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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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"Valdemar, Lydia," Aerion instructed, his voice smooth and tired. "Secure our rooms and distribute the remaining rations. Tomorrow, we ride back to the central plains. We have an ancient tomb to breach." A massive, hidden smirk touched the High Elf's lips as he moved toward the warmth of the fire. The deception was flawlessly in motion. The Dragonborn would get her trial, and he would harvest the loot in Volunruud.
Valdemar and Lydia, operating with the seamless, unspoken efficiency of veteran warriors, immediately took charge of the expedition's logistics. They dropped the heavy, frost covered supply packs onto the wooden floorboards near the roaring hearth fire and began distributing the remaining provisions.
There was no grand feast tonight, their bodies were far too exhausted to process heavy meats or rich stews. They quietly consumed the last of the dense goat cheese, dried venison, and sharp Nord mead, the simple calories working quickly to refuel their burning muscles.
With their stomachs settled and the adrenaline of the Seven Thousand Steps finally bleeding completely from their systems, Aerion directed the group toward their assigned quarters.
"Rest well," Aerion instructed softly. "We ride at first light."
Aerion pushed open the heavy wooden door to the room he was to share with Valdemar. The innkeeper, Wilhelm, had not exaggerated the spartan nature of the accommodations. The room was small, drafty, and contained only a single, narrow wooden cot covered by a thin, moth eaten wool blanket.
Valdemar stepped into the room, took one look at the single bed, and immediately began unrolling his thick, heavy winter bedroll onto the hard wooden floorboards near the door.
"I shall take the floor, my Thane," Valdemar stated, his voice completely devoid of complaint, viewing the discomfort as a standard requirement of his sworn duty. "The bed is yours."
Aerion, whose transmigrator biology didn't genuinely require sleep but appreciated the comfort, offered a smooth, appreciative nod. "Your dedication is noted, Valdemar. Rest."
The night passed in absolute, profound silence.
The next morning, the pale, gray light of the Rift dawn crept through the frosty windows of the inn. Aerion was awake instantly, engaging his massive Stamina reserves to flush the lethargy from his mind. He gathered his team, dropped the three brass keys unceremoniously onto Wilhelm's counter, and led the heavily armored group back out into the freezing mist.
They walked briskly through the quiet village, heading straight for the cobblestone bridge where the heavy wooden carriage was parked.
Bjorlam was already awake. The rugged driver was standing near the front of the wagon, casually running a stiff bristled brush through the thick, shaggy mane of his massive draft horse. He looked up, a bright, deeply relieved smile splitting his bearded face as he saw the towering High Elf and the heavily armored warriors approaching from the mist.
"Ah, you survived the mountain! Praise the Divines!" Bjorlam greeted them loudly, tossing the brush into a wooden bucket. "I was beginning to worry the cold had taken you, or the monks had decided to keep you. Are we ready to return to the golden plains of Whiterun?"
"We are entirely ready, Bjorlam," Aerion confirmed smoothly.
"Excellent! Climb on into the back, folks," Bjorlam instructed, moving to grab the heavy leather reins.
As Aeloria, Jenassa, Lydia, and Valdemar began heavily clanking their way into the back of the wagon, arranging their armor and packs, Aerion stepped close to the driver's bench.
He seamlessly engaged his digital interface, pulling the agreed-upon sum directly from his massive, invisible treasury. He reached his hand beneath the flap of his leather satchel and pulled out a heavy, clinking pouch filled with septims.
"As promised, Bjorlam," Aerion said smoothly, handing the heavy pouch up to the driver. "One hundred and sixty septims. For your patience in waiting, and for the express return journey."
Bjorlam caught the pouch, weighing the satisfyingly heavy gold in his calloused palm. "You are a man of your word, my Thane. I thank you kindly. It's not often a simple driver makes this kind of coin in a single day with the dangers in the road, let alone now there's dragons roaming around."
Bjorlam tucked the gold securely into his heavy leather belt and hopped up onto the bench. He snapped the reins, the sharp crack echoing through the village, and the massive wooden carriage groaned forward, leaving Ivarstead behind.
As they rolled out of the village and back onto the winding, misty dirt roads of the Rift, Bjorlam cast a curious glance over his shoulder at the High Elf sitting directly behind him.
"So, my Thane," Bjorlam called back, keeping his voice relatively normal over the rattling of the wheels. "We are heading straight back to the main gates of Whiterun, correct? I'll have you back in the city before the sun sets."
Aerion did not answer immediately. He subtly tilted his head, his golden eyes flicking backward to assess the situation in the covered seating area.
Aeloria was completely distracted. The Dragonborn was currently engaged in a deep, booming, highly animated conversation with Valdemar and Lydia regarding the tactical differences between two handed battleaxes and standard sword and shield fight.
Jenassa was sitting quietly in the corner, her eyes closed, dozing lightly. None of them were paying the slightest bit of attention to the driver's bench.
Aerion leaned forward, placing his hand lightly on the wooden backrest of Bjorlam's bench, dropping his melodic voice into a low, entirely private, conspiratorial whisper.
"We are indeed heading back toward the central plains, Bjorlam," Aerion confirmed softly. "However, there has been a slight, highly specific alteration to our geographical destination today. I need you to deviate from the main road."
Bjorlam frowned slightly, slowing the horse just a fraction. He leaned his head back, keeping his voice equally low. "Hmmm. A detour, eh? I suppose I can accommodate a slight diversion, my Thane. But I need to know exactly where we are going before I agree. I won't drive this wagon into a bandit camp."
"We are not going to a bandit camp," Aerion reassured him smoothly. He named the coordinates directly. "I need you to take us to Volunruud. It is an ancient ruin situated in the snowy hills just north of the Whiterun border, near within the border with the Pale."
Aerion paused, fixing the driver with a look of absolute, piercing intensity. "But, and this is absolutely critical, Bjorlam, when we arrive at the ruins, you must explicitly, vocally announce to the rest of the party that we have arrived at Ustengrav."
Bjorlam completely stopped chewing on the piece of straw in his mouth. He turned his head slightly, his eyes wide with profound, genuine confusion.
"Volunruud? But call it Ustengrav?" Bjorlam whispered back, completely baffled. "My Thane... why in Oblivion would you need me to lie to your own Housecarls and the Dragonborn about the name of a pile of rocks?"
Aerion didn't bat an eye. The moment required immediate, flawless narrative control.
He didn't just speak; he engaged the absolute zenith of his newly leveled Persuasion matrix. He pushed his golden aura slightly forward, lacing his melodic voice with a compelling, almost hypnotic frequency that bypassed the driver's simple logic and appealed directly to his innate trust in authority.
[Persuasion (+1) Leveled up 6 Times! Current Level: 89]
"You do not need to trouble your mind with the complex political and mythological logistics of this request, Bjorlam," Aerion whispered, his voice resonating with an incredibly warm, deeply trustworthy, and entirely unquestionable authority. "Simply understand that this specific deception is absolutely vital for the safety of the realm, the progression of her divine training, and the ultimate good of everyone in Whiterun. Trust me. It must be done."
The magical, persuasive resonance hit Bjorlam's mind perfectly. The carriage driver's confusion instantly melted away, entirely replaced by a profound, unquestioning certainty that the Thane of Whiterun was executing a masterstroke of secret statecraft.
Bjorlam nodded his head firmly, his face entirely serious.
"Say no more, my Thane," Bjorlam agreed in a hushed whisper. "I don't understand the high politics, but if you say it's for the good of the hold, then I trust you. Rest assured, I will bring you exactly where you need to go, and I'll call it whatever you want me to call it."
"Your discretion is deeply appreciated," Aerion smiled smoothly, leaning back into his seat.
The deception was secure.
The carriage ride took the entirety of the morning and stretched deeply into the afternoon. Bjorlam followed the exact same rugged, winding dirt paths they had used to reach Ivarstead, crossing the rushing rivers and navigating the dense, misty pine forests of the Rift.
As the sun began its descent, they finally emerged from the trees, the landscape opening up into the sprawling, familiar, golden grass of the Whiterun tundra.
Bjorlam guided the heavy wagon onto the main cobblestone highway, heading steadily north. They rolled past the towering, spiked wooden palisades of Aerion's personal homestead. The distant, rumbling calls of the mammoth herd echoed across the plains, bringing a satisfied smirk to Aerion's lips.
