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Mirabelle's lips thