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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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"Come, Jenassa. Aeloria, Froki," Aerion commanded gently. "Let us leave this family to their reunion. The soft beds of the inn await." They said their final, heartfelt goodbyes to Hadvar and the blacksmith's family, pushing the heavy wooden door open and stepping back out into the bright, deceptively peaceful afternoon sun of Riverwood.
The crisp, late afternoon air of Riverwood did little to alleviate the heavy, crushing exhaustion that hung over the group. Leaving the warm, cozy confines of Alvor's blacksmith home, Aerion led the bizarre, ash stained procession down the dirt road toward the center of the lumber town.
Froki Whetted-Blade hobbled quietly, holding his traumatized grandson Haming firmly by the hand, while Aeloria walked with a quiet, observant grace, the stolen Imperial Light Armor creaking slightly with her steps.
They reached the large, sturdy wooden building nestled near the edge of the town square. The painted wooden sign above the door, depicting a restful giant, swung gently in the alpine breeze.
Aerion pushed the heavy oak doors open, stepping into the dim, smoke scented interior of the Sleeping Giant Inn.
Given the late hour of the afternoon, the taproom was relatively sparse. Only a couple of local lumberjacks were nursing flagons of mead in the corner booths, exhausted from their shifts at the mill. However, the moment Aerion and his companions crossed the threshold, the quiet ambient chatter in the room instantly died.
The locals stared openly. It was impossible not to.
They were an incredibly jarring, highly suspicious ensemble. A towering, immaculately dressed High Elf whose dark robes were singed with ash, a heavily armed, lethal looking Dark Elf assassin, a fierce Nordic woman clad in Imperial Legion armor, an old hunter, and a shell shocked child. And trotting faithfully beside the High Elf was a vibrating, cinnamon red fox. In a quiet, isolated town like Riverwood, they looked like a traveling circus that had just walked through a warzone.
Aerion completely ignored the wide eyed stares. He maintained his flawless, aristocratic composure, walking purposefully toward the main bar counter.
Standing behind the polished wood, methodically wiping down the surface with a damp rag, was a burly, balding Nord man with a thick mustache and a perpetually bored expression.
The innkeeper looked up, his eyes sweeping over the strange group without an ounce of intimidation.
"Welcome to the Sleeping Giant," the Nord greeted, his voice a slow, monotone rumble that suggested he had seen it all and cared about none of it. "I'm Orgnar. I run the bar and the kitchen. How can I help you folks? Assuming the High Elf and the Dark Elf aren't here to start a tavern brawl."
Aerion offered a smooth, polite smile, resting his hands casually on the counter.
"Good afternoon, Orgnar. I am Aerion," he introduced himself smoothly, his melodic voice contrasting sharply with the innkeeper's gruff tone. "I can absolutely assure you, we seek no trouble. We have been traveling hard from the southern border and merely require a place to rest our weary bones for the day. How many private rooms do you have available for rent?"
Orgnar paused his wiping, scratching his thick chin as he mentally calculated the inn's capacity.
"We've got about six rooms total in the back hall," Orgnar replied flatly. "And from the looks of it, that should be more than enough for your lot. It's a slow Morndas. Nobody else has rented a bed today."
"Excellent," Aerion nodded, highly pleased by the absolute lack of logistical friction.
He reached into his dark robes, accessing the vast, digital wealth of his spatial void. He isolated a small stack of golden coins, pulling them into his physical grasp with a soft clink.
"We shall require five rooms for the night, Orgnar," Aerion requested, placing the heavy gold coins onto the polished wood.
Orgnar grunted in approval, scooping the fifty septims off the counter with practiced ease. He reached under the bar, retrieving a heavy iron ring holding several brass keys. He detached five of them, sliding them across the wood toward the High Elf.
"Five rooms. Down the hall to your left," Orgnar instructed, pocketing the gold. Then, he turned his head toward the heavy wooden door leading to the inn's private quarters and raised his voice to a loud, lazy shout.
"Delphine! Get out here!"
The moment that specific name hit Aerion's ears, the atmosphere in the room seemed to violently shift.
Delphine.
Deep within the recesses of Aerion's transmigrated soul, his 'Gamer' mind, the consciousness of the man who had played Skyrim for thousands of hours in a past life, suddenly, violently flared with an intense, unadulterated spike of absolute annoyance.
To any veteran player of the game, Delphine was notorious. She was paranoid, demanding, overwhelmingly arrogant, and ultimately responsible for one of the most universally despised ultimatums in gaming history, the demand to execute Paarthurnax, the ancient dragon who helped save humanity.
The sheer, overwhelming urge to simply draw the Black Prism and violently yeet the Grandmaster of the Blades through the front window of the inn practically burned in Aerion's veins.
But Aerion was no longer a player sitting behind a screen. He was an Altmer living in a highly volatile, completely real universe.
He took a slow, deep, perfectly controlled breath. He engaged his absolute, flawless elven discipline, ruthlessly suppressing the gamer's irrational rage and burying it deep beneath his cold, calculating aristocratic persona. He could not afford to cause a scene or assassinate a key geopolitical variable in the middle of a crowded tavern.
The heavy wooden door to the right of the counter swung open.
Stepping out into the taproom was a middle aged Nord woman. She wore simple, practical tavern clothes, her brown hair pulled back in a severe, no nonsense bun. Her face was sharp, her eyes deeply calculating and perpetually guarded. Aerion recognized her physical features instantly, the reality of her face was a hauntingly accurate, high definition mirror of the graphical model he remembered.
"What is it, Orgnar?" Delphine snapped, her tone sharp and impatient. "Why are you yelling? I was checking the ledger."
Orgnar didn't even flinch at her sharp tone. He simply pointed a lazy thumb toward Aerion's group.
"Got a large group here renting out five rooms for the night," Orgnar drawled. "Just wanted to ask if the back rooms have actually been cleaned up yet."
Delphine crossed her arms over her chest, letting out a harsh, deeply annoyed snort.
"Of course they've been cleaned, you idiot," Delphine fired back, rolling her eyes. "You were the one who swept the floors and changed the linens this morning. Did you completely forget doing your own chores?"
Orgnar blinked, a look of profound, blank realization washing over his face. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Huh. Really?" Orgnar muttered, entirely unfazed by the insult. "I suppose I did. Must have slipped my mind."
Aerion stood at the counter, watching the utterly mundane, bizarrely domestic squabble between the secret Grandmaster of the Blades and her clueless bartender. He had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from letting out an amused chuckle and shaking his head. It was surreal.
"Thank you, Orgnar. Delphine," Aerion interrupted smoothly, gathering the five brass keys from the counter.
He turned back to his exhausted companions. He handed one key to Jenassa, one to Froki, one to Haming, and one to Aeloria, keeping the last one for himself.
"Get some rest," Aerion commanded softly. "We will reconvene in the morning."
Aeloria offered him a silent, deeply grateful nod before turning toward the hallway. Froki, practically dragging his feet from sheer exhaustion, guided Haming toward his own room. Jenassa disappeared into the shadows of the corridor without a sound.
Aerion walked down the narrow, dimly lit hall, finding his designated room. He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and waited for Lupin to trot past his boots before securely locking the heavy iron deadbolt behind him.
The room was simple and rustic, but vastly more comfortable than the freezing mountain pass. He removed his singed, ash covered outer robes, draping them over a wooden chair, and sat heavily on the edge of the woolen mattress.
The sheer silence of the room was a stark contrast to the apocalyptic roar that had dominated his morning.
Aerion closed his golden eyes, but he did not sleep. His mind was a hyper active fortress of tactical analysis.
He replayed the image of Alduin the World-Eater crashing down upon the Helgen observation tower. The memory was burned into his retinas.
'I was arrogant,' Aerion admitted to himself, engaging in a cold, brutal internal audit of his own power scaling. 'I absorbed the absolute mastery of three Guardian Stones. I possess a Magicka pool that rivals the Archmage of this world. I believed I was approaching the pinnacle of this world.'
He opened his eyes, staring into the dark corner of the room.
'But that crazy first dragon... Alduin hadn't even exerted a fraction of his true, cosmic power.'
Aerion knew the lore. Alduin wasn't just a large, flying lizard that breathed fire. He was the Firstborn of Akatosh. He was the literal, metaphysical manifestation of the end of time.
When he attacked Helgen, he had merely used a standard Fire Breath shout and a highly localized Storm Call. He hadn't bothered to bend time, tear souls from bodies, or utilize the deeper, world shattering Thu'um that he possessed.
He had simply been playing with the mortals, asserting his dominance like a lion swatting at ants.
He was merely showing us how dangerous a 'normal' dragon can be, Aerion realized, a cold sweat pricking his brow. 'If I am to eventually face him, or even survive the coming dragon crisis... my current power is woefully insufficient. I must expand. I must acquire more artifacts. I must dominate the economic and magical landscape of at least Whiterun before the dragons fully mobilize.'
With his tactical objectives violently reaffirmed, the exhaustion of the day finally overwhelmed his transmigrator mind. He lay back against the pillow, Lupin curling into a warm, cinnamon red ball at his feet, and drifted into a deep, heavy slumber.
The next morning, the bright, cheerful sunlight of the Riverwood valley filtered through the small window of the inn room, completely banishing the dark thoughts of the previous night.
Aerion woke feeling entirely refreshed. The deep, ambient regeneration of his maximized Health and Stamina stats had completely eradicated the physical strain of the magical duals in the keep. He washed his face in the small basin, donned his dark robes, and unlocked the door.
Lupin darted out into the hallway, eager for breakfast.
Aerion walked out into the main taproom. Froki and Haming were already awake, sitting at a table near the hearth. The old hunter looked significantly better after a full night's sleep, and while the boy was still incredibly quiet, the hollow shock had faded from his eyes. Aeloria was sitting with them, having washed the soot from her face and re braided her brown hair, looking every bit the fierce Nordic warrior in her stolen Imperial armor.
Jenassa, however, had not yet emerged from her room.
Aerion walked up to the main counter. Orgnar was busy chopping vegetables in the back, leaving Delphine to man the front desk.
The secret Blade agent looked up, her expression a mask of bored, professional hostility. "Morning. Need something?"
Aerion stared at her, the Gamer annoyance flaring briefly before being ruthlessly suppressed.
"Breakfast, if you please," Aerion requested, his voice perfectly polite but entirely devoid of warmth. "Hot porridge, fresh bread, roasted meats, and whatever fresh juices you have available. Enough to feed five people."
Delphine crossed her arms. "That'll be forty septims. Paid upfront."
It was a blatant, unapologetic overcharge. Standard tavern fare for five people should have cost twenty, maybe twenty five septims at most. She was intentionally gouging the wealthy looking High Elf.
Aerion's jaw tightened imperceptibly. He didn't argue. He simply wanted to limit his interaction with this specific woman as much as possible. He reached into his void, producing the gold, and placed it on the counter with a heavy, begrudging thud.
"Have it brought to the table near the hearth," Aerion instructed coldly, turning away before she could speak.
He joined Aeloria and the civilians at the table. A few moments later, Delphine delivered the heavy wooden platters of food. Just as they began to eat, Jenassa finally emerged from the back hallway, her steps completely silent as she slid into the empty chair beside Aerion, grabbing a thick slice of bread without a word.
The breakfast was a quiet, necessary affair. They consumed the calories rapidly, preparing for the long march ahead.
Once the platters were empty, Aerion stood up, signaling the end of their stay.
They said their final, heartfelt goodbyes to Froki and Haming. The old hunter intended to stay in Riverwood for a few days to gather supplies before taking his grandson up to his isolated shack in the mountains. Aeloria knelt, giving the brave little boy a gentle hug, while Aerion offered Froki a final, respectful nod.
With the civilians secured, Aerion, Jenassa, Aeloria, and Lupin left the Sleeping Giant Inn, stepping out into the crisp morning air of the lumber town.
They did not have horses. Revan and Jenassa's bay mare were currently resting in the luxurious stables of the Tundra Homestead.
"We walk from here," Aerion announced, taking the absolute vanguard position at the front of the group. "Jenassa, secure the rearguard. Aeloria, stay in the center."
They left Riverwood, walking across the sturdy stone bridge that spanned the rushing White River, and officially began the long trek north toward the capital.
The journey on foot was vastly slower than riding, but it offered a chance to truly absorb the rugged, breathtaking beauty of the Skyrim landscape. They followed the winding, packed dirt path as it carved its way through the dense pine forests and rocky ravines of the lower mountains. The weather was perfect, clear blue skies and a crisp, biting wind that kept them cool as they marched.
For hours, the only sounds were the crunch of their boots on the gravel, the rushing of the river beside them, and the occasional sharp yip from Lupin as he chased butterflies off the path.
Aeloria proved to be an excellent traveling companion. She didn't complain about the pace or the long miles. She moved with the steady, enduring stamina of a woman who had spent her entire life hunting the harsh wilderness.
Finally, as the sun crossed its zenith, the dense tree line began to break. The terrain flattened out, and the horizon expanded.
They crested a final, rocky hill.
Spread out before them, a vast, breathtaking ocean of swaying golden grass, was the Whiterun Tundra. And dominating the absolute center of the plains, built upon a massive, jutting crag of solid rock, was the walled city of Whiterun. The towering, majestic wooden architecture of Dragonsreach pierced the sky, a beacon of civilization in the wild.
"There it is," Aeloria breathed, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow, clearly impressed by the sheer scale of the city.
They walked down the long, winding hill, officially entering the civilized borders of the hold. They followed the cobblestone road as it turned sharply to the left.
The signs of human industry grew rapidly. They marched past the massive, churning wooden vats of the Honningbrew Meadery, the sweet, intoxicating scent of honey and alcohol thick in the air. The road became increasingly congested.
They passed traveling merchants leading heavily burdened pack mules, Khajiit caravans setting up their tents near the city walls, and heavily armed Whiterun guards patrolling the perimeter in pairs.
They continued their march, the golden wheat fields of Pelagia's Farm rising on their left. Aerion cast a quick, highly satisfied glance toward the far eastern horizon, where the distant, massive wooden palisades of his Mammoth Farm were barely visible against the sky.
They reached the bustling Whiterun Stables, turning sharply to the right, and marched up the steep, winding stone ramp toward the massive main gates of the city.
As they approached the heavy iron portcullis, the Whiterun guards naturally stepped forward to intercept them.
The guards' eyes immediately locked onto Aeloria.
In the fiercely neutral city of Whiterun, seeing a woman marching confidently toward the gates wearing a complete set of Imperial Legion Light Armor, with an Imperial sword strapped to her hip, was a massive red flag. The guards gripped their weapons tighter, their postures stiffening.
However, Jarl Balgruuf's neutrality decree was absolute. The city was open to both Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers, provided they left the war outside the walls.
"Halt!" the guard barked, eyeing Aeloria suspiciously before looking up at the towering High Elf. "State your business in Whiterun. And be warned, Jarl Balgruuf has decreed that no hostilities will be tolerated within these walls. If you are here to recruit for the Legion, or cause trouble with the local Stormcloak sympathizers, you will be thrown in the Dragonsreach dungeons."
Aerion stepped forward, projecting calm, unbothered authority.
"We are not here to wage a war, guardsman," Aerion replied smoothly. "We are here for trade and to seek an audience with the Jarl. We fully respect the neutrality of the hold."
The guard grunted, lowering his halberd. "See that you do. Keep your blades sheathed. Move along."
They passed under the heavy iron teeth of the gate, entering the loud, chaotic, bustling atmosphere of the Plains District.
They didn't stop to browse the market stalls. Aerion led the group with absolute, relentless purpose. They marched straight through the market square, taking a sharp left to ascend the wide stone steps leading into the Wind District.
They passed the massive, ancient, dying branches of the Gildergreen tree, continuing their relentless upward climb until they reached the massive, sweeping stone bridge leading directly to the doors of the Jarl's palace.
As they approached the massive wooden doors of Dragonsreach, two elite Whiterun guards stepped forward, crossing their heavy steel halberds to block the entrance.
"Hold there," the lead guard commanded sternly. "The Jarl is currently holding court. He is not accepting petitions from common travelers today. State your business, or turn around."
Aerion did not back down. He pulled himself up to his full, towering height, engaging his Persuasion matrix to its absolute maximum, drawing upon the sheer, terrifying confidence of the three Guardian Stones he had absorbed.
"I am not a common traveler," Aerion stated, his melodic voice ringing with undeniable, aristocratic authority. "I am Aerion. I am here to deliver intelligence of the absolute highest, most critical priority directly to Jarl Balgruuf. It concerns the final establishment of the commercial mammoth enterprise outside your walls... and far more urgently, it concerns the total, catastrophic destruction of Helgen. The people with me are direct eyewitnesses to the event. The safety of this entire hold depends on the Jarl hearing this immediately. You will let us pass."
The magical persuasion hit the guards like a physical shockwave of logic and fear. The mention of Helgen's destruction, combined with the recognized name of the eccentric High Elf who was currently building a fortress in their tundra, completely shattered their bureaucratic resistance.
[Persuasion Leveled Up 6 Times! Current Level: 53]
The guards hurriedly pulled their halberds back, their eyes wide.
"R-Right away, high elf. Go right in," the guard stammered, stepping aside.
Aerion pushed the massive, heavy wooden doors of Dragonsreach open, stepping into the grand, echoing hall of the palace.
The architecture was magnificent. A massive, roaring fire trench ran down the absolute center of the great hall, casting dancing orange light across the carved wooden pillars and the high, vaulted ceiling.
To the left and right of the fire trench, sitting at long, heavily laden wooden feasting tables, were the bloated nobles and wealthy clan patriarchs of Whiterun.
The moment Aerion's distinct, dark robed figure stepped into the hall, accompanied by the heavily armed Dark Elf and the Imperial clad Nord woman, a hushed, frantic wave of whispers rippled across the tables.
Every single noble in the room turned to look at him. They didn't see just a wandering mage anymore. They saw the man who had effortlessly convinced the Jarl to sign over a massive tract of prime real estate.
They saw the man who had secured a massive loan payment, and then, completely impossibly, had actually succeeded in building a fortified mammoth farm in less than two weeks. Aerion was no longer a stranger, he was a massive, rapidly rising economic powerhouse in their city.
Aerion ignored their stares entirely, his golden eyes locked straight ahead.
He marched directly down the center of the hall, walking parallel to the roaring fire trench, until he reached the elevated wooden dais at the far end of the room.
Sitting heavily upon the carved wooden throne, looking profoundly exhausted by the endless politics of his neutral city, was Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.
Standing rigidly to the Jarl's left was Proventus Avenicci, the balding, deeply anxious Steward. Standing to the Jarl's right, her hand resting lethally on the hilt of her sword, was Irileth, the fierce Dark Elf Housecarl.
As Aerion and his heavily armed entourage approached the base of the stone steps, the ambient conversation in the great hall died completely. Jarl Balgruuf leaned forward on his throne, resting his chin on his fist. His sharp, calculating eyes locked directly onto the High Elf, while Irileth's crimson eyes narrowed suspiciously at Aeloria's Imperial armor. The court of Dragonsreach was waiting.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 430/430 Stamina: 430/430 Magicka: 600/600
Level: 108
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+2)/Lightning(+1)/Frost) (Level 74/41/98), Restoration (Healing/Purify(+1)) (Level 91/56), Alteration (Level 35), Alteration (Level 20), Illusion (Level 42), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/10), Persuasion(+1) (Level 53), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak (Level 48), One Handed (Level 93), Two Handed (Level 65), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 72), Enchanting (Level 66), Light Armor (Level 53), Block (Level 70), & Pickpocket (Level 8)
Shouts: Fus (Force), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim (Fade), & Su (Air)
[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, Dragonstone, Golden Staff of Flames, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, Orcish Dagger, Jagged Crown, The Mirror, Glass Sword, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Reanimate Corpse Tome, Staff of Lightning, Deed to Tundra Homestead, Garnet, Sapphire, Ruby, & Dawnbreaker
2x Potion Of Ultimate Magicka, Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), & Elven Sword
3x Glowing Mushrooms, Potions of Minor Stamina, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
4x Potions of Minor Magicka, Spider Eggs, & Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
5x Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
8x Iron Arrows, Ancient Nord Arrows, & Black Soul Gems (Filled)
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
Weight: 74.92 KG / 515 KG
Septims: 77,465