If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, 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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"I will deeply consider it, Aerion. Thank you," Aeloria nodded, a genuine, warm smile returning to her ash stained face. "But let us focus on reaching Riverwood first. I would kill a frost troll for a warm meal and a bath." Hadvar nodded, turning toward the descending mountain path. Agreed. Stay close. It's a long walk down."
The adrenaline that had violently propelled them through the burning ruins of Helgen and the suffocating darkness of the subterranean keep finally began to ebb. As they stood, on the rocky plateau overlooking the sprawling, forested valley, the sheer, crushing weight of physical and psychological exhaustion crashed down upon the group.
Hadvar led the way, his iron boots scraping heavily against the loose gravel as he began the steep, winding descent down the mountain path. The young Imperial soldier kept his hand resting cautiously on the pommel of his sword, his eyes constantly darting toward the sky, half expecting the black silhouette of the World-Eater to blot out the sun once more.
Behind him, the reality of the apocalypse was settling harshly upon the civilians.
Haming, the young boy who had watched his home burn to cinders and his parents vanish into the inferno, had completely shut down. The bay was no longer crying;l, he was trapped in a hollow, wide eyed state of profound clinical shock. He stumbled over the exposed tree roots, his small legs simply lacking the physical stamina to navigate the treacherous, descending alpine terrain.
Froki Whetted-Blade, recognizing his grandson's total collapse, had scooped the boy up. The old hunter hoisted Haming onto his back, carrying him piggyback style.
In his youth, Froki had been a seasoned adventurer and a hardened mercenary who could march for days across the frozen tundras of the Pale with a full pack. But those days were decades behind him.
His joints were stiff, his lungs were burning from the smoke inhalation, and the sheer, dead weight of the traumatized child was rapidly draining his meager reserves. Within twenty minutes of walking, Froki's face was flushed a dangerous crimson, his breathing reduced to harsh, ragged wheezes, and his knees trembled precariously with every downward step.
Aerion, walking smoothly near the rear of the column, observed the old man's rapidly deteriorating physical state.
His hyper-analytical transmigrator mind instantly calculated the social variables. He saw Aeloria, the Dragonborn, watching Froki with deep concern. She was already adjusting her stride, clearly preparing to step forward and offer to carry the boy herself.
Aerion could not let that happen. Allowing the exhausted, newly freed prisoner to bear the physical burden while he, a towering, perfectly healthy High Elf, walked unburdened would shatter the benevolent, noble persona he was meticulously constructing.
This was an absolutely flawless, low cost opportunity to secure a massive amount of goodwill and trust from the civilians, the Imperial soldier, and, most importantly, the Dragonborn.
Aerion accelerated his pace seamlessly, stepping in front of Aeloria just a fraction of a second before she could speak.
"Froki," Aerion called out softly, his melodic voice cutting through the old man's ragged panting. "Stop for a moment."
The old hunter stopped, leaning heavily against a thick pine tree, his chest heaving. He looked at the High Elf with deeply ingrained suspicion.
"Allow me to carry the boy," Aerion offered, stepping close and extending his arms. His tone was perfectly calibrated to project warmth and absolute reliability. "The descent is treacherous, and the smoke has taxed your lungs heavily. I am fully rested, and it would be no burden to me."
Froki's immediate, instinctual reaction was a harsh, stubborn rejection. He was a proud, traditional Nord of the old blood. He deeply distrusted magic, and he harbored a lifetime of bitter, culturally ingrained prejudice against the Altmer. Accepting an act of charity from a towering, wealthy High Elf felt like a betrayal of his pride.
"I have him, Elf," Froki grunted fiercely, tightening his grip on his grandson's legs. "I've carried heavier bounties through worse storms. I don't need your charity. Or your goodwill."
Aerion did not take offense. He simply offered a calm, understanding smile, recognizing the pride of a dying breed.
"I have absolutely no doubt of your strength, Froki. You guided him safely through a dragon's fire. No one questions your fortitude," Aerion replied smoothly, perfectly preserving the old man's dignity. "But we have a long road ahead to Riverwood. If your knees buckle on this loose gravel, you both will tumble down the ravine. It is not a matter of pride, it is a matter of tactical necessity. Let me share the burden."
Froki glared at him for another tense moment. But as a sharp, agonizing cramp shot up his left calf, the stubborn Nord was finally forced to acknowledge his physical reality. He let out a long, heavy, incredibly reluctant sigh.
"Fine," Froki muttered bitterly. He gently unhooked Haming's arms from his neck. "Come here, lad. Let the tall mer carry you for a spell."
Aerion stepped smoothly forward, turning his back. He hoisted the boy up effortlessly. Haming, too traumatized to care who was carrying him, immediately wrapped his small arms around Aerion's neck and buried his soot stained face into the thick, dark fabric of the High Elf's robes.
To Aerion, the physical weight of the child was completely, utterly imperceptible. Thanks to the massive, relentless investments of attribute points into his Stamina stats, his physical density and carrying capacity were monstrous.
Carrying a small child down a mountain path required exactly zero effort. He adjusted his posture, settling the boy comfortably, and resumed his walk with absolutely flawless, aristocratic grace.
As he fell back into the marching formation, Jenassa smoothly glided to his side. The Dark Elf assassin looked deeply offended by the sight of her immensely powerful, obscenely wealthy employer acting as a pack mule for a human peasant child.
"Patron," Jenassa whispered, her gravelly voice dropping so low that only his sensitive elven ears could pick it up. "This is entirely beneath your station. Give the child to me. I have the endurance to carry him to the Cyrodiilic border without breaking a sweat."
Aerion didn't look at her. He simply shook his head a single, barely perceptible fraction of an inch, shooting her a silent, commanding glance that explicitly ordered her to drop the subject entirely.
Jenassa clicked her tongue softly, stepping back into her overwatch position, recognizing that the Patron was playing a complex social game she did not fully comprehend.
A few minutes later, Aeloria slowed her pace, dropping back from her position near Hadvar to walk shoulder to shoulder with Aerion.
The female Nord looked at the towering Altmer, watching how carefully he supported the sleeping child on his back. The soot and ash still smeared across her war painted cheeks could not hide the profound, genuine surprise and respect shining in her bright blue eyes.
"Thank you for doing that, Aerion," Aeloria said softly, ensuring her voice didn't wake the boy. "The old mand Froki was too proud to admit he was collapsing. He wouldn't have made it to the river."
"It is a trivial expenditure of energy on my part, Aeloria," Aerion replied mildly, keeping his gaze focused on the winding dirt path ahead. "A community survives by sharing its burdens. The old man has suffered enough today."
Aeloria studied his flawless, golden profile for a long moment. She was a woman of Skyrim, raised on the harsh, bitter stories of the Great War and the brutal, ongoing atrocities committed by the Thalmor Justiciars.
"I have to admit," Aeloria murmured, her tone a mixture of curiosity and honest reflection. "I have never, in my entire life, heard of a High Elf willingly doing something like this. Lowering themselves to carry a dirty, orphaned Nord child. Even before the Great War started and the Thalmor began dragging people from their homes... your kind have always possessed a reputation for profound, icy arrogance. You are... remarkably different from the stories."
Aerion turned his head slightly, offering her a warm, highly disarming smile. It was exactly the reaction he had engineered.
"The stories you hear in the taverns are written by politicians and generals, Aeloria. They deal in broad, hateful strokes because it makes it easier to wage war," Aerion explained, his voice smooth and deeply philosophical. "The Thalmor do not represent the entirety of the Altmer race, just as the xenophobic zealots of the Stormcloak rebellion do not represent the entirety of the Nordic people. I abandoned the crystal towers of the Summerset Isles precisely because I found their rigid, supremacist ideology to be suffocating and inherently flawed. I prefer to judge individuals by their actions, not their pointed ears."
Aeloria nodded slowly, fully absorbing the sentiment. The deep, ingrained prejudices she had harbored were actively crumbling, replaced by a deep, solidifying foundation of trust and respect for the mage.
They continued their descent in relative silence, the dense pine forest slowly beginning to thin out as they reached the bottom of the mountain pass. The rushing, white water roar of the White River began to echo through the trees.
They reached the valley floor, stepping out onto the main cobblestone trade road that wound its way along the riverbanks.
As they walked past the massive monoliths of the Guardian Stones, where Aerion had absorbed his absolute mastery just hours before, Hadvar finally broke the grim silence.
The young Imperial soldier looked back toward the jagged peaks of the Jeralls, his expression deeply troubled.
"I pray to the Eight that General Tullius made it out of the keep," Hadvar muttered, his voice heavy with anxiety. "The possibility is incredibly slim. He was standing right in the open courtyard when the beast began dropping those burning boulders from the sky. But we desperately need him to be alive. He is the only military commander in this province who possesses the strategic brilliance to handle a crisis of this magnitude."
Aerion remained entirely silent, his face a mask of neutral contemplation.
Internally, his transmigrator mind was running a massive, highly complex series of tactical simulations.
In the original, scripted vanilla timeline of the game, General Tullius absolutely survived the attack on Helgen. He managed to escape the inferno and return to Castle Dour in Solitude to continue directing the civil war.
But Aerion knew, with terrifying certainty, that he was no longer playing a scripted game. This was a living, breathing, highly volatile reality. His very presence in the execution square, shielding Aeloria, blocking Ralof, and incinerating the rebel squads in the keep, had already caused massive, undeniable butterfly effects.
If General Tullius died in the courtyard today... the political ramifications for the entire continent are catastrophic, Aerion calculated coldly.
If Tullius fell, the Imperial Legion in Skyrim would instantly fracture into disorganized, isolated garrisons. The Stormcloaks would sweep across the province unopposed. And worse, the Emperor in Cyrodiil would undoubtedly dispatch a replacement General.
Tullius was a pragmatic, brilliant tactician who understood the nuances of Skyrim. He tolerated local customs to maintain peace, Aerion analyzed. If the Emperor sends a hardline, fundamentalist commander to replace him, someone who decides to raze Whiterun simply for remaining neutral, my entire mercantile empire could be caught in the crossfire.
"I share your hopes, Hadvar," Aerion finally spoke, his tone grave. "A sudden vacuum in the highest echelon of the Imperial command structure, while an ancient god of destruction roams the skies, would plunge this entire province into absolute, irrevocable anarchy. We must hope the General's tactical instincts saved him."
They continued their weary march following the winding curves of the White River. The sun climbed high into the sky, passing noon, casting bright, warm light across the valley that felt entirely disconnected from the horrors they had witnessed at dawn.
Finally, the dense forest cleared, revealing the picturesque, isolated lumber town of Riverwood. The massive wooden waterwheel churned steadily in the river, completely untouched by the apocalypse occurring just a few miles away.
As the group approached the small stone bridge leading into the town, they were intercepted.
Standing guard at the entrance were two Whiterun Hold guards, clad in their iconic yellow tabards and chainmail. They lowered their halberds as the group approached, their eyes widening in surprise at the bizarre, utterly filthy procession.
Aerion's immaculate robes were scorched and smeared with ash. Jenassa's armor was covered in soot. Hadvar's Imperial tabard was burned, and Aeloria, Froki, and Haming looked as though they had just crawled out of a coal mine.
"Halt!" the lead guard commanded, stepping forward with an authoritative frown. "What in the name of Oblivion happened to all of you? You look like you've been dragged through a forge fire. State your business in Riverwood."
Hadvar immediately stepped to the front of the group. He didn't hesitate; he invoked his absolute military authority.
