He paused when he reached the helmet. The Nordic Carved helmet was forged to resemble the snarling head of a bear. It was incredibly intimidating, but to Aerion's refined, aristocratic sensibilities, it was simply too barbaric. He despised the design. 'I will leave the helmet,' Aerion decided smoothly. 'When I have a moment to properly clean and polish the bronze, I will utilize Krosis's mask instead. It offers vastly superior magical protections and a far more terrifying psychological profile.'
Before storing the armor set to his inventory, Aerion checked the inherent, modded enchantments woven into the steel.
[Nordic Carved Armor Of Health: Health increased by 50 points.]
[Nordic Carved Gauntlets Of Splinter: Two Handed attacks do 28% more damage.]
[Nordic Carved Boots Of Weight: Carrying capacity increased by 50 points.]
It was a flawless, highly optimized set for a warrior transitioning into heavy weapon combat.
Aerion mentally confirmed the selection. The heavy steel and fur vanished from the invisible chest, transferring directly into his personal inventory system.
[Inventory Weight Increased by 22.00 KG.]
Satisfied with his logistical preparations, Aerion stepped out from behind the smelter, offering a polite nod to Adrianne as he walked past her forge.
He carried the heavy burlap sack up the winding, tiered stone stairs of Whiterun, ascending from the bustling Plains District into the quieter, more affluent Wind District. He didn't stop at the Gildergreen tree, continuing his march up the final, massive stone staircase leading to the Cloud District.
The sprawling, majestic wooden architecture of Dragonsreach loomed before him.
Aerion pushed open the heavy wooden doors, entering the Great Porch. The fire pit was roaring, but the Jarl's court was currently occupied with administrative matters. Aerion did not seek an audience with Balgruuf today; he bypassed the throne entirely, turning right and heading into the secluded, arcane wing of the keep.
Farengar Secret-Fire's study smelled of old parchment, ozone, and dried alchemy reagents. The court wizard was currently hunched over his desk, deeply engrossed in a decaying leather tome.
"Farengar," Aerion greeted him, his melodic voice polite but carrying the unmistakable weight of a fellow, highly accomplished practitioner of the arcane.
Farengar jumped slightly, looking up from his book. When he saw the High Elf, his usual haughty demeanor softened into respectful acknowledgment.
"Ah, Thane Aerion," Farengar replied, closing his tome. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Have you uncovered more ancient draconic secrets for me to catalog?"
"Not today, Farengar," Aerion smiled faintly. "I simply require the use of your Arcane Enchanter for a brief moment. I have several artifacts I need to deconstruct."
Farengar waved a hand toward the back of the room. "Be my guest. The table is fully charged. Just... try not to overload the soul gem matrix, if you please. Last time a novice used it, it took me three days to clean the ectoplasm off the ceiling."
"I assure you, my technique is flawless, yo uhave seen it for yourself firsthand" Aerion replied smoothly.
He walked over to the Arcane Enchanter. It was a beautiful, slightly eerie piece of magical engineering. A large, flat stone table etched with glowing blue runes, holding a floating, ethereal skull and candles that burned with cold, blue flames. The air around the table hummed with trapped, latent soul energy.
Aerion placed the heavy burlap sack onto the stone floor beside the table. He reached in, retrieving the first item, the Gold Ruby Ring of Fortify Magicka.
He placed the ring in the center of the enchanter's runes. He didn't use tools. He simply laid his elegant hands on either side of the ring and engaged his transmigrator mind.
Disenchanting was not merely breaking an item, it was the highly complex, arcane process of unweaving a tapestry of light. Aerion reached out with his magicka, finding the specific, conceptual threads of the enchantment woven into the gold. With a sharp, mental pull, he snapped the threads.
A brilliant flash of blue light erupted from the table. The gold ring instantly crumbled into fine, mundane dust, but the pure, conceptual knowledge of the Fortify Magicka enchantment flowed like a river of cool water directly into Aerion's mind, permanently etching itself into his arcane vocabulary.
He moved with rhythmic, mechanical efficiency.
He placed the Iron Garnet Ring on the table. Snap. The knowledge of Fortify Conjuration and Magicka Regen flowed into him.
The Ancient Nord Sword of Sparks. Snap. The violent, crackling concept of electrical damage was absorbed.
The Ring of Archery. Snap.
[Skill: Enchanting Leveled Up! Level 66 ➔ MAX]
[Maximum Mastery Reached. Initiate Legendary Reset?]
Aerion closed his eyes, savoring the profound sense of complete, absolute understanding of soul manipulation and magical binding that filled his mind. He had reached the absolute apex of the enchanter's art.
He mentally confirmed the prompt.
[Skill: Enchanting reset to Level 0. Skill is now Enchanting +1.]
The fundamental architecture of his enchanting knowledge collapsed and instantly rebuilt itself into a vastly deeper, exponentially more powerful framework. But theres still some item needed to be disenchant.
The Hide Boots of Stamina. Snap.
The Ancient Nord Sword of Absorbing. Snap. The dark, pulling sensation of vampiric magicka drained into his matrix.
As the final heavy iron sword crumbled into dust upon the stone table, a massive, golden notification flared across Aerion's vision.
The notifications cascaded rapidly in his peripheral vision.
[Skill: Enchanting +1 Leveled Up! Level 0 ➔ Level 23]
Aerion opened his eyes. The blue candles on the Arcane Enchanter flickered wildly, reacting to the massive surge of raw magical authority radiating from the High Elf.
He brushed the dust from the stone table and took a slow, centering breath.
"Are you finished, then?"
The voice came from the shadows near the bookshelves. Farengar stepped forward, his arms crossed over his mage robes. He had been watching the High Elf work with a mixture of personal curiosity and full respect. It was incredibly rare to see someone deconstruct so many enchantmented items in such rapid, flawless succession without overloading the soul gem matrix or triggering a magical backlash.
Aerion turned, his aristocratic features settling into a polite, composed mask.
"I am, Farengar," Aerion replied smoothly, giving a brief, courteous nod. "I thank you for allowing me to borrow the table. The equipment is impeccably maintained."
Farengar waved a hand dismissively, though he looked slightly pleased by the compliment. "A proper wizard keeps his tools in order. It is nothing."
The court mage hesitated for a moment, his gaze shifting toward the high, arched windows of the study that looked out over the sprawling plains of Whiterun. The usual haughty detachment in his voice was replaced by a tight, underlying thread of genuine anxiety.
"Tell me, Aerion," Farengar began, dropping his voice slightly. "Since you have been traveling extensively with the Dragonborn... have you truly not uncovered any new information regarding the dragons? Anything at all?"
Aerion paused, his golden eyes studying the Nord wizard.
"News of two of you have actively been fighting them spread aorund," Farengar continued, a rare note of desperation creeping into his tone, "then any knowledge you can bring back to this court might be the key to the defense of Whiterun. The city needs every single advantage it can get. It is nothing short of a miracle, or sheer, blind luck, that a dragon has not yet descended upon a major settlement. But that could change at any moment. The guards are terrified, the Jarl is stressed, and my own research into the dragonstone has yielded more questions than answers."
Aerion understood the man's profound concern perfectly. Whiterun was a wooden city built on a hill, it was a tinderbox waiting for a single spark.
His transmigrator mind instantly weighed the variables. He held the full truth in his mind of course.
But releasing that intelligence to Farengar would be a big tactical error. If the Jarl's court wizard panicked, the Jarl would panic. If the Jarl panicked, the city would fall into absolute hysteria. Trade would stop, the guards would desert, and the delicate political balance of the province would shatter before the Imperial Legion could secure it.
'The truth is a weapon,' Aerion calculated coldly. And they are entirely unequipped to wield it.
He kept his answer measured, calm, and entirely devoid of the apocalyptic dread he had shared with Aeloria the night before.
"I share your concerns, Farengar," Aerion answered, his voice a soothing, rational balm. "And it is true that I have stood beside the Dragonborn against these beasts. We have fought them, and we have slain them. But as to their origins, or a unified pattern to their attacks... I have found nothing new yet. They appear to be creatures of pure, chaotic instinct."
Farengar's shoulders slumped, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. The disappointment on his face was palpable. He had been hoping for a weakness, a magical deterrent, or a clear tactical warning.
"I see," Farengar muttered, rubbing his temples. "Well. The Jarl's bounties remain open. If your travels or your battles yield anything concrete, anything that can help us fortify the walls, I expect you to return and share it with the me immediately."