As they continued heading further north, leaving the safety of the central plains behind and moving toward the jagged, mountainous border of the Pale, Aeloria shifted heavily in her steel armor. She looked out the back of the canopy, her brow furrowing in slight geographical confusion.
"Aerion," Aeloria called out, breaking her conversation with Valdemar. "Are you absolutely certain we are heading in the correct direction? I thought the Greybeards said this tomb was located somewhere or near Hjaalmarch."
Aerion didn't even flinch. He turned his head, offering her a look of flawless, condescending academic certainty.
"Your sense of direction is admirable, Aeloria, but your grasp of ancient territorial borders is slightly flawed," Aerion lied with absolute, brazen perfection. "The fane is indeed located along the northern borders, but the primary entrance to Ustengrav is situated precisely here, nestled within the snowy hills connecting Whiterun to the Pale. You have absolutely no need to worry. The location is clear to me."
Aeloria, possessing zero geographic knowledge to dispute him, simply nodded her head and accepted the scholar's word as absolute fact.
A few miles further north, Bjorlam abruptly turned the heavy carriage completely off the main paved highway. The massive wooden wheels crunched loudly as they transitioned onto a rugged, ascending dirt path.
They passed the abandoned, heavily fortified wooden palisades of Halted Stream Camp. Aeloria recognized the ruins instantly, it was the very first bandit encampment Aerion had systematically, ruthlessly eradicated when he arrived to this world.
They pushed deeper into the jagged, rising hills. The temperature plummeted drastically, the golden grass of the tundra entirely giving way to deep, blinding white snowdrifts and howling winds.
Suddenly, the dense, snowy pines parted.
Looming ominously out of the freezing blizzard was a massive, imposing display of ancient Nordic architecture. Several towering, deeply weathered stone pillars flanked a wide, ascending stone pathway.
Situated directly behind the pillars, carved flawlessly into the side of the snowy mountain, was a massive, incredibly complex, dome like stone structure that radiated an aura of deep, ancient death.
Bjorlam pulled hard on the heavy leather reins, bringing the exhausted draft horse to a shuddering halt at the base of the stone pillars.
The driver turned around on his bench, looking directly at Aeloria, and delivered his lines with flawless, dramatic precision.
"Well, folks. Here it is," Bjorlam announced loudly, gesturing his whip toward the massive stone dome. "Ustengrav."
Aeloria immediately leaned out of the carriage canopy, her bright blue eyes widening as she took in the sheer, intimidating scale of the ancient ruin.
"By the Eight. The architecture is massive," Aeloria whispered, completely falling for the deception.
"Form up. We proceed on foot," Aerion commanded, standing up and stepping gracefully down from the carriage.
As Aeloria, Jenassa, Lydia, and Valdemar began heavily clattering out of the wagon, drawing their weapons and organizing their gear, Aerion stepped close to the driver's bench once more.
He seamlessly engaged his digital inventory, pulling a small, pouch filled with 50 septims into his palm.
Aerion tossed the gold up to the driver.
"Bjorlam," Aerion instructed quietly. "This ruin is vast, and the extraction of the artifact may take several hours. Do not wait here in the freezing blizzard. I request that you drive the carriage back down the hill and wait for us within the abandoned, sheltered palisades of Halted Stream Camp. It will protect you and the horse from the wind."
Bjorlam caught the pouch, tucking the bonus gold away. He looked up at the ominous, howling stone dome, and then back down at the High Elf.
"I can certainly do that, my Thane," Bjorlam agreed, his pragmatic survival instincts taking over. "But I will only wait until nightfall. If the sun goes down and there is no sign of your party returning from the dark... I will assume the worst, and I will ride back to Whiterun by myself to inform the Jarl."
"I understand perfectly, Bjorlam. A sound tactical decision," Aerion nodded.
Bjorlam cracked the whip, turning the heavy carriage around and rolling back down the snowy path toward the safety of the abandoned camp.
Aerion turned back to his heavily armed strike team. They were standing at the base of the massive stone pillars, staring up at the entrance.
"The final trial begins now," Aerion declared, his voice ringing with absolute, commanding authority. "We breach the tomb."
Aerion led the group up the snow covered stone pathway, passing beneath the towering pillars. They reached the base of the massive stone dome. Instead of a set of heavy doors leading upward, the architecture featured a wide, dark, spiral stone staircase that led directly downward into the absolute, freezing depths of the earth.
They descended the spiral stairs in tight formation. Valdemar and Lydia took the vanguard, their shields raised, while Aeloria gripped her blazing battleaxe.
They reached the bottom of the spiraling descent, stepping through a heavy stone archway into the main antechamber of Volunruud.
The interior was incredibly dark, illuminated only by a few ancient, glowing mushrooms clinging to the damp stone walls.
As they walked down a short flight of descending stone steps, Jenassa suddenly raised a hand, her sharp crimson eyes catching something in the gloom.
"Hold," Jenassa whispered, pointing toward a small alcove near the base of the stairs.
Resting upon a pile of loose, shattered stone were the grim, moldering remnants of a previous explorer. It was a complete, bleached human skeleton. Scattered carelessly around the bones were a rusted iron shovel, several loose, tarnished septim coins, and a small, leather bound journal that looked remarkably well preserved despite the damp conditions.
Aerion's transmigrator mind instantly worked as he of course knew about the specific storytelling that this crypt have.
'Heddic's Note,' Aerion identified with a surge of deep satisfaction. It was the specific lore journal that officially initiated the 'Silenced Tongues' quest, detailing the tragic fate of an explorer who had attempted to decipher the ruins.
He needed to completely control the narrative information before anyone else read it.
"A previous expedition that met a gruesome end," Aerion observed smoothly, stepping past the vanguard to approach the skeleton.
He gracefully bent down, ignoring the rusted shovel and the loose coins, and picked up the small, leather bound journal. He opened it, pretending to rapidly scan the handwritten, faded text.
In reality, Aerion wasn't reading the original text at all. He was rapidly, brilliantly improvising a complete fabrication designed to perfectly align the lore of Volunruud with the narrative requirements of Ustengrav.
"Fascinating," Aerion murmured aloud, his brow furrowing in an immaculate display of scholarly discovery.
"What does it say, Thane Aerion?" Valdemar asked, keeping his shield raised.
Aerion snapped the journal shut, looking up at Aeloria with a look of absolute, highly convincing certainty.
"It is the journal of an independent scholar who attempted to breach this sanctum decades ago," Aerion lied flawlessly, spinning a masterpiece of spontaneous fiction. "His notes explicitly confirm that we are indeed standing within the correct fane. He refers to this place as the true resting place of Jurgen Windcaller."
He held the journal up, tapping the leather cover for emphasis.
"Furthermore," Aerion continued, raising the dramatic stakes, "the journal details the specific architectural security measures of this tomb. The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller is not simply resting upon a pedestal. It is sealed deep within the primary sanctum. To unlock the final doors, we must scour the depths of this crypt, locate two ceremonial, ancient Nordic weapons, likely wielded by the honored dead, and place them upon specific altars to bypass the magical wards."
Aeloria nodded her head firmly, her grip tightening on the Axe of Morthal. The complex mechanics entirely validated the authenticity of the trial in her mind.
"Two ancient weapons to open the final door," Aeloria summarized, completely buying the deception. "Then we had better start hunting. Lead the way, Aerion." Aerion smiled, a dark, incredibly sociopathic gleam flashing in his golden eyes. The deception was done perfectly. The Dragonborn was officially hunting the boss of Volunruud, entirely convinced she was fulfilling the Greybeards' sacred trial.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 540/540 Stamina: 560/560 Magicka: 750/750
Level: 145
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Dragon Master (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+3)/Lightning(+1)/Frost(+1)) (Level 42/76/41), Restoration (Healing(+1)/Purify(+2)) (Level 31/25), Alteration (Level 35), Illusion (Level 50), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/26), Persuasion(+1) (Level 89), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak (Level 87), One Handed(+1) (Level 72), Two Handed (Level 81), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 72), Enchanting (Level 66), Light Armor(+1) (Level 0), Block (Level 70), & Pickpocket (Level 8)
Shouts: Fus Roh Dah (Force Balance Push), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim Zii (Fade Spirit), & 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, Golden Staff of Flames, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, Orcish Dagger, Jagged Crown, 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
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: 90.20 KG / 580 KG
Septims: 82,277