"I am Hadvar, soldier of the Imperial Legion," Hadvar declared, his voice firm, though his exhaustion was evident. He gestured to his scorched armor. "There has been an incident of catastrophic, absolute military emergency at the southern border. Helgen is gone. We are survivors. These are my companions. We require immediate shelter and a place to rest. I intend to visit my uncle, Alvor the blacksmith, and tomorrow we will proceed directly to Whiterun to deliver our intelligence to the Jarl."
The Whiterun guards exchanged a quick, highly uncomfortable glance.
In the current political climate, Whiterun remained fiercely neutral. The guards were explicitly instructed by Jarl Balgruuf to avoid entangling themselves in Imperial or Stormcloak business unless it directly threatened the hold.
Hearing a Legion soldier declare a "catastrophic military emergency" at the border was exactly the kind of massive, geopolitical headache they desperately wanted to avoid.
The lead guard cleared his throat, deliberately adopting a stance of bureaucratic apathy. He didn't ask what destroyed Helgen. He simply didn't want to know.
"Right. Legion business. Say no more," the guard muttered, lifting his halberd and stepping aside. "You can pass, soldier. Go see your uncle. But I'm warning you and your... diverse company. Keep your heads down. We don't want any Imperial trouble spilling over into our streets. Don't cause a mess."
"We seek only rest," Hadvar nodded tightly.
They crossed the stone bridge, entering the quiet, peaceful streets of Riverwood.
As they walked past the Sleeping Giant Inn, a sudden, frantic commotion drew their attention.
Standing in the center of the dirt road was an elderly woman named Hilde. She was pointing a trembling, wrinkled finger toward the southern sky, her voice shrill with absolute panic.
"A dragon! I saw a dragon!" Hilde shrieked, grabbing the sleeve of anyone who walked past. "It was as big as the mountain, and black as night! It flew right over the valley!"
Standing beside her, looking profoundly embarrassed, was her son, Sven the local bard. He was desperately trying to gently pull his mother back toward their house.
"Mother, please, calm down," Sven sighed, rubbing his temples in exasperation. "You're making a scene. There are no dragons. You just saw a large shadow. It was probably a stray cloud, or a flock of birds flying close together. You're hallucinating again."
"I am not crazy! It was a dragon, I tell you!" Hilde cried, swatting her son's hands away.
Hadvar paused, watching the exchange with a hollow, haunted look in his eyes. He opened his mouth to validate the old woman's terror, to scream to the entire town that she was absolutely right and the world was ending.
But Aerion placed a firm hand on the soldier's shoulder, silently shaking his head. Inciting a mass panic in an unfortified lumber town would serve absolutely zero tactical purpose. They needed to secure a secure location first.
Hadvar swallowed hard, nodding, and led the group further down the street until they reached the open-air forge of the local blacksmith.
Standing before the roaring fire, hammering a glowing iron ingot upon his anvil, was Alvor. The burly, balding Nord blacksmith was a pillar of the community, known for his honest work and even temper.
"Uncle Alvor!" Hadvar called out, his voice cracking slightly with relief at the sight of familiar blood.
Alvor stopped mid swing. He lowered his heavy iron hammer, wiping the sweat from his brow, and turned toward the street.
When he saw his nephew, the blacksmith's jaw dropped. He took in the scorched Imperial armor, the soot stained face, and the sheer, hollow exhaustion radiating from the young man.
"Hadvar?" Alvor gasped, dropping his tongs onto the workbench. He rushed forward, gripping his nephew's shoulders tightly. "By the Gods, boy, what happened to you? You look like you've been through the belly of Oblivion! I thought you were assigned to the garrison in Helgen?"
"I was, Uncle," Hadvar replied, his voice barely a whisper. "Helgen is gone. We barely made it out alive. Can we... can we please talk inside? And can my friends come in? We are desperately exhausted."
Alvor looked past his nephew for the first time, truly registering the bizarre, filthy procession standing in the street.
The blacksmith's brow furrowed in profound confusion and mild alarm. A towering, wealthy High Elf carrying a traumatized Nord child. A lethal looking Dark Elf assassin. An old hunter, and a fierce looking woman in stolen, mismatched Imperial light armor. It was an incredibly suspicious group to be wandering into a quiet town.