"You have my word, Farengar," Aerion assured him with a polite bow of his head. "If the situation changes, you will be the first to know."
With the delicate political evasion concluded, Aerion took his leave. He walked out of the arcane study, bypassed the Jarl's throne room, and descended the massive stone steps of Dragonsreach.
As he walked down through the Wind District, the crisp, biting air of the northern autumn felt refreshing against his face. He navigated the winding, tiered cobblestone paths, heading directly toward the bustling heart of the city's market square. It was time to check on his lady and tavern.
Approaching the Bannered Mare, Aerion immediately noticed a profound, highly unusual sensory shift in the atmosphere.
Instead of the standard, heavy scent of boiling cabbage, roasted venison, and spilled ale that usually permeated the tavern district, the air was thick with something vastly different. It was a rich, savory, deeply intoxicating aroma.
The smell of searing, fatty beef, baking yeast, melting cheese, and boiling oil. It was a scent entirely alien to Skyrim, yet universally, biologically appealing.
Aerion pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the tavern.
The interior was absolutely packed. It wasn't just the usual evening crowd of hardened mercenaries and off duty guards, the room was filled with merchants, local farmers, and even a few minor nobles from the upper districts. The ambient noise was a deafening roar of cheerful conversation, clinking tankards, and the chaotic shouting of orders.
Aerion smiled, a deep, highly satisfied expression crossing his flawless features. The modern culinary concepts he had introduced were operating exactly as he had calculated.
He moved gracefully through the crowded room, side stepping a pair of Whiterun guards who were aggressively devouring thick, cheese covered burgers with absolute reverence. He made his way to the main wooden counter, which was currently buried under a stack of empty plates and scattered septims.
Ysolda was a blur of motion. Her auburn hair was tied back in a messy knot, her apron was dusted with flour, and she was currently balancing three wooden trenchers piled high with golden, salted french fries.
Aerion leaned casually against the polished wood of the bar.
"I would like to place an order, if you please," Aerion projected, his melodic voice easily cutting through the din of the tavern. "One of everything from the new menu."
Ysolda didn't even look up, her eyes frantically scanning the room to locate the patrons who had ordered the fries.
"I am so sorry, but we are completely sold out of the new dishes for the afternoon!" Ysolda called out, her voice strained with sheer exhaustion and subtle triumph. "The dough needs time to rise, and we've run through the entire daily stock of ground beef. You'll have to come back tomorrow morning!"
Aerion chuckled, a low, warm sound. "A pity. I was told by someone that it was highly recommended."
Ysolda froze. She recognized the cadence of that voice instantly.
She snapped her head around, her bright eyes widening as she took in the towering, impeccably dressed High Elf leaning against her counter. The stress of the dinner rush instantly melted from her face, replaced by a brilliant, radiant smile.
"Aerion!" Ysolda laughed softly, quickly setting the wooden trenchers down on the bar.
She didn't care about the flour on her apron or the dozens of patrons watching. She leaned across the wide wooden counter and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. Aerion returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her slightly off the floor, entirely unbothered by the grease and the flour transferring to his expensive dark robes.
"It seems your business is going rather well," Aerion remarked warmly as he set her back down, his golden eyes sweeping over the packed tavern.
"Well is a vast understatement," Ysolda breathed, shaking her head in sheer disbelief. Her eyes were alight with the thrill of unimaginable profit. "Aerion, it's absolute madness. The recipes you gave me... they are a phenomenon. The guards are spending half their weekly wages here. The Battle-Borns ordered ten of the 'pizzas' for a private gathering last night. We are making more coin in a single afternoon than we used to make in a week!"
"I told you the locals would appreciate a change in their diet," Aerion smiled, highly pleased with her success. "And what of the structural expansions? Is the basement below the kitchens still under construction, or have they finished excavating?"
Ysolda wiped a smudge of flour from her cheek, her mercantile pragmatism returning.
"It should be finished soon," Ysolda reported, pouring him a goblet of spiced wine and sliding it across the counter. "The stonemasons are moving a bit slower than I anticipated, but that is entirely my fault. I managed to haggle their labor contract down to a vastly cheaper price, so they are taking their time with the structural supports. But the space is dug out."
Aerion accepted the wine with a nod. "A wise negotiation. Cost efficiency is paramount in any expansion. I will be leaving the city shortly, but upon my return, I expect the room will be finished."
Ysolda frowned slightly, leaning against the counter. "Leaving again so soon? You only just returned from the whatever it is you're doing."
"The burdens of a military commission," Aerion explained smoothly, keeping his voice low enough to avoid eavesdroppers. "I must ride for Solitude immediately. I need to formally report the success of my 'task' at Fort Greymoor to General Tullius and Legate Rikke. After I deliver the intelligence, I will likely receive another assignment before I am cleared to return to Whiterun."
He took a sip of the wine, formulating his next logistical step.
"By the time I return," Aerion continued, "the basement should be finished and stand tall. I intend to utilize a specific, localized application of frost magic to permanently lower the ambient temperature of the room. It will serve as a massive, refrigerated storage unit. You will be able to bulk buy meats, cheeses, and vegetables without any fear of them rotting, drastically lowering your overhead costs."
Ysolda's eyes widened at the sheer brilliance of the idea. A permanently cold storage room was unheard of outside of the freezing holds of Winterhold or the Pale.
"You never stop calculating, do you?" Ysolda murmured affectionately. She reached across the counter, squeezing his hand. Her smile faded slightly, replaced by genuine concern. "Just... be careful on the road to Solitude, Aerion. The roads are growing more dangerous every day, and if the there's a dragons attacked yo uwhile you aren't with the Dragonborn..."
"I am always careful, my dear," Aerion promised, pressing a warm kiss to her knuckles. "Keep the fires burning. I will return before you know it."
With a final, lingering look, Aerion turned and navigated his way back out through the crowded tavern.
He passed through the towering main gates of Whiterun, descending the path to the stables. Revan was waiting, fully rested and eager to run. Aerion mounted the massive warhorse and spurred him into a hard gallop, crossing the golden tundra back toward his fortified estate.
When the heavy wooden gates of the homestead swung open to admit him, Aerion did not dismount to rest. He rode directly into the center of the courtyard, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of the mercenaries and the distant trumpeting of the mammoths.
"Lydia! Jenassa!" Aerion commanded.
The pair of housecarl and bodyguard emerged immediately from the main house, already clad in the heavy ebony armor and glass boots he had provided them earlier that day.
"Saddle your horses," Aerion ordered briskly. "You are following me to Solitude. We ride immediately."
Neither woman hesitated or questioned the sudden departure. They moved with crisp, military efficiency, heading straight for the stables to prep their mounts. Aeloria and Valdemar stepped out onto the porch, looking surprised by the sudden activity.
Aerion guided Revan over to the Dragonborn. He looked down at her, his golden eyes serious.
"Aeloria, Valdemar," Aerion addressed them, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "The two of you better remain here at the homestead. Do not go wandering into the plains, and do not seek out any local crypts while I am gone. Your priority is to rest your bodies, integrate the draconic knowledge you have gained, and help Captain Sinmir keep this estate absolutely secure."
Aeloria nodded firmly. "Understood, Aerion. The walls will not fall while you are gone."
"If Sinmir asks of my whereabouts," Aerion added, ensuring his chain of command was informed, "tell him I have gone to the capital to handle some Imperial legion matters."
With his final instructions delivered, Aerion turned Revan back toward the open gates. Lydia and Jenassa rode up beside him, their weapons secured and their faces set in masks of professional focus.
"We ride hard," Aerion declared.
They tore out of the estate and onto the main cobblestone highway. The journey to Solitude was a brutal, grueling test of endurance. They did not stop to rest, and they did not stop to eat. They utilized the vast, inexhaustible pools of stamina provided by their recent magical and physical augmentations to push their horses to the absolute limit.
They tore through the sweeping, golden plains of Whiterun, plunged into the freezing, mist choked swamps of Hjaalmarch, and finally ascended the steep, treacherous mountain passes of the Pale.
By the time the sprawling, majestic stone arches of Solitude appeared on the horizon, the sun had already dipped below the jagged western peaks, casting the capital city in the deep, shadowy hues of early evening.
They left their exhausted, lathered horses in the care of Geimund at the Solitude Stables, paying him handsomely to ensure the beasts were rubbed down and fed warm oats.
Aerion led his two retainers up the steep, winding stone ramp that served as the primary artery into the city. The heavy iron gates of Solitude were open, but heavily guarded by a dozen Imperial Legionnaires.
However, the moment the checkpoint captain saw the towering High Elf in his dark robes, flanked by two heavily armored enforcers, he immediately recognized the man who had walked out of Castle Dour with an unprecedented field commission days prior.
"Tribune," the captain saluted sharply, stepping aside and gesturing for his men to clear the path. "Welcome back to the capital."
Aerion returned the salute with a crisp, effortless motion, never breaking his stride. They walked through the bustling, torch lit streets of Solitude, bypassing the taverns and the merchant stalls, heading directly for the towering, imposing stone fortress of Castle Dour.
The military headquarters was swarming with activity, even in the evening. Messengers sprinted through the courtyard, and the rhythmic clatter of training swords echoed from the lower barracks.
The guards at the heavy oak doors of the main keep recognized him instantly, pulling the doors wide to admit the Tribune and his vanguard.
Aerion navigated the torch lit corridors with familiar ease, leading his team directly into the primary strategic nerve center of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim, the war room.
The massive, vaulted chamber was thick with tension and the smell of burning pine pitch. In the center of the room, gathered around the sprawling, highly detailed parchment map of the province, was the supreme command of the Imperial army.
Legate Rikke stood at the head of the table, her hands planted firmly on the wood, her face a mask of fierce, exhausted concentration. Beside her stood two other high ranking Legates, seasoned veterans in gleaming heavy armor, pointing at various troop markers near the borders of the Rift.
And standing at the far end of the table, looking incredibly tired but sharply focused, was General Tullius.
As Aerion, Jenassa, and Lydia stepped through the archway, the low, intense murmuring of the strategy session instantly ceased.
Aerion stopped just inside the room. He straightened his posture, bringing his right fist sharply across his chest in a flawless, textbook Imperial salute.
"General. Legates," Aerion greeted them, his melodic voice carrying the absolute, confident authority of his rank.
Legate Rikke and the other two commanding officers immediately ceased their debate, turning to face him. They brought their fists to their breastplates, returning the salute with crisp military precision. It was a stark, undeniable confirmation of his accepted status within the high command.
General Tullius, however, did not salute. As the Supreme Military Governor of Skyrim, he simply nodded, his sharp eyes locking onto the High Elf.
"Tribune Aerion," Tullius addressed him, his rough voice echoing in the quiet room. "You have finally returned. Have you concluded the task assigned to you by Legate Rikke?"
Aerion stepped forward, approaching the map table. He moved with the smooth, unhurried grace of a predator, projecting absolute confidence. "I have, General," Aerion reported cleanly, without preamble. "Fort Greymoor has been entirely cleared of the bandit groups and the rogue wizards who lives there. The fortress is secure. Furthermore, as ordered, I delivered the keys personally to Jarl Balgruuf in Dragonsreach right after that."
_____________________________
[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 710/710 Stamina: 740/740 Magicka: 950/950
Level: 200
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 73/91/70), Restoration (Healing(+2)/Purify(+2)) (Level 50/75), Alteration (Level 35), Illusion (Level 50), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/90), Persuasion(+2) (Level 19), Smithing (Level 57), Sneak(+1) (Level 33), One Handed(+1) (Level 72), Two Handed (Level 81), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 72), Enchanting(+1) (Level 23), Light Armor(+2) (Level 0), Block (Level 70), & Pickpocket (Level 8)
Shouts: Fus Roh Dah (Force Balance Push), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim Zii Gron (Fade Spirit Bind), Su (Air), Laas (Life), Yol Toor (Fire Inferno), Kaan (Kyne), & Zul Mey Gut (Voice Fool Far)
[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, Elven Dagger, Potion of Healing, Gold Emerald Circlet, Scroll of Fire Storm, Iron Garnet Circlet, Iron Sapphire Circlet, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Glass Boots, Dwarven Sword, Dwarven Shield, Wuuthrad's Fragments, Krosis's Mask, Staff of Fireball, Nordic Carved Armor Of Health, Nordic Carved Gauntlets Of Splinter, & Nordic Carved Boots Of Weight
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: 113.21 KG / 670 KG
Septims: 81,082