If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
...
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
"How remarkably little effort the Stormcloaks appear to invest in suppressing internal banditry," Aerion noted, gesturing to the wagon. "We are less than couple of hours ride from Windhelm. We are standing on a primary, arterial trade route near an incredibly important military border. Yet, these bandits were bold enough to drag a wagon across the road in broad daylight. It suggests that Ulfric's local authorities either entirely lack the manpower to police their own territory, or they have deliberately chosen to ignore the rot within their own borders to focus solely on the Empire."
He didn't immediately accuse every Stormcloak of corruption or incompetence. He simply filed the observation away as another vital piece of intelligence regarding Eastmarch's internal stability.
"Search them quickly," Aerion ordered the group. "Take the coin, leave the iron. We have lingered long enough."
The apprentices, now entirely desensitized to the grim reality of looting, efficiently stripped the coin pouches from the fallen. They cleared the heavy wagon from the path, mounted their horses, and resumed the journey southeast.
The snowy peaks of the Pale eventually gave way to the harsh, volcanic tundra of Eastmarch. Steam hissed from geothermal vents, and the sky grew heavy with dark, oppressive clouds.
As they crested a final, rocky ridge, the massive, imposing walls of the ancient city finally came into view.
Aerion pulled back on Revan's reins, genuinely impressed by the sheer, monolithic scale of the architecture. Solitude might be the gleaming center of Imperial power, built on wealth and diplomacy, but Windhelm carried the undeniable, crushing weight of something vastly older.
The city looked every bit like the first great capital of mankind in Skyrim. Its towering, blocky stone structures, the massive bridge spanning the frozen White River, and the impossibly high walls seemed to belong to an entirely different age. The connection to Ysgramor, the legendary Atmoran conqueror, and the violent, bloody early history of the Nords was baked into every single stone.
It did not look welcoming. The city felt old, unimaginably powerful, and inherently hostile to outsiders.
The group rode down the winding path toward the Windhelm stables, situated just outside the massive stone bridge leading to the main gates.
They dismounted, leading their horses to the wooden stalls. The stablemaster, a burly, bearded Nord wrapped in thick furs, walked out to meet them.
The man's reaction was immediate and entirely undisguised.
His eyes swept over the group. He saw the dark, ashen skin of Brelyna and Jenassa, and the feline features of J'zargo. The stablemaster's face twisted into a scowl of deep, racial disgust.
"Keep your beasts out of the main stalls," the stablemaster grunted harshly, glaring at Jenassa. "Tie them near the back. And you better have the coin, Gray-skin. I don't run a charity for your kind."
Brelyna flinched at the slur, looking down at the snow. J'zargo's ears pinned flat against his head, a low, dangerous growl vibrating in his chest.
Aerion stepped forward, the heavy steel of his boots crunching loudly.
Because his face and ears were completely concealed behind the unsettling bronze visage of Krosis, and his body was encased in heavy Nordic Carved armor, the stablemaster had absolutely no idea that the towering warrior standing before him was himself a High Elf.
Aerion did not bother arguing with a peasant. He simply reached into his pouch, pulled out fifty septims, and dropped the heavy coins directly into the mud at the stablemaster's feet.
"Feed them," Aerion commanded, his voice a cold, metallic rumble that brooked no defiance.
The stablemaster glared at the masked warrior, clearly intimidated by the sheer size and the terrifying armor, but he muttered under his breath and stooped to pick up the coin.
With the horses secured, Aerion turned and led his group up the long, broad stone bridge leading toward the massive iron gates of Windhelm.
They joined a slow moving line of merchants, farmers, and travelers seeking entry. The atmosphere on the bridge was tense, suffocatingly heavy with the reality of a city actively preparing for total war. There were significantly more guards here than in Dawnstar or Winterhold. They were heavily armored in scale mail, their faces hidden behind enclosed helms, their hands resting cautiously on the hilts of their swords.
They were aggressively checking every single traveler, searching carts, and interrogating anyone who looked suspicious before allowing them inside the walls.
When Aerion's eclectic, heavily armed group finally reached the front of the line, the guards immediately stiffened.
