of the estate abruptly vanished.
The main living area was tense. Aeloria and Valdemar were standing on opposite sides of the central hearth, locked in a surprisingly heated, sharply toned dispute.
Aeloria was scowling, her arms crossed tightly over her padded linen gambeson. Valdemar stood rigid, his broad shoulders squared, a crumpled piece of parchment clutched firmly in his gauntleted hand. It was an incredibly rare sight, Housecarls were sworn to absolute obedience, and Valdemar was usually the picture of stoic Nordic loyalty. For him to be actively arguing with his Thane meant something fundamental had been triggered.
Aerion closed the door behind him with a soft, deliberate click, instantly drawing their attention.
"I leave the two of you alone inside the mansion for less than an hour, and I return to find the atmosphere thick enough to cut with a sword," Aerion noted smoothly, his melodic voice gliding over the tension. He walked slowly toward the hearth, his golden eyes flicking between the two Nords. "Why are the two of you debating, Aeloria, Valdemar?"
Aeloria let out a sharp, highly exasperated sigh, throwing her hands up in the air.
"Tell him, Valdemar," Aeloria huffed, sinking into a heavy wooden chair near the fire. "Tell him about the brilliant advice you thought I received from a paranoid bartender."
Valdemar's jaw tightened, his Nordic pride bristling slightly at the dismissal, but he turned respectfully to face the High Elf.
"While you and Thane Aeloria were in the city, another courier arrived at the gates," Valdemar explained, his deep voice serious and unyielding. He held up the crumpled letter. "It was from the woman in Riverwood. Delphine. The courier explicitly told me that the sender demanded whoever received the missive must read it immediately, as it contained matters of life and death for all of Skyrim."
Aerion's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Clever, he thought coldly. Delphine knew Aeloria was ignoring her summons, so she bypassed the Dragonborn's entirely, weaponizing the courier network to inject her paranoia directly into the minds of the retainers.
"And so you read it," Aerion deduced calmly.
"I did, Thane Aerion," Valdemar nodded, stepping closer. The Housecarl looked from Aeloria to Aerion, an earnest, desperate conviction burning in his eyes. "And I have been trying to tell my Thane that we cannot simply ignore this. I feel that she is right. Delphine needs our help, and her logic is sound. We should ride for Riverwood."
Valdemar took a deep breath, clearly hoping to use the High Elf's immense influence to sway the stubborn Dragonborn.
"Thane Aerion, you are a man of vast intellect," Valdemar appealed to him. "If my Thane will not listen to my counsel, perhaps she will listen to yours. You must see the threat."
Aerion stood perfectly still, his flawless, aristocratic features giving away absolutely nothing. He looked deeply into Valdemar's earnest, weathered face. He didn't unleash a wave of anger at the insubordination, instead, he let out a slow, quiet sigh that carried the heavy weight of a weary scholar dealing with terrified children.
"Why do you feel this paranoid, exiled old woman is right, Valdemar?" Aerion asked, his voice soft, almost conversational. "What could she have possibly written that would compel you to argue against the direct wishes of your sworn Thane?"
Valdemar straightened his posture, his Nordic prejudices bleeding through his usually professional demeanor.
"She believes the Thalmor are behind the dragons," Valdemar stated firmly. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, casting an apologetic look at Aerion. "I mean absolutely no disrespect to you, Thane Aerion. You have bled for us, and your honor is beyond question. But you know the history of your kind. If anyone possesses the dark, twisted magic required to resurrect mythological beasts from the dirt... it is the Aldmeri Dominion. They are the only people on this continent that stands to benefit from the absolute chaos these dragons are causing. The Empire is distracted, Skyrim is burning, and the Elves are watching from their balconies."
Hearing the argument, Aeloria groaned, rubbing her temples. "Valdemar, we've been over this—"
Aerion held up a single, elegant hand, instantly silencing her. He did not look offended. In fact, he nodded his head slowly, validating the Housecarl's fears.
"I understand, Valdemar," Aerion replied smoothly, his tone remarkably gentle. "You do not need to feel afraid of offending me. I am well aware of the Dominion's reputation, and I know exactly how the Nords view the High Elves after the Great War. Your suspicion is a natural, protective instinct."
He took a slow step forward, closing the distance, his golden eyes locking onto Valdemar's.
"But I cannot accept your reasoning," Aerion stated, his voice shifting from empathetic to razor sharp, flawless logic. He systematically dismantled the conspiracy theory with geopolitical facts. "Think about the timeline of the Great War, Valdemar. You are a soldier. Look at the condition."
Aerion began to pace slowly before the hearth.
"If the Thalmor actually possessed the arcane capability to command and resurrect immortal dragons," Aerion reasoned, his voice echoing in the quiet room, "why in Oblivion would they have ever signed the White-Gold Concordat? Why would they agree to a truce with the Empire thirty years ago?"
Valdemar frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to process the historical counter argument.
"If the Dominion had dragons on their side," Aerion pressed, the sheer, undeniable weight of his logic crashing down upon the Housecarl, "they would not have stopped at the Imperial City. They would not have negotiated treaties. They could have simply bulldozed the entire Empire into ash. There is absolutely no military power on the continent of Tamriel, not the Legion, not the Redguards, not the Dark Elfs, and certainly not the Stormcloaks, that could have stopped a Thalmor advance backed by an army of flying, fire breathing immortals."
Valdemar's jaw tightened. His Nordic blood, his deep seated hatred for the Thalmor, desperately wanted to argue. He wanted to scream that Elves were deceitful, that they played the long game, that they were waiting for the right moment. The words were bubbling in his throat.
But as Aerion stopped pacing and looked at him, the High Elf engaged his Persuasion skill.
It wasn't a visible spell. It was a terrifying, invisible, reality bending frequency woven directly into the cadence of his voice and the warmth of his golden eyes. It bypassed Valdemar's stubbornness entirely, striking directly at the logical center of his brain.
"The Thalmor are arrogant, Valdemar, but they are not suicidal," Aerion concluded, his voice vibrating with absolute, trustworthy authority. "They are just as terrified of these dragons as the Jarls are. Delphine is chasing ghosts because it is the only enemy she knows how to fight. We cannot waste our time fighting her ghosts when the real threat is circling above our heads."
Valdemar stared at the High Elf. The furious, stubborn urge to argue simply melted away, entirely overwritten by the sheer brilliance of the reasoning. The conspiracy theory suddenly sounded utterly ridiculous in his own mind.
The heavy tension drained from the Housecarl's broad shoulders. He looked down at the crumpled letter in his hand, feeling a sudden wave of foolishness.
Valdemar let out a long, heavy sigh. He slowly nodded his head.
"You are right, Thane Aerion," Valdemar conceded, his voice returning to its normal, respectful timber. "I... I let my hatred for the Thalmor cloud my judgment. If they had dragons, we would all already be dead. I apologize, my Thane. I overstepped."
Aeloria, watching from the chair, let out a massive, highly audible sigh of relief. The migraine that had been building behind her eyes vanished.
"Thank Kyne," Aeloria breathed, offering Aerion a deeply grateful look. "Thank you, Aerion. I have been arguing with him for half an hour, and he wouldn't budge an inch."
She looked down at her boots, a slight, embarrassed flush coloring her cheeks. "Though I admit, it feels a bit pathetic that my own sworn Housecarl wouldn't listen to me, but he folds the minute you explain it."
Aerion waved his hand casually, instantly dismissing her embarrassment.
"It is perfectly fine, Aeloria. Do not think much of it," Aerion reassured her warmly. "He is a veteran Nord warrior. Nordic stubbornness is a cultural trait, not a personal failing. Sometimes it simply requires an outside perspective to break a deadlock."
He walked over to the heavy wooden table in the center of the room, resting his hands upon it. He took a slow breath, deciding that the time for half truths and delays was officially over. Delphine's meddling had forced his hand. He needed Aeloria entirely focused on the true threat, not distracted by Thalmor espionage.
"Since we have a few days of downtime while we wait for the cheese to cure, and we are not expected to report back to General Tullius and Legate Rikke immediately," Aerion announced, his voice dropping into a register of profound, heavy seriousness. "I believe it is time."
He looked directly at Aeloria.
"I have finalized my translations of the ancient texts we recovered from Ustengrav, and I have cross referenced them with the historical lore I possess," Aerion lied flawlessly, maintaining his scholarly cover. "I have concluded exactly why the dragons are returning to Skyrim."
The effect was instantaneous.
