If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
...
(A/N: Also everyone I have a new novel a Dragon Age Inquisition novel named "From Couch To The Inquisitor", be sure to check it out and give some power stone)
...
He vaulted cleanly over the overturned tables, landing directly in the center of the Stormcloak formation. A veteran swung a heavy battleaxe at his ribs. Aerion caught the haft of the axe with the hooked beard of the Poacher's Axe, wrenching the weapon violently out of the man's grip. Without missing a beat, Aerion drove the Black Prism through the man's breastplate, the elemental enchantments instantly freezing, burning, and electrocuting the flesh even as the blade stole his life force to feed Aerion's own vitality.
"Clear the area!" Lydia roared, charging into the room with her heavy shield raised, smashing a bowman against a stone pillar.
The combat was fierce, desperate, and claustrophobic. The Stormcloaks fought with the cornered madness of men and women who knew they were already dead, but they were entirely outmatched.
Aerion was a vortex of steel and magic. He used the Poacher's Axe to hook shields, shatter wooden barricades, and brutally hack through heavy armor, while the Black Prism danced with lethal grace, severing limbs and cauterizing the wounds instantly.
His retainers and the four mages provided flawless support. When a cluster of rebels attempted to swarm Aerion from behind, Brelyna and Eirik unleashed rapid, surgical Firebolts that staggered the attackers, allowing Eisa to glide in and execute them with the Pale Blade.
They pushed methodically through the blood slicked first floor, securing the kitchens and the armory, before ascending the narrow, spiraling stone stairs to the second floor.
The second tier housed the officer's quarters, and the resistance here was highly coordinated. Trapwires were strung across the dark hallways, triggering falling rocks and swinging spiked logs, but Aerion's enhanced reflexes allowed him to sever the tripwires with a flick of his axe before they could be triggered.
They fought room by room, kicking down doors and engaging in brutal, suffocating melees in the cramped bedchambers. Aerion's dual wielding style left no opening. He fought with ruthless efficiency, completely breaking the final organized pocket of resistance on the upper floors in less than twenty minutes.
Only the deepest cellars and the dungeon remained.
They descended the long, dark, damp stone staircase leading below the fortress. The air grew significantly colder, smelling of mildew, rust, and the metallic tang of old blood.
In the final, wide antechamber before the heavy iron gates of the prison block, the last twelve Stormcloak holdouts made their final stand. They fought fiercely, but they were exhausted, bleeding, and terrified. Aerion parried a desperate weapons attack with the Poacher's Axe, stepped inside the man's guard, and brought the pommel of the Black Prism down heavily on the rebel's temple, dropping him unconscious to the stone.
The fighting finally ceased. The interior of Fort Kastav now was fully secure.
Aerion stood in the dim light of the cellar, his chest heaving slightly, the blood dripping from his blades. He cleanly wiped both weapons on a fallen Stormcloak banner, sheathing the Black Prism and smoothly returning the Poacher's Axe to his inventory with a shimmer of light.
"Check the cells," Aerion commanded his group.
Lydia and Valdemar stepped forward, grabbing the heavy iron keyring from the belt of the fallen dungeon master. They moved down the dark, damp corridor, unlocking the heavy, rusted iron doors of the cells.
Inside the freezing, miserable cages, dozens of men and women were huddled together for warmth. They were starved, shivering, and covered in filth, their armor stripped away long ago, leaving them in ragged tunics. They were the Imperial legionnaires who had been captured by the Stormcloaks during the skirmishes in Eastmarch months prior.
As the heavy doors swung open, the prisoners scrambled back against the stone walls, raising their emaciated arms, expecting a beating or an execution.
Aerion stepped into the dim light of the corridor.
"Who... who are you?" a starving, hollow eyed Imperial veteran whispered, staring at the towering, armored person who wears the demonic bronze mask.
Aerion reached up and unhooked the mask of Krosis, letting it hang from his belt. He revealed his golden, aristocratic features, his expression calm and profoundly respectful.
"I am Captain Aerion of the Imperial Legion," Aerion announced, his voice a warm, resonant anchor in the freezing dungeon. "I have led my regiment here today to siege and capture Fort Kastav. The fortress are now under the control of the Empire. Your captors are either dead or bound in the courtyard above. We did not just come for the walls, soldiers. We came to bring you home. You are free."
The captured legionnaires stared at him for a long, agonizing moment, their exhausted minds struggling to process the sheer, impossible reality of the words. Slowly, cautiously, the veteran who had spoken lowered his arms. He looked past Aerion, seeing the pristine Imperial armor worn by Eirik, and the distinct, highly disciplined postures of Lydia and Jenassa.
A collective, shuddering breath of relief rippled through the freezing cells.
"Thank the Divines," the veteran choked out, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face. "Thank you, Captain. We thought we were going to rot in the dark."
"Can you walk?" Aerion asked gently.
"To get out of this pit? We could run, sir," another prisoner replied, a fierce, surviving spark returning to his eyes.
"Then let us see the sky," Aerion smiled softly.
Aerion and his retainers gently assisted the weakest prisoners, guiding them up the long, winding stone staircases. They ascended from the dark, miserable cellars, passing through the blood-soaked corridors of the keep, until they finally pushed through the shattered main doors and stepped out into the blinding, beautiful sunlight of the fortress courtyard.
When the rescued prisoners emerged, they stopped dead in their tracks.
The courtyard was completely transformed. The Imperial banners had already been raised over the shattered ramparts. One thousand heavily armored legionnaires stood tall and victorious around the perimeter. In the center of the yard, hundreds of Stormcloak soldiers were kneeling in the snow, securely bound with heavy ropes.
The moment the Imperial regiment saw their captured brothers walking out of the keep alive, a massive, deafening cheer erupted across the fortress. Legionnaires broke rank, rushing forward to throw their cloaks over the freezing men, offering them flagons of water and hot rations.
Aerion walked out into the center of the courtyard, raising his gauntleted hand.
The cheering immediately died down, replaced by absolute, attentive silence.
"Soldiers of the Empire!" Aerion's voice thundered, carrying the absolute weight of a conqueror. "Fort Kastav is fully under our control! The northern passes are secured! The defensive line of Winterhold is broken!"
The hundreds of legionnaires let out another massive, earth shaking roar of pure jubilation, slamming their spears against their shields.
Aerion let them celebrate for a brief moment before lowering his hand. The work was not finished.
"The battle is won, but our duty remains," Aerion commanded. "We must sanitize this fortress. Praefects Valerius and Quintus! Oversee the cleanup immediately. We will not sleep among the rotting dead. And you will not burden the backs of my victorious men with this labor."
Aerion pointed a rigid gauntlet toward the hundreds of tied Stormcloak prisoners.
"Cut the ropes from their ankles and bind their wrists in pairs," Aerion ordered ruthlessly. "Force the prisoners to clear the courtyard. Have them work together to pick up the bodies of their fallen comrades and carry them out to the eastern ridge. If they refuse, drag them. My men will supervise."
Valerius saluted sharply. "Yes, Captain!"
The legionnaires moved quickly, cutting the leg bindings of the Stormcloak prisoners and forcing them to pair up. The exhausted, defeated rebels were forced into the grueling, horrific labor of hauling the heavy, frozen bodies of their own brothers out of the blood-stained mud.
Aerion left the cleanup to his command staff. He walked slowly across the shattered courtyard toward the massive, open snowfields just beyond the ruined curtain wall.
The eleven armored mammoths were resting peacefully in the deep snow, their massive trunks lazily pulling at the exposed, frozen tundra grass. They had fought ferociously, but under Aerion's restorative magic, they were entirely uninjured and deeply relaxed.
Aerion walked up to the towering alpha mammoth. He did not use his magical Animal Affinity. He did not project an aura. He looked directly up into the beast's dark, intelligent eyes and spoke aloud, his voice clear, resonant, and commanding in the freezing air.
"Listen to me," Aerion commanded the alpha verbally. "Take the herd. Move to the center of the courtyard and stand guard over the carcass of the dragon. Form a ring around the beast. You are to protect it. Do not let any scavenger, prisoner, or legionnaire touch the bones, the scales, or the teeth. Guard it with your lives."
The alpha mammoth let out a low, rumbling rumble from deep within its chest, acknowledging the spoken command. It turned heavily, letting out a sharp trumpet to the herd. The eleven colossal beasts lumbered into the courtyard, forming a massive, impenetrable ring of steel and ivory entirely around the slain dragon, ensuring Aerion's most valuable crafting resources remained perfectly pristine.
Satisfied, Aerion walked back toward the command pavilion that had been hastily erected near the center of the fort.
Praefects Valerius and Quintus were waiting for him, their faces grim, holding parchment ledgers.
"Report," Aerion demanded.
"The final casualty count for today's siege has been tallied, Captain," Quintus spoke, his voice heavy with the solemn reality of command. "Despite the overwhelming success of the breach, the close quarters fighting in the courtyard and the archer volleys extracted a heavy toll. We lost exactly one hundred men today."
Valerius nodded slowly, looking down at his ledger. "Combined with the thirty men we lost during the preemptive strike yesterday... the butcher's bill stands at one hundred and thirty dead. We have numerous casualties recovering in the triage tents, but thanks to your magic, none of them are currently in critical danger."
Aerion closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a long, slow breath. One hundred and forty lives extinguished to secure the north. It was a fraction of what any other commander would have lost taking Kastav, but Aerion felt the weight of every single empty armor plate.
He opened his eyes, nodding slowly.
"The Stormcloak dead have been piled on the eastern ridge," Valerius added softly. "What are your orders regarding them, sir?"
"Give them a short, respectful ceremony in the name of Arkay," Aerion instructed, his tone devoid of malice. "They were rebels, but they died fighting for what they believed was their home. Do not desecrate them. Once the words are spoken, burn the pyres. Leave nothing but ash."
"And our men, Captain?" Quintus asked quietly.
"Our men do not burn," Aerion replied firmly, his golden eyes flashing with deep respect. "They are legionnaires. They bleed for the earth, and the earth will hold them. Find a clearing in the pine forest just below the southern approach. Dig one hundred and thirty graves. We will bury them with the absolute highest honors before the sun sets."
By late afternoon, the massive pyres on the eastern ridge were blazing, sending thick columns of black smoke into the Winterhold sky, reducing the massive Stormcloak casualties to ash.
But on the southern approach, sheltered by a dense grove of ancient, snow dusted pine trees, the atmosphere was profoundly somber.
One hundred and thirty deep graves had been painstakingly dug into the frozen earth by the legionnaires. Beside each grave lay the body of a fallen Imperial soldier, respectfully wrapped in a pristine crimson cloak, their polished steel sword resting upon their chest.
The entire regiment, around eight hundred and seventy surviving men, stood in flawless, silent formation around the clearing. They had washed the blood from their faces and polished their armor, standing rigidly at attention in the biting cold.
Aerion stood at the head of the formation, looking out over the endless rows of the dead. He wore his full armor, completely bare-headed, the wind catching his pale blonde hair.
He took a slow, deep breath, letting the absolute silence of the mountain grove settle over the men.
"Today, we stand in the shadow of a great victory," Aerion began, his voice magically amplified, yet carrying a deep, resonant warmth that touched the soul of every man present. "We have shattered the fortress that held the defensive line of Winterhold. We have broken a rebellion. We have dragged a dragon of the sky down into the mud."
He looked down at the bodies wrapped in crimson.
"But the stones of Fort Kastav were not bought with my magic," Aerion continued, his voice thick with raw, genuine emotion. "They were not bought by the beasts that walk among us. They were bought with the blood, the courage, and the unbreakable steel of the one hundred and thirty brothers and sisters lying before us."
Aerion stepped closer to the graves, his golden eyes sweeping over the faces of his surviving legionnaires.
"We bury them today in the earth of Skyrim, but their legacy is eternally forged in the soul of the Empire," Aerion vowed, his voice soaring with powerful, mournful rhetoric. "Do not forget their names. Do not forget their sacrifice. When you return to your families in Cyrodiil, in Falkreath, in Solitude, whenever you're from... you tell them that you stood beside giants. You tell them that the men and women of this regiment held the line against the number of enemies that overwhelmed us."
Aerion drew his Ebony Greatsword, reversing his grip, and drove the blade deeply into the frozen earth before the first grave, kneeling on one knee.
"To the fallen," Aerion whispered loudly into the quiet air.
"TO THE FALLEN!" Nine hundred legionnaires roared, tears freezing on the cheeks of hardened veterans as they slammed their fists against their breastplates in a final, shattering salute.
One by one, the bodies were gently lowered into the earth. The legionnaires worked in silence, shoveling the dark, frozen dirt over their brothers, burying them with the absolute respect they had earned.
As the sun finally dipped below the jagged mountain peaks, plunging Fort Kastav into the deep, bruising twilight of evening, the mood across the fortress was profoundly somber. The adrenaline of the siege had completely faded, leaving behind the heavy, quiet reflection of survival.
Aerion stood on the shattered ramparts, looking out over the quiet plateau.
He turned to Praefects Valerius and Quintus.
"The men and women are exhausted, both physically and spiritually," Aerion ordered softly. "Allow a relaxed patrol schedule for the perimeter tonight. Let them sit by the fires. Let them drink the ale, and let them talk about the men we buried. They need to grieve."
Aerion's eyes hardened slightly.
"But double the heavy guards on the prison block," he added strictly. "The Stormcloaks may be broken, but despair breeds desperation. I want no surprises in the dark. Keep the ropes tight."
"It will be done, Captain," Valerius promised, offering a slow, respectful salute.
Aerion dismissed them, turning his gaze back to the cold, starlit sky. The fortress was his. The rebellion in the east was critically wounded. The Dragonborn was marching with the General. The war was shifting, and Aerion was the hand moving the pieces in the dark.
The heavy, biting wind sweeping down from the Sea of Ghosts did little to mask the scent of ash and frozen blood that clung to the shattered stones of Fort Kastav.
Aerion walked with slow, deliberate strides across the inner courtyard, the thick fur of his dark cloak billowing behind him. He did not wear his helm, allowing the freezing air to cool his skin. His golden eyes swept over the newly conquered stronghold, calculating, assessing, and ensuring the absolute subjugation of the enemy.
Dozens of Stormcloak prisoners sat huddled in tight, miserable clusters along the base of the intact walls. Their hands were bound tightly behind their backs with heavy hemp rope, their weapons stripped, their armor confiscated. Imperial legionnaires stood at rigid attention over them, weapons tips resting mere inches from the prisoners' throats, ensuring that not a single rebel entertained the suicidal thought of an uprising.
Aerion paused near a group of captured officers. They shivered violently in the cold, their faces bruised and hollow. They looked up at the towering High Elf with a mixture of bitter hatred and paralyzing, inescapable awe. Aerion did not gloat. He did not offer them mocking words or demand their fealty. He simply looked at them as one would look at a broken and obsolete tool, before turning his gaze northward, toward the jagged peaks that shielded the capital of the hold.
Winterhold.
With Fort Kastav completely broken and occupied, the primary geographic and military chokepoint protecting the northern coast was gone. The path to the ancient, crumbling city was entirely open.
Aerion's tactical mind began to rapidly dissect the vulnerabilities of the hold's capital. Winterhold was a shadow of its former glory, devastated by the Great Collapse nearly a century ago. The city was little more than a collection of ruined, wind battered wooden longhouses clinging desperately to the edge of a frozen cliff. It possessed no heavy stone walls, no reinforced portcullises, and, crucially, barely any military infrastructure.
Jarl Korir was a paranoid, bitter man who commanded a pitifully small guard force. The vast majority of the Stormcloak reserves in the region had been stationed here, at Fort Kastav, and Aerion had just slaughtered or captured every single one of them.
The news of Kastav's catastrophic, instantaneous fall would spread to Winterhold like wildfire. When the starving, freezing citizens heard that an Imperial Praefect commanding an army of Daedra and armored mammoths had butchered their fortress in two days, the shockwave of pure terror would shatter whatever fragile morale remained. Jarl Korir's prestige would evaporate overnight. He would have no political or military leverage left to force his desperate people to man the ruined barricades.
Aerion realized, with cold clarity, that he might not even need to draw his sword to take the city.
He turned on his heel, his heavy boots crunching against the frost, and walked toward the center of the courtyard where Praefects Valerius and Quintus were overseeing the organization of the Imperial supply train.
"Praefects," Aerion called out, his voice cutting through the clatter of wooden crates and the shouting of the quartermasters.
Valerius and Quintus immediately ceased their conversation, turning and snapping off crisp salutes.
"Captain," Valerius acknowledged. "The prisoners are secure, and the quartermasters have begun inventorying the fortress's remaining grain and salted meat. The men are holding their posts."
"Excellent," Aerion nodded smoothly. "But our momentum must not stagnate. The board is open, and we must strike before the enemy can comprehend the scale of their loss."
He gestured toward the heavy wooden table that had been dragged out into the courtyard to serve as a makeshift command desk.
"Valerius, draft a dispatch immediately," Aerion ordered, his tone carrying absolute authority. "Send it west to Fort Dunstad, directly to the hands of General Tullius and Legate Rikke. Inform them that Fort Kastav has fallen, the garrison is neutralized, and the eastern pass is entirely under Imperial control."
Valerius's eyes brightened with pride. "I will write it at once, Captain."
"Add a specific strategic request," Aerion continued, his eyes narrowing slightly as he outlined the political maneuver. "Inform the General that the path to Winterhold is completely undefended. Request formal authorization for this regiment to march immediately on the city and take it over. Furthermore, request the General's blessing to depose Jarl Korir and install a new Jarl, one who is explicitly a sympathizer and supporter of the Empire, to consolidate our control over the hold."
Quintus raised an eyebrow, deeply impressed by the High Elf's political foresight. "Replacing Korir is the only way to hold the city long term, Captain. The man is a fanatic. He would never bend the knee, even with a blade at his throat."
"Exactly," Aerion agreed. "We replace him with someone pliable. Someone who understands that Imperial grain is vastly preferable to Stormcloak pride. Send the rider on the fastest horse we have. I want an answer before nightfall."
Valerius offered a sharp nod, immediately turning to the table to unroll a fresh sheet of parchment. He wrote quickly, his quill scratching furiously against the paper, before sealing the missive with red wax. He handed it to a lightly armored Imperial courier, who instantly sprinted toward the stables.
With the political gears set into motion, Aerion turned his attention to the immediate infrastructure of their occupation.
"Move the main encampment," Aerion instructed Quintus. "I want the tents brought up from the basin and established directly beside the western walls of the fort. We will utilize the remaining stone structures for our command staff and the medical triage. The men have slept in the dirt long enough."
"What of the ice walls, Captain?" Quintus asked, gesturing toward the massive, glowing blue permafrost fortress Aerion had erected down in the valley. "They are impenetrable, but they block the heavy supply wagons from easily relocating."
"I will handle the ice," Aerion replied calmly.
Aerion walked out through the shattered breach of the curtain wall, standing at the edge of the snowy plateau overlooking the basin. The thirty foot high walls of solid glacial ice still stood as a testament to his overwhelming magical capacity, trapping the morning light in their jagged depths.
He did not want to shatter them, the resulting explosion of heavy ice blocks would damage the tents and the wagons currently being packed by the legionnaires inside.
Aerion raised his hands, tapping into the Eye of Magnus, but instead of channeling the freezing zero cold of Frost magic, he reversed the thermal flow entirely. He channeled a massive, sustained, and highly controlled aura of Flames.
He didn't hurl a fireball. He simply radiated an ambient, superheated wave of hot thermal that washed over the entire basin.
The transition was breathtaking. The massive, towering walls of permafrost did not crack or shatter. They simply began to weep. The solid ice rapidly melted, transforming into rushing waterfalls that cascaded down into the frozen dirt. But Aerion pushed the heat further. Before the water could flood the basin and ruin the camp, the intense, localized heat instantly vaporized the liquid.
In a matter of seconds, the impenetrable glacial fortress dissolved into a massive, sprawling cloud of thick, warm, harmless white mist that drifted slowly away on the mountain wind, leaving the basin completely clear.
The Imperial legionnaires, who were in the process of rolling up their tents, stopped and stared in absolute, silent awe. To create a fortress of ice was the work of a god, to casually erase it from existence without leaving a single puddle of mud was the work of a being who held the very elements of Nirn on a leash. Aerion turned his back on the dissipating mist and walked back toward the fortress to oversee the renovations.
_____________________________
[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 1030/1030
Stamina: 1070/1070
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 267
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), Summon Dragon (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+7)/Lightning(+5)/Frost(+4)) (Level 0/0/0), Restoration (Healing(+4)/Purify(+2)) (Level 0/98), Alteration (Level 43), Illusion (Level 62), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+3)) (Level 37/0), Persuasion(+3) (Level 92), Smithing(+1) (Level 79), Sneak(+1) (Level 64), One Handed(+2) (Level 0), Two Handed(+1) (Level 29), Lockpicking (Level 55), Archery(+1) (Level 0), Enchanting(+1) (Level 23), Light Armor(+2) (Level 42), Block (Level 70), Pickpocket (Level 8), & Heavy Armor(+2) (Level 0)
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), & Faas (Fear)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, the Golden Claw, Arvel's Journal, Inkwell & Quill, Thief Book, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, The Mirror, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Deed to Tundra Homestead, Dawnbreaker, Traveling Backpack (Supplies), Vampire Armor, Vampire Boots, Movarth's Golden Ash (Unique), Potion of Healing, Mage Boots Of Weight, Master Robes Of Destruction, Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson, Gauldur Black Bow, Dwarven Battleaxe, Mehrunes Razor Hilt, Mehrunes' Razor Pommel, Stone of Barenziah (1/24), Mehrunes' Razor Blades, Iron Circlet of Ruby, & Iron Circlet of Emerald
2x Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), & Potions of Plentiful Magicka
3x Potions of Minor Stamina, Petty Soul Gem (Filled), Potions of Minor Magicka, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), & Greater Soul Gems
5x Mod Chests
8x Iron Arrows, Ancient Nord Arrows, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
10x Lesser Soul Gems
12x Black Soul Gem (Filled)
Weight: 49.79 KG / 885 KG
Septims: 255,867