The captain of the watch stepped forward, his eyes locked onto Aerion. The High Elf's appearance was wildly unusual, and deeply intimidating. He wore the armor of a Nordic warlord, carried the impossibly rare, pitch black weaponry of raw ebony, and his face was hidden behind a jagged, ancient Dragon Priest mask that radiated a subtle, terrifying aura. Combined with a retinue containing a Dunmer assassin, two Dark Elves, a Khajiit, and two hardened Nord warriors, they looked less like travelers and more like a highly elite strike team.
"Halt," the guard captain commanded, raising a heavily gauntleted hand. He rested his other hand on his sword hilt, signaling the four guards behind him to close rank. "State your business in Windhelm, stranger."
"We are travelers seeking lodging, and scholars seeking the local markets," Aerion replied smoothly, his voice echoing from within the mask.
The captain frowned, clearly unsettled by the metallic distortion of the voice and the blank, staring eyes of the bronze mask. He looked over the group, his gaze lingering with obvious disdain on the non Nords, before returning to the towering leader.
"We don't allow masked men into the city, stranger. Especially not in times of war," the captain ordered gruffly, taking a step closer to assert his authority. "Take the mask off. Now. I want to see the face of the man I'm speaking to."
Aerion remained perfectly, outwardly calm. He assessed the guards, the narrow choke point of the bridge, and the heavy iron gates behind them.
He knew exactly what was about to happen.
Slowly, deliberately, Aerion reached up with both gauntleted hands. He unclasped the leather straps at the back of his head and pulled the heavy bronze mask of Krosis away from his face.
The cold wind caught his hair. His flawless, angular features, his pale golden skin, and his piercing, aristocratic golden eyes were laid bare for the Stormcloak guards to see.
The guard captain physically recoiled, his eyes widening in absolute shock beneath his helm.
"By Ysmir's beard..." one of the guards behind him whispered, instinctively drawing his sword half an inch from its scabbard. "He's a damn High Elf."
The tension on the bridge instantly skyrocketed, thick and volatile enough to ignite. The guards stared at the towering Altmer, their prejudices and their wartime paranoia colliding violently.
Aerion stood perfectly still, his golden eyes locking onto the captain with calm, unyielding authority. He had come to Windhelm to gather intelligence, but he realized in that exact moment that this assignment would be vastly more dangerous than anything he had faced in the crypts.
The wind howled down the frozen canyon of the White River, biting through the heavy cloaks of the travelers. The heavily armored Stormcloak guards had drawn a tight semicircle around him, their hands resting cautiously on their sword hilts.
The guard captain's face hardened beneath his scale helm. His hand tightened on the pommel of his sword.
"An Altmer, wearing Nordic steel, traveling with a pack of gray skins and a cat," the captain spat, his voice thick with undisguised venom. "You've got a lot of nerve showing your face at the gates of Ulfric Stormcloak's city, Elf. Are you a Thalmor spy? Or just an idiot looking to get his throat cut?"
Aerion deliberately adopted a calm, entirely non confrontational posture, making sure his hands remained far away from the hilt of his greatsword.
"I assure you, Captain, I have absolutely no connection to the Thalmor Embassy in Solitude, nor am I a spy for the Aldmeri Dominion," Aerion replied smoothly, his tone remarkably polite despite the profound irritation boiling beneath the surface. "I am simply a wandering scholar and a Thane of Whiterun, traveling with my retainers and students. We wish to visit the famed city of Windhelm to study its ancient architecture and utilize its markets."
"A Thane of Whiterun?" the captain scoffed loudly. "You thin Jarl Balgruuf hands out titles to High elve's now? I don't believe a word of it. You Thalmor think you can just waltz into Eastmarch—"
"I am not Thalmor," Aerion interrupted, maintaining his polite tone but letting a fraction of his Persuasion skill seep into his cadence. "I understand entirely why the guards of Windhelm must remain cautious during a civil war. It is your duty to protect this city. But you must apply logic to your caution, Captain."
Aerion took a slow, unthreatening step forward, speaking with the measured, reasonable tone of a diplomat.
"Just as the Nords of Skyrim vehemently disagree among themselves regarding this rebellion, with half the province fighting for Ulfric and half fighting for the Empire, High Elves are not a single minded monolith," Aerion reasoned clearly. "There are many Altmer who violently reject the Thalmor regime. There are those who have fled the Dominion, and those who actively fight against it. The Thalmor execute their own kind for dissent daily. Assuming every High Elf you see is an agent of the Dominion is as foolish as assuming every Nord you meet is a Stormcloak."
The logic was flawless, but prejudice was rarely logical.
"Shut your mouth, Elf," the captain snarled, cutting him off, though the absolute certainty in his voice wavered slightly. "High Elves are treated with suspicion here because your kind outlawed Talos and started this damn war! I should have you detained in the Bloodworks for further questioning."
Aerion's golden eyes narrowed slightly, a flash of genuine annoyance breaking through his calm facade.
He didn't raise his voice, nor did he use magic to directly control the man's mind. He simply leaned into his high level Persuasion skill, letting the natural charisma and authoritative weight of his voice wash over the checkpoint.
"Detaining a Thane of Whiterun without cause will create an international incident that Jarl Ulfric does not have the time or the patience to manage right now and would only push him to join the Empire's side," Aerion pointed out reasonably, gesturing to the growing line of frustrated merchants and freezing farmers backing up on the bridge behind his group. "Furthermore, keeping the main gate blocked over one traveler accomplishes absolutely nothing except freezing your own citizens and delaying the city's trade. Is this truly how Windhelm treats guests who have committed no crime?"
The guards exchanged uncertain glances. The people waiting in line began to mutter loudly, complaining about the cold and demanding the guards keep the line moving. The captain looked at the heavy Nordic Carved armor Aerion wore, and the pristine ebony weapons on his back. Detaining him would likely result in a bloodbath on the bridge, and the Elf was right, Ulfric would not appreciate a diplomatic incident with Whiterun over a paranoid checkpoint stop, especially if it caused them to lose Whiterun.
The captain clenched his jaw, finally relenting.
"Fine," the captain growled, stepping aside. He gestured aggressively to his men. "Search their packs. Thoroughly."
The guards conducted an invasive, highly unprofessional search of the group's saddlebags and packs, roughly tossing Brelyna's spare robes and J'zargo's alchemy supplies into the snow before forcing them to repack it.
When they found nothing incriminating, the captain stepped right up to Aerion, jabbing a thick, leather clad finger into the High Elf's chest plate.
"Listen to me carefully, Elf," the captain warned, his voice low and threatening. "You are being allowed inside, but you will be watched. Every step you take. If you, or any of your freaks, cause a single disturbance... if you start a fight, or look at a Nord the wrong way, I will have you thrown into the deepest, darkest cell in the Bloodworks. And you won't ever see the sun again."
Aerion accepted the blatant, heavily biased threat without a single word of argument.
"I appreciate your diligence, Captain. We will cause no trouble," Aerion said simply.
He strapped the bronze mask of Krosis back onto his face, hiding his Altmer features once more, and led his silent, furious group through the massive iron gates.
As they stepped into the city of Windhelm, the oppressive, ancient atmosphere of the capital hit them immediately.
Aerion paused, quietly impressed by the sheer, monumental scale of the architecture. Solitude was beautiful, built of clean white stone and delicate arches. Windhelm was brutal. It was carved from massive, dark, interlocking blocks of granite that looked as though they could withstand a siege from the gods themselves.
The streets were steep, winding through deep, shadowed canyons of stone. The massive braziers burning at the intersections cast long, flickering shadows that made the city feel like a fortress locked in eternal twilight.
This was the legacy of Ysgramor. The very foundations of the city dated back to the earliest, bloodiest eras of Nordic history, and the weight of that age was palpable.
The apprentices looked around in genuine awe, entirely forgetting the guards' harassment for a fleeting moment. None of them had ever visited Windhelm before, and the sheer historical gravity of the city was breathtaking to the young scholars.
But the feeling of wonder did not last long.
As they made their way through the stone streets, leading their horses toward the center of the city, the true nature of Ulfric's capital revealed itself.
The racial hostility was not hidden here, after all it was a casual, everyday reality.
"Look at this," a Nord merchant spat as they passed his stall, glaring at Jenassa. "Another gray-skin rat scurrying out of the snow."
"Keep your hands where I can see them, cat," a passing guard warned J'zargo unnecessarily.
"Shouldn't you be hiding in the Gray Quarter with the rest of your kind?" a woman muttered as Brelyna walked past.
The remarks varied from low, muttered insults to direct, confrontational sneers. Not everyone was hostile, some Nords simply ignored them, going about their harsh daily lives, but the undercurrent of prejudice was thick enough to choke on.
J'zargo's claws flexed involuntarily, scraping against the wooden haft of his new axe. Jenassa's hand hovered dangerously close to her daggers, her crimson eyes promising immediate, lethal violence to the next Nord who spoke.
Aerion let out a slow, metallic sigh from behind his mask.
"Stay calm," Aerion ordered quietly, his voice carrying just enough authority to check their rising tempers. "Do not rise to the bait."
"They are insulting us openly, Patron," Jenassa hissed softly.
"And they want you to react," Aerion replied without turning his head. "If you start a fight in the streets of Windhelm, the guards will not care who threw the first insult. They are looking for an excuse. You will be fined, arrested, or thrown into the dungeons, and I will have to break you out. Keep your tempers under absolute control. We are here for intelligence, not a brawl."
The group swallowed their pride, their jaws tight, and nodded. They kept their eyes forward, ignoring the venom as they navigated toward the Candlehearth Hall, the massive inn situated near the center of the city.
The tavern was large, warm, and entirely crowded with Nord patrons, off duty soldiers, merchants, and rugged laborers seeking refuge from the cold.
The moment Aerion pushed the heavy wooden doors open, leading the Dunmer, the Khajiit, and the rest of his diverse retinue inside, the loud, boisterous roar of the tavern died instantly.
The room became uncomfortably, noticeably quiet.
Dozens of hostile eyes turned toward the entrance. Several patrons immediately stood up from their tables, their hands dropping to the daggers at their belts at the sight of the masked, heavily armored High Elf and his non Nord companions.
Before the tense silence could explode into a full-blown tavern brawl, a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the room.
"Sit down, all of you!"
Elda Early-Dawn, the hardened Nord innkeeper, stormed out from behind the bar. She carried a heavy wooden serving tray like a shield, glaring at her own patrons.
"I said sit down!" Elda barked, pointing a finger at the men who had stood up. "There will be no brawling, no drawn steel, and no commotion inside my establishment! If you want to keep drinking my mead and sleeping by my fire, you will keep your hands to yourselves! Am I understood?!"
The Nords grumbled loudly, exchanging dark looks with Aerion's group, but Elda's authority as the proprietor of the only decent inn in the district ultimately won out. The men slowly sank back into their chairs, though their hostile glares did not waver.
Elda turned her attention to Aerion, her expression shifting from angry to purely transactional.
"What do you want, stranger?" Elda asked flatly.
"I require six rooms for three days, assuming you have the space," Aerion requested politely.
Elda hesitated, her eyes flicking over the dark elves and the Khajiit. She crossed her arms, explaining an unpleasant, systemic reality.
"I have the space," Elda admitted. "But I'll warn you now... the Jarl's decrees apply to my ledger. I can charge standard prices to Nords. But for non Nords, the Jarl requires a heavier price being put."
"How much?" Aerion asked, completely unfazed.
"Twenty five septims per room, per day," Elda stated bluntly.
J'zargo let out an offended hiss. "Twenty five septims?! In Dawnstar, it was barely ten!"
The group reacted with quiet disbelief at the blatantly discriminatory pricing. It was extortion, designed specifically to keep non Nords out of the city's better establishments.
Brelyna stepped close to Aerion, whispering nervously. "Expert Aerion, perhaps we should just find cheaper rooms in the Gray Quarter... where my people stay."
"No," Aerion refused instantly.
He looked at the young Dark Elf, his voice firm. "Leaving because of intimidation or extortion only rewards the people attempting to make us uncomfortable. It validates their prejudice. We will not hide in the slums. We intend to stay here, we will gather our information, and we will conduct ourselves properly."