But as Alvor looked at the small, soot stained boy sleeping on the Altmer's back, his inherent Nordic hospitality and basic human decency overrode his suspicion.
"Of course. By Shor, of course you can," Alvor nodded quickly, gesturing toward the heavy wooden door of his home. "Come inside, all of you. Get out of the cold. Quickly now."
They filed into the warm, slightly cramped interior of the blacksmith's house. The air smelled of roasting meat, polished wood, and the faint tang of hot iron.
Alvor quickly shut and bolted the door behind them. He walked to the center of the room, raising his voice.
"Sigrid! Dorthe! Come up here, quickly!" Alvor called out. "We have visitors, and they need help!"
Heavy footsteps echoed from the basement stairs. Sigrid, Alvor's stern but kind-hearted wife, emerged into the main room, followed closely by their young daughter, Dorthe.
"Visitors? Alvor, who in the world—" Sigrid began, wiping her hands on her apron. She froze halfway across the room. Her hands flew to her mouth in shock as she took in the scorched, filthy state of her nephew and the strange company he had brought into her home.
"Hadvar! Oh, you poor boy, what has happened to you?" Sigrid gasped, rushing forward to embrace him, completely ignoring the ash and soot.
Aerion gently knelt down, transferring the still-sleeping Haming from his back to a soft fur rug near the roaring hearth fire. Froki immediately sat down heavily beside his grandson, letting out a long, shuddering groan of relief as he finally rested his aching bones.
"Sit. Everyone, sit down," Alvor commanded, pulling wooden chairs from the dining table. He turned to his wife. "Sigrid, fetch some ale and whatever meat is left from the stew. They need food."
As Sigrid hurried to the pantry, returning moments later with heavy wooden flagons of ale and plates of cold roast beef and bread, the group eagerly descended upon the food.
They ate in ravenous, exhausted silence for several minutes.
Once the immediate edge of starvation was blunted, Alvor sat down heavily across from his nephew, his face deadly serious.
"Alright, Hadvar. Tell me," Alvor demanded softly. "What happened at Helgen? Was it a Stormcloak raid? Did Ulfric's men breach the walls?"
Hadvar set his flagon down. He stared into the dancing flames of the hearth, his eyes distant and haunted.
"It wasn't the Stormcloaks, Uncle," Hadvar began, his voice trembling as he forced himself to recount the nightmare. "We had them. General Tullius ambushed them at Darkwater Crossing. We had Ulfric himself in chains. We had him on the chopping block in the courtyard. The war was literally seconds away from ending."
Alvor and Sigrid gasped collectively, entirely stunned by the sheer magnitude of the political revelation.
"Then... what happened?" Alvor pressed.
"A dragon happened," Hadvar stated flatly, looking his uncle dead in the eyes.
Absolute, stunned silence fell over the cozy house.
"A dragon?" Sigrid whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Hadvar, surely you don't mean..."
"A real, living, breathing dragon, Aunt Sigrid," Hadvar confirmed, his voice rising in panic as he relived the memory. "As big as a giant, with scales as black as pitch. It came tearing out of the sky. It breathed a fire so hot it melted the cobblestones. It ripped the stone towers apart like they were made of parchment. The Imperial archers couldn't pierce its hide. The battlemages couldn't burn it. It slaughtered the garrison. Helgen is completely, utterly gone. It's just a smoking crater in the mountains now."
Dorthe, standing safely behind her mother's skirt, suddenly peeked out. Unlike the adults, who were paralyzed by existential terror, the young girl's eyes were wide with innocent, unfiltered awe.
"A real dragon?!" Dorthe squeaked excitedly. "Like in the stories?! Did it have giant teeth? Did it roar?"
"Dorthe, hush!" Alvor barked sharply, instantly silencing the girl. The blacksmith's face had drained of all color. He looked from his traumatized nephew to the solemn faces of his companions.
The reality of the situation crashed down upon the blacksmith with terrifying clarity.
"By the Eight," Alvor breathed, rubbing his face with his thick hands. "If what you say is true, Hadvar... if a dragon has actually returned and destroyed a fortified military keep... then Riverwood is completely defenseless. We don't even have a wall. If that beast decides to fly down this valley, it will burn us all to ash in our beds."
Alvor stood up, pacing frantically across the wooden floorboards.
"The Jarl needs to know," Alvor declared, his voice tight with urgency. "Jarl Balgruuf has to be warned immediately. He needs to send troops. He needs to prepare Whiterun for an attack."
Aerion, who had been sitting quietly near the hearth, sipping his ale, recognized the perfect moment to interject and steer the narrative.
He set his flagon down on the table with a soft, authoritative thud.
"I entirely agree with your assessment, Master Alvor," Aerion spoke, his melodic, calming voice instantly drawing the attention of the panicked room. "Jarl Balgruuf must be informed of this catastrophe with the absolute highest urgency. The defense of the hold relies entirely upon the speed of this intelligence."
Aerion stood up smoothly, his towering height instantly dominating the small room. He looked at Hadvar, Aeloria, and the exhausted old hunter.
"However," Aerion continued, projecting an aura of boundless, benevolent wisdom. "Before anyone marches the remaining miles to Whiterun, this group desperately requires rest. They have survived a dragon fire, navigated a collapsing subterranean keep, fought through an ambush, and marched down a mountain. If they attempt to push forward now, they will collapse on the tundra."
He turned his golden eyes directly to Alvor.
"Your hospitality is profoundly appreciated, Master Alvor," Aerion stated respectfully. "But your home is not equipped to house a half dozen exhausted refugees. It is entirely too much to ask of your family. Therefore, for this afternoon and the coming night, I suggest we relocate."
Aerion reached into his robes, producing a heavy, clinking leather pouch.
"Hadvar, you should absolutely remain here with your blood kin," Aerion commanded smoothly. "But as for myself, Jenassa, Lady Aeloria, Haming, and Froki... we shall secure rooms at the Sleeping Giant Inn down the street. I will personally cover the entire cost of the lodgings, the hot baths, and the evening meals. We will rest today, and tomorrow at first light, we shall ride for Dragonsreach to deliver the warning."
Hadvar stood up quickly, shaking his head. "Aerion, are you certain? You have already done so much for us today. You don't need to spend your gold on us. My uncle could easily clear some space in the basement, and the rest could..."
"Nonsense," Alvor interrupted, though he looked deeply relieved by the High Elf's offer. The blacksmith simply didn't have the floor space to house them all comfortably. "If the Elf is willing to pay for the inn, it's the best option for everyone to get a proper sleep. The beds at the Sleeping Giant are softer than my floorboards."
Aerion smiled warmly, completely shutting down any further debate. "It is settled, then. I will not hear another word of protest."
Sitting by the hearth, old Froki looked up at the towering Altmer. The bitter, stubborn pride that had defined the old man was entirely gone, burned away by the events of the day and the undeniable, continuous kindness the mage had displayed.
"You are a good man, Elf," Froki rasped, his voice thick with genuine emotion. "You saved my boy. You carried him when I couldn't. I... I owe you a debt I can never repay. Thank you."
Aeloria stood up from her chair, stepping close to Aerion. She placed a hand over her heart, offering a deep, deeply respectful bow of her head.
"You have given me my life, my freedom, and now a warm bed," Aeloria said softly, her blue eyes locked onto his golden ones. "I do not know how I will ever balance this ledger, Aerion. But you have my eternal gratitude."
Aerion's Gamer mind hummed with absolute, total satisfaction. The hooks were set flawlessly. He had just secured the undying loyalty of the Dragonborn.
"Think nothing of it, Aeloria. We are all survivors today," Aerion replied smoothly, offering a charming, modest smile.
He turned toward the door, sweeping his scorched, dark cloak over his shoulders.
"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.
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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 47), 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: 77,555