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Aerion read the data with clinical, cold satisfaction. The brutal melee clearing in the cellars with the Poacher's Axe and the Black Prism had vastly accelerated his One Handed proficiencies, his Ebony Greatsword to slaughter the Stormcloaks outside increase his Two Handed, while the apocalyptic bombardment of the courtyard had pushed his primary magical schools right back to their absolute zenith. He did not hesitate. He selected the six skills that had reached their maximum thresholds, Fire, Frost, Restoration, Conjuration, Persuasion, and Two Handed, and initiated the Legendary Reset.
[Initiating Multiple Legendary Resets...]
[Selected skills returned to Level 0. Prestige Multipliers (+) increased by 1.]
With his skills reset and his potential expanded, Aerion turned to his physical attributes. He had eighteen points to distribute.
[Attribute Points Allocated: Health x9 (+90 Points)]
[Attribute Points Allocated: Stamina x9 (+90 Points)]
[Maximum Weight Limit Increased by 45 KG.]
A sudden, roaring surge of pure vitality exploded from his core, radiating outward to the very tips of his fingers. The lingering ache in his shoulders from swinging the heavy ebony blade evaporated entirely. His bones felt as though they had been injected with tempered steel.
His heart beat with a slow, heavy, impossibly powerful rhythm, pumping highly oxygenated blood through veins that felt thick as anchor cables. The dimensional void tethered to his soul stretched further, comfortably expanding its capacity to hold the spoils of war.
Aerion opened his golden eyes. The firelight of the hearth reflected in them, burning with an intense otherworldly clarity.
He laid back against the thick furs of the bed, the heavy warmth of his upgraded vitality lulling him into an instant, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, the biting mountain cold had done nothing to dampen the electric, soaring morale of the Imperial regiment.
Aerion stepped out of the command suite, fully armored, his heavy dark cloak fastened securely at his broad shoulders. He descended into the main courtyard, where Praefects Valerius and Quintus, the five Tribunes, his personal retainers, and the four apprentices were already gathered in a tight, heavily armed circle.
"Report," Aerion commanded, his voice crisp and authoritative in the freezing air.
"The regiment is formed up and ready to march, Captain," Valerius replied, snapping a sharp salute. "The heavy supply wagons are loaded to capacity with salted meat, grain, and furs, exactly as you ordered."
Aerion nodded smoothly. "And the dragon?"
"Secured," Valerius confirmed, pointing toward a massive, snow covered alcove near the ruined eastern wall. "The mammoths dragged the carcass inside before midnight. The two bulls have taken up defensive positions flanking the dragon's carcass. They haven't moved an inch, and the men know better than to go near them."
"Excellent," Aerion said, a faint, approving smile touching his lips. "Then it is time we relieve Jarl Korir of his burden. Let us march."
Aerion led his command staff out through the shattered main gates of Fort Kastav. The sight that greeted him upon the snowy plateau was a testament to absolute Imperial discipline. Eight hundred and seventy combat capable legionnaires stood in immaculate, rigid formations, their crimson cloaks stark against the blinding white snow. The heavy supply wagons were lined up behind the infantry, and the remaining nine armored mammoths stood patiently on the flanks, their breath pluming like steam engines.
Aerion did not mount a wooden wagon to deliver a sprawling speech today. He simply walked to the front of the massive formation, his presence alone commanding absolute silence.
"Legionnaires!" Aerion called out, his voice echoing cleanly across the plateau. "Yesterday, you broke a fortress. Today, you will break a Jarl! We march on Winterhold not as butchers, but as the inevitable, undeniable reality of the Empire! Keep your shields high, keep your discipline iron, and follow the beasts!"
The men and women slammed their weapons against their shields or the ground in a single, deafening crash of approval.
Aerion walked toward the alpha mammoth, hauling his massive frame up the thick leather harnessing until he stood tall upon the beast's domed skull.
As he settled into his position, Aerion leaned down, bringing his face close to the thick, coarse hair near the mammoth's massive ear. He did not use telepathy. He spoke in a low, rhythmic whisper, utilizing his Animal Affinity to ensure the beast completely understood the complex intent of his words.
"Listen closely," Aerion whispered into the freezing wind. "When we reach the outskirts of the city, I need eyes in the shadows. Tell your brothers to speak to the earth. Send out the call to the small ones. The rats in the cellars, the ravens on the roofs, the foxes in the snow. Have them watch the city. Have them watch the Jarl. I want to know exactly what is happening behind their brittle wooden walls before we ever reach their gates."
The alpha mammoth let out a soft, vibrating huff. It raised its massive trunk, letting out a series of highly complex, low frequency rumbles that were practically inaudible to the human ear, but traveled for miles through the frozen earth and the mountain air. The other eight mammoths picked up the frequency, amplifying the signal, broadcasting the warlord's command into the wild ecosystem of the northern coast.
The march began.
The journey from Fort Kastav to Winterhold was a slow, grueling descent out of the high mountain passes and onto the wind-blasted, frozen cliffs bordering the Sea of Ghosts. The road was treacherous, choked with snowdrifts and sheer drop offs, but the mammoths effortlessly cleared the path, their massive bodies acting as living snowplows for the infantry and the heavy wagons behind them.
Two hours into the march, as the jagged, ruined skyline of Winterhold finally began to materialize through the blowing snow, Aerion felt a sudden, sharp displacement of air near his shoulder.
A massive, black feathered raven dropped from the gray sky, its talons clicking softly against the heavy steel pauldron of Aerion's armor.
The bird ruffled its feathers against the cold, tilting its dark, beady eyes up to look at the bronze mask of Krosis. It let out a rapid series of harsh caws, clicks, and throaty croaks.
To the legionnaires marching behind him, it was just a scavenger looking for a meal. But to Aerion, thanks to his Animal Affinity, the avian vocalizations translated into flawless, highly detailed intelligence.
"Panic. Fear. The wooden halls smell of sweat and terror," the raven reported, its voice a sharp, echoing rasp in Aerion's mind. "The men who fled your fires brought the stories. They told the man in the big chair about the demons and the beasts. The man in the big chair is screaming. The Jarl. He paces the floor. He begs his guards to stand on the walls, but their hands shake. They know they cannot win."
Aerion let out a low, dark chuckle, the sound vibrating behind his mask. The psychological warfare had germinated perfectly. The survivors of Kastav had done his work for him, infecting Winterhold with a paralyzing, inescapable terror.
"And what of the stone tower over the water?" Aerion asked softly, speaking directly to the raven. "What of the College?"
The raven clicked its beak, hopping slightly on his pauldron.
"The stone tower is closed. The dark elf who commands it has sealed the heavy iron gates. He spoke to his scholars. He told them the fire in the town is not their fire. He ordered them to stay inside, to ignore the shouting. But... not all listen. Some young ones in robes sneak near the walls, wanting to throw their own fire. Some of the older ones watch them go, turning their heads away so they do not see the disobedience."
Aerion nodded slowly, a knowing smirk touching his lips. It was exactly as he had anticipated. Savos Aren was a staunch and uncompromising pacifist who would rather see Winterhold burn than entangle the College in a bloody civil war. The Arch-Mage had locked the fortress down, officially severing the College from the city's fate.
If a few hot headed apprentices wanted to sneak out and play hero, Savos might turn a blind eye temporarily, but if they truly intervened and drew the wrath of the Imperial Legion upon the College, the strict Dunmer would not hesitate to banish them to protect the institution.
"Keep watching the longhouse," Aerion whispered to the bird. "If the Jarl tries to flee into the snow, tell the wolves."
The raven let out a sharp caw of acknowledgment, launching itself from his shoulder and vanishing back into the swirling blizzard.
Aerion turned his attention forward. Through the blowing snow, the miserable, dilapidated reality of Winterhold finally came into full view.
It was a city in name only. The Great Collapse had torn the vast majority of the infrastructure directly into the churning, freezing ocean below. What remained was a desperate, shivering collection of wooden longhouses, a ruined tavern, and the crumbling remnants of an ancient stone wall that offered no true defensive value.
Standing atop the brittle, snow covered walls were perhaps two hundred men. Half were the exhausted, terrified survivors who had fled the slaughter at Fort Kastav. The other half were Winterhold city guards, shivering in their light chainmail, gripping their spears with white knuckled terror.
Aerion raised his gauntleted hand, signaling the column to halt.
The massive Imperial regiment ground to a stop a few hundred yards from the city limits, out of bow range. The heavy supply wagons were pulled to the front, clearly visible to the starving defenders on the walls.
"Hold the formation," Aerion ordered Praefect Valerius. "Do not advance. Let them look at what they are facing."
Aerion spurred the alpha mammoth forward. He rode out alone, entirely unsupported by the infantry, slowly closing the distance to the ruined walls of the city. He stopped the colossal beast a mere fifty yards from the barricades, his towering, armored figure completely dominating the landscape.
On the walls, the tension reached a breaking point.
A Stormcloak officer, his arm heavily bandaged from the fighting at Kastav, stepped forward to the edge of the ruined parapet. He drew his sword, though his hand shook violently.
"HALT!" the Stormcloak Commander shrieked, his voice cracking with sheer panic. "NOT ONE STEP CLOSER, ELF! ARCHERS, DRAW! IF HE MOVES, SHOOT HIM DOWN!"
A few dozen Winterhold city guards nervously raised their hunting bows, notching iron arrows and drawing the strings back with trembling fingers.
Aerion didn't raise a magical ward. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply sat atop the alpha mammoth, projecting an aura of terrifying invulnerability.
"If you loose a single arrow at me," Aerion's voice boomed, magically amplified to echo like a thunderclap across the ruined city, "I will not bother drawing my weapons or send my men. I will simply vaporize that entire wall, and everyone standing upon it, in a heartbeat."
The threat was not empty, and the survivors of Kastav knew it.
The moment the words left Aerion's mouth, the Stormcloak remnants on the wall violently panicked. They had seen his magic shatter a reinforced mountain fortress in seconds. They knew a brittle wooden barricade would offer zero protection against the apocalypse.
"NO! DROP THEM!" a terrified Stormcloak veteran screamed, instantly lowering his own bow and physically shoving the guard next to him. "Are you insane?! Do you want to burn?! Lower your weapons!"
The panic was contagious. Within seconds, every single bow on the wall was hastily lowered, the arrows returning to their quivers. The Stormcloak Commander screamed curses, threatening to execute them for cowardice, but his men and women ignored him. Survival instinct completely overrode their military discipline.
Aerion let out a slow, resonating chuckle that carried easily over the wind, stripping away whatever dignity the defenders had left.
"I cannot fathom why you even bother standing on those rotting planks," Aerion called out, his voice shifting from a terrifying threat into a smooth, deeply manipulative, charismatic cadence. He wasn't speaking to the Commander, he was projecting his voice directly to the freezing guards and the terrified citizens huddled behind them.
"Look at yourselves," Aerion declared, gesturing to the miserable, dilapidated state of the city. "You are freezing. Your children are starving. Your economy was destroyed nearly a century ago, and what has your Jarl done to fix it? Nothing."
The city guards exchanged nervous, desperate glances. The words were hitting entirely too close to home.
"Jarl Korir sits in a warm longhouse, wrapped in heavy furs, eating whatever meager meat his hunters can scrape from the ice," Aerion continued, twisting the knife of class resentment. "He demands your loyalty. He demands your taxes. He demands that you send the strong sons and daughters of Winterhold to bleed and die in the snow for Ulfric Stormcloak's pride."
Aerion stood up taller upon the mammoth, his golden eyes sweeping over the defenders.
"And what has that pride bought you?" Aerion demanded, his voice ringing with righteous, irrefutable logic. "Has Stormcloak pride put food on your tables? Has it rebuilt your ruined homes? Has it opened trade routes, or brought merchants to your taverns? No. It has brought you nothing but isolation, suffering, and death."
The Stormcloak Commander slammed his fist against the wooden barricade. "Do not listen to his poison! He is an Imperial tyrant! He wants to enslave you!"
"I am the Captain of the Imperial Legion!" Aerion roared back, cutting the Commander off entirely. He turned and pointed a heavy, gauntleted finger back toward the massive Imperial formation waiting in the snow.
"Look behind me!" Aerion commanded the city. "Look at the heavy wagons! I did not march here today with siege engines! I marched here with tons of salted meat, grain, and heavy winter furs! The Empire does not wish to enslave you, the Empire wishes to feed you!"
A collective, desperate gasp rippled through the starving defenders on the wall. The sheer sight of the heavy supply wagons, loaded with food, was a vastly more potent weapon than any sword.
"Jarl Korir treats you as expendable meat to shield his own cowardice!" Aerion's voice echoed powerfully, sowing the final seeds of utter division. "He would see you all slaughtered today just to protect his rotting wooden chair! Why do you protect a man who does not care if you live or die?!"
Aerion lowered his hand, his voice dropping into a solemn, earnest promise.
"Open the gates," Aerion offered, his tone filled with persuasive warmth. "Lay down your weapons. Surrender Jarl Korir to Imperial justice. If you do this, I swear upon my honor that not a single drop of Winterhold blood will be spilled today. I swear that the wagons will roll into your square, and your families will feast tonight under the protection and the prosperity of the Empire."
Aerion fell silent, the howling mountain wind rushing in to fill the void.
On the brittle walls of Winterhold, the psychological devastation was absolute.
A Winterhold city guard, his face gaunt from weeks of half rations, looked down at his cheap iron spear. He looked at the screaming, red faced Stormcloak Commander, who had forced them onto the walls to die against an invincible army. Then, he looked out at the massive Imperial supply wagons, promising salvation.
The guard slowly lowered his weapon. He turned his back on the Commander, his eyes burning with a sudden, resentful fury.
"I'm not dying for Korir," the guard spat, throwing his spear into the snow. "My daughter hasn't eaten meat in a month."
"TRAITOR!" the Stormcloak Commander shrieked, raising his sword to strike the guard down.
Before the blade could fall, three other Winterhold guards lunged forward. They tackled the Stormcloak Commander to the snowy planks, ripping the sword from his grasp and pinning him brutally to the wood.
The rift had fractured wide open. The city guards, driven by starvation and Aerion's perfectly targeted manipulation, turned on the Stormcloak remnants. Across the entire length of the ruined wall, brawls broke out as the locals disarmed the rebels, refusing to die for a cause that had only ever brought them misery.
Aerion sat atop the alpha mammoth, watching the defenders tear themselves apart, a cold, calculated smile hidden behind the bronze mask of Krosis. He didn't need to break down the gates.
The biting, salt laced wind howling off the Sea of Ghosts carried the sudden, chaotic symphony of a city tearing itself apart.
On the brittle, rotting wooden walls of Winterhold, the ideological fracture Aerion had so carefully engineered erupted into desperate, bloody violence. The starving city guards and the local militia, their bellies hollow and their patience entirely shattered by Jarl Korir's fanatical pride, turned their weapons against the hardened Stormcloak veterans who had fled Fort Kastav.
The Stormcloaks were caught completely by surprise, expecting to defend the walls against an Imperial siege, not an uprising from the very people they claimed to be liberating. A Winterhold guard drove the butt of his spear into the knee of a heavy armored rebel, sending him crashing to the icy planks. A few yards away, a desperate local fisherman swung a rusted woodcutter's axe, burying it into the shoulder of a Stormcloak archer who was trying to draw his bow.
But the Stormcloaks were veterans, hardened by years of war and the slaughter they had just survived at Kastav. They did not simply lay down their arms and accept the mutiny.
"Hold the wall! Put these traitors down!" a bleeding Stormcloak lieutenant roared, drawing his broadsword and deflecting a desperate thrust from a city guard. He spun, driving his heavy steel pommel into the guard's face, shattering his nose and sending him sprawling backward into the snow.
Steel clashed against iron. Men shouted in panic, pain, and fury. Casualties were unavoidable in the tight confines of the parapet. A young Winterhold guard took a Stormcloak dagger to the ribs, collapsing with a wet gasp, while two other locals wrestled a rebel over the edge of the wall, sending him plummeting into the deep snowdrifts below.
The Stormcloaks fought with the cornered desperation of men who knew they had nowhere left to run, while the locals fought with the feral, unrelenting frenzy of a people who had finally seen a chance at survival.
Down in the snowfields, sitting atop the colossal, steel plated skull of the alpha mammoth, Aerion watched the infighting with absolute, clinical focus.
He had broken their unity, but he would not sit idly by while the citizens who had chosen the Empire were slaughtered by rebel holdouts.
"Bring me to the wall," Aerion commanded, his voice a low, steady rumble that carried over the wind.
He spoke to the beast. The alpha mammoth let out a deep, vibrating huff of acknowledgment. The colossal creature lumbered forward, its massive, iron cleated feet shaking the frozen earth as it closed the distance to the ruined barricades. It stopped mere inches from the wall, its towering, domed head easily cresting the height of the wooden parapet.
Aerion stepped smoothly off the mammoth's skull, the heavy plates of his Nordic Carved Armor clanking against the icy wood as he landed directly in the center of the chaotic melee.
A Stormcloak soldier, his face smeared with soot, turned and raised a heavy battleaxe toward the High Elf.
Aerion didn't even draw his greatsword. He simply raised his left gauntlet and unleashed a localized, concussive wave of telekinetic force. The sheer kinetic impact slammed into the rebel's chest, throwing him backward with bone jarring violence to crash against a wooden watchtower, instantly knocking him unconscious.
Aerion ignored the rest of the fighting, his golden eyes locking onto the young Winterhold guard who had taken a dagger to the ribs. The boy was lying in a growing pool of his own blood, his face pale, gasping for air as a fellow local tried desperately to put pressure on the wound.
Aerion knelt beside them in the snow and ice. He removed his right gauntlet, exposing his bare hand to the freezing wind, and placed his palm directly over the bleeding wound.
He tapped into his legendary level mastery of Restoration magic.
A blinding, pure golden light erupted from Aerion's hand, cutting through the gray gloom of the blizzard. The radiant warmth washed over the dying guard. The effect was instantaneous and miraculous. The ragged, torn flesh of the stab wound rapidly knit itself together, the severed blood vessels sealing flawlessly. The boy's ragged gasps smoothed out into deep, unobstructed breaths, the color rushing back to his freezing cheeks.
"By the Divines..." the older local whispered, staring at Aerion in sheer, unadulterated awe, completely forgetting the brawl raging twenty feet away.
In the distance, standing near the massive supply wagons of the Imperial encampment, Aerion's command staff and retainers had been watching the confrontation on the wall. When the massive alpha mammoth moved forward and Aerion stepped off to directly intervene, a wave of shock rippled through the group.
"Is he out of his mind?!" Lydia roared, her protective instincts overriding her military discipline. "He just stepped into a melee completely unsupported!"
"The Patron does not need support, Housecarl," Jenassa murmured, her crimson eyes narrowed in fascination, though her hand rested firmly on the hilt of her dagger. "But he is certainly making a spectacle of it."
"Come on!" Onmund shouted, gripping his staff tightly.
The retainers and the four battlemages, Lydia, Jenassa, Eisa, Onmund, Brelyna, J'zargo, and Eirik, broke away from the Praefects and sprinted across the snowfield toward the towering alpha mammoth.
As they reached the base of the colossal beast, the alpha mammoth looked down at them with dark, intelligent eyes. It recognized their scents. It knew they were the pack of the master.
Before Lydia could even begin to search for handholds on the heavy leather harnessing, the mammoth lowered its massive, muscular trunk into the snow. It curled the tip slightly, offering a makeshift, heavily bristled platform.
Lydia didn't hesitate. She stepped onto the trunk, gripping the coarse hair. With surprising gentleness and terrifying, effortless strength, the mammoth lifted its trunk high into the air, hoisting the heavily armored Nord directly up to the level of the wooden parapet. It repeated the process in rapid succession, smoothly lifting Jenassa, Eisa, and the four mages up to the wall, entirely bypassing the need to climb.
"I think I owe this beast a very large bushel of apples," Eirik gasped, his eyes wide as he stepped off the trunk and onto the icy planks, clutching his staff.
Lydia immediately drew her longsword, her eyes scanning the parapet, but the fighting was already dying down. The sheer, terrifying presence of the High Elf casting godlike healing magic in the center of the brawl, combined with the realization that they were completely outnumbered, had finally broken the last of the Stormcloak resistance. The rebels were dropping their weapons, sinking to their knees in the snow, their hands raised in surrender as the local guards quickly moved to bind them.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 1120/1120
Stamina: 1160/1160
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 285
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(+8)/Lightning(+5)/Frost(+5)) (Level 0/85/0), Restoration (Healing(+5)/Purify(+2)) (Level 0/98), Alteration (Level 75), Illusion (Level 62), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+4)) (Level 37/0), Persuasion(+4) (Level 0), Smithing(+1) (Level 79), Sneak(+1) (Level 64), One Handed(+2) (Level 65), Two Handed(+2) (Level 0), Lockpicking (Level 55), Archery(+1) (Level 47), Enchanting(+1) (Level 23), Light Armor(+2) (Level 42), Block (Level 70), Pickpocket (Level 8), & Heavy Armor(+2) (Level 78)
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