Aerion reached into his dimensional inventory. He pulled out a heavy pouch and counted out exactly 315 septims, dropping the gold onto the wooden bar without a single word of argument.
Elda looked slightly surprised, but she swept the gold into her apron. "I'll have the rooms prepared. But I must apologize... the same pricing rules apply to the food and drink."
"Do not worry yourself over the Jarl's politics, Elda," Aerion nodded. He placed another 200 septims on the bar. "Bring hot food and drink for my entire retinue. Whatever is fresh."
The group moved to a large, secluded corner table, keeping their backs to the wall.
When the food arrived, steaming bowls of thick beef stew, roasted potatoes, and warm mead, the tension of the journey slowly began to bleed away. Aerion used the meal to give the group a moment of much needed breathing room. The apprentices kept their voices low, quietly marveling at the ancient stonework of the tavern, while Eisa offered a few dry observations about the local mercenaries she recognized in the room. Lydia and Jenassa ate methodically, their eyes never stopping their watchful sweep of the patrons.
When the meal was finished, Aerion wiped his hands and stood up.
"I am going to explore Windhelm alone," Aerion announced quietly to the table. "I encourage the rest of you to move around the city. Go in pairs, do not walk alone. Talk to the locals, listen carefully, and gather what information you can."
He looked specifically at Jenassa and Eisa. "Pay attention to how the people speak about the war. Listen to their opinions on Jarl Ulfric, the Empire, and the state of the local economy. Observe the conditions in the Gray Quarter and the markets. We meet back here at nightfall."
They nodded, understanding the assignment.
Aerion left the inn first.
He kept the mask of Krosis firmly secured over his face. He had absolutely no interest in enduring the constant, exhausting harassment that would come from walking the capital of the rebellion openly as a High Elf. The mask offered him a sinister, anonymous presence that kept the average citizen at a wide berth.
As he stepped back out into the freezing streets, his heightened perception immediately registered the heavy, rhythmic clanking of scale mail behind him.
He was being followed.
It wasn't paranoia. Aerion realized instantly that the guards at the gate had followed through on their threat. They had dispatched a patrol to keep an eye on the heavily armed, masked stranger.
Aerion didn't try to lose them. He simply walked at a steady, unhurried pace, acting the part of the wandering scholar.
Windhelm was massive, and Aerion spent considerable time navigating its distinct districts. He walked through the open-air market, noting the inflated prices of basic grain and the abundance of forged steel.
He descended to the freezing docks, observing the Argonian workers loading heavy crates of weapons onto longships bound for the northern coast. He noted the heavy military traffic near the Palace of the Kings, memorizing which streets were heavily patrolled and which narrow, shadowed alleys received significantly less attention.
Eventually, he found a relatively secluded, snow-choked corner in the Valunstrad district, tucked between two massive, ancient stone walls, completely out of sight of his tail.
Aerion closed his eyes, tapping deeply into his max level Animal Affinity skill.
The effect was vastly more profound and substantial than his previous attempts in Winterhold and Dawnstar. Windhelm was huge, old, and riddled with hidden spaces, decaying cellars, and ancient drainage channels. As his invisible, mental net spread across the stone city, countless small creatures began to emerge from their hiding places in the shadows. Plump mice scurried from the cellars of the taverns, aggressive black rats slipped out of the alleyways, hardy ravens descended from the high rooftops, and freezing insects stirred within the cracks of the mortar.
_____________________________
[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 770/770
Stamina: 810/810
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 213
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Dragon Master (MAX LEVEL), Eye Of Magnus (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 45), Smithing (Level 57), Sneak(+1) (Level 50), One Handed(+2) (Level 0), Two Handed(+1) (Level 0), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 91), Enchanting(+1) (Level 23), Light Armor(+2) (Level 10), Block (Level 70), Pickpocket (Level 8), & Heavy Armor (Level 31)
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), & IIZ (Ice)
[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, 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, Staff of Fireball, Mage Boots Of Weight, Master Robes Of Destruction, & Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson
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: 93.41 KG / 705 KG
Septims: 78,447