Aeloria shot up from her chair, her blue eyes wide with shock. Valdemar stepped forward, entirely forgetting his previous embarrassment, his jaw slack.
"You know?" Aeloria gasped, stepping rapidly toward the table. "Aerion, this is massive! This is the breakthrough we have been tearing the province apart for! What is it? What did you find?"
Aerion did not smile. He looked down at the table, his expression grave, mimicking the heavy, burdened hesitation of the Greybeards.
"I have the answers, Aeloria," Aerion nodded slowly. "But... there is a significant problem."
Aeloria frowned, her excitement hitting a sudden wall. "What problem? Is it a Daedric Prince? A curse?"
Aerion looked back up, his golden eyes filled with a manufactured, yet highly convincing, reluctance.
"The problem is you, Aeloria," Aerion stated softly. "After compiling the sheer scale of the threat... I honestly feel that you are not yet ready to know the absolute truth."
Aeloria's face instantly flushed with a mix of profound frustration and Nordic indignation.
"Not ready?" Aeloria repeated, her voice rising sharply. "Aerion, you promised me! When we left High Hrothgar, when Arngeir gave me those infuriating riddles, you swore to me that if you managed to research the truth, you would tell me! I am the Dragonborn! I killed multiple dragons already by the divines sake! How can I not be ready?!"
"Because the reality of what we are facing is crushing," Aerion countered gently, refusing to rise to her anger. "It is a psychological burden that has driven lesser minds to madness. Yes, I made a promise, and I am a mer of my word. I will tell you. But I need you to swear to me that you will not let this knowledge pressure you into reckless action. You need to grow significantly stronger before you can even dream of facing the source of this."
Aeloria stared at him, the intense gravity of his words extinguishing her anger. She swallowed hard, feeling a cold knot of dread form in her stomach. She nodded her head slowly, firmly.
"I swear, Aerion," Aeloria promised, her voice a determined whisper. "Tell me."
Aerion nodded. He turned his head toward the hallway leading to the barracks.
"Jenassa. Lydia," Aerion called out.
The two woman, who had undoubtedly been listening from the corridor, immediately stepped into the main room. Lydia's face was tense, while Jenassa's crimson eyes were sharp and focused.
"You all bleed for this cause," Aerion addressed the inner circle. "You all deserve to know the name of the shadow hanging over us."
Aerion stood at the head of the table. He did not cast a spell, but the sheer, dramatic weight of his presentation made the room feel as though the temperature had plummeted ten degrees.
"The dragons are not returning because of Thalmor magic, and they are not returning because of a random cosmic anomaly," Aerion explained, his voice low and vibrating with ancient dread. "They are returning because they are being actively resurrected from their burial mounds by their leader."
He looked at Aeloria, making sure she caught every word.
"The Greybeards knew. They have always known," Aerion continued, weaving the truth into his fabricated research narrative. "They speak of destiny and older paths because this event has been prophesied since the First Era. It is written on Alduin's Wall. The prophecy of the Last Dragonborn."
Valdemar let out a choked gasp, taking a physical step backward as if he had been struck. Lydia's hand flew to the amulet of Talos resting against her breastplate, her face draining of all color.
"Thane Aerion..." Valdemar whispered, absolute horror bleeding into his gruff voice. "Did you say... Alduin?"
Aerion nodded slowly. "Yes, Valdemar. The World-Eater. The Twilight God of the Nordic pantheon. The First-Born of Akatosh."
Aeloria looked around at the terrified faces of the hardened Nords in the room. She was a Nord, she knew the bedtime stories, but to hear the mythological apocalypse spoken of as a tangible, living threat was mind bending.
"The Greybeards withheld this from you, Aeloria, because they feared the psychological toll," Aerion explained, his eyes locking onto hers. "They knew that if they told a fledging Dragonborn that her ultimate destiny was to duel the literal, immortal god of destruction... it would break your spirit before you could even master your Voice."
Aeloria was processing the information at a frantic pace, her mind rapidly connecting the chaotic, violent events of the past several weeks. The massive, black, terrifying beast at Helgen. The sheer, overwhelming wave of oppressive darkness she had felt at the burial mound in Eastmarch.
"Then..." Aeloria began, her voice trembling slightly before she forced it steady. "This Alduin... he is my sworn enemy. He is the reason I exist?"
"He is the end of this world, and you are the only weapon forged by the gods capable of permanently stopping him," Aerion confirmed bluntly. "The massive black dragon that attacked the execution block at Helgen. The dragon we watched resurrect that dragons named Sahloknir from the dirt at Kynesgrove. I have concluded, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that that specific beast is Alduin himself."
The shock in the room intensified, shifting from abstract, mythological terror to sheer, visceral panic. The monster from the stories wasn't just real, it was the exact same beast that had flown directly over their heads days prior.
Aeloria sank back into her chair, her mind reeling.
"But..." Aeloria stammered, a massive, glaring contradiction suddenly hitting her. "At Helgen... the Imperial headsman literally had his axe raised. I was one second away from having my head chopped off. If Alduin is my ultimate enemy... if he wants to destroy the world and I am the only one who can stop him... why did he attack the fort right at that exact moment? He indirectly saved my life. Why would he help me?"
It was a brilliant question, one that poked directly at the chaotic, unscripted nature of the game's prologue.
Aerion leaned against the table, offering a perfectly casual, highly unsettling shrug.
"I do not possess the mind of an ancient dragon god, Aeloria," Aerion replied, providing a chilling, plausible theory. "Perhaps he was arrogant. Perhaps he knew you were on the block, and he saved you specifically because he wants to be the one to slay you when your Voice has fully matured, desiring a worthy opponent rather than letting a mortal executioner claim the glory. Or perhaps... he simply views you as an insignificant insect, and he is toying with you for his own amusement before he devours the world."
The bleak, terrifying theories hung heavily in the air.
Aeloria stared into the flames of the hearth for a long time. The weight of her destiny, previously an abstract concept of heroism, was now a crushing apocalyptic reality. The World-Eater was actively pulling his army from the dirt, preparing to consume the province.
She let out a long, shuddering sigh, the last remnants of her naive, adventurous spirit burning away in the fire.
"So this is it," Aeloria whispered, her voice hardening with the legendary, unbreakable resolve of the North. She looked up at Aerion, her blue eyes blazing with a fierce, desperate light. "This is why you and Arngeir want me to train. This is why I am not ready."
"You have raw power, Aeloria, but you lack the ancient vocabulary required to match him," Aerion agreed softly.
Aeloria stood up from the chair. She didn't look defeated; she looked absolutely, terrifyingly focused.
"Then I need to get ready. Immediately," Aeloria declared, slamming her gauntleted fist against the heavy wooden table. "We cannot just sit here and wait for the end of the world. We need to go on the offensive. Why don't we march directly into the ancient Nordic Crypts? I need to collect more Words of Power. And we need to hunt down the dragons he is resurrecting. If I slay a couple more of his dragons along the way, I can absorb their souls and unlock the shouts."
Valdemar and Lydia exchanged a look of profound, awestruck respect for their Thane. Faced with the literal end of the world, her first instinct was to grab an axe and go hunting.
Aerion smiled. It was a cold, deeply satisfied expression. He had successfully steered the Dragonborn away from political espionage and aimed her directly at the power leveling grind he required her to endure.
"A highly aggressive, but necessary plan," Aerion agreed, pushing off the table. "Of course we can do so. But we must be strategic. Plunging into the deepest, deadliest crypts without preparation would be foolish."
He walked over to a nearby shelf, pulling down a detailed geographical map of the central holds.
"For now, we will target the nearest, most accessible ruins," Aerion instructed, tracing a path across the parchment. "Furthermore, my research indicates that not all Word Walls are buried underground in draugr infested crypts. Many are carved into the open stone of high mountains and remote hills across Skyrim. We can ride out to those locations as well. We will build your arsenal, syllable by syllable." Aerion rolled the map back up, turning back to the fiercely determined Dragonborn. "Rest well tonight, Aeloria," Aerion commanded softly. "For tomorrow, the true training begins."
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 650/650 Stamina: 680/680 Magicka: 890/890
Level: 182
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(+4)/Lightning(+2)/Frost(+2)) (Level 0/25/0), Restoration (Healing(+2)/Purify(+2)) (Level 0/50), Alteration (Level 35), Illusion (Level 50), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/60), Persuasion(+2) (Level 0), 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 75), 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 / 640 KG
Septims: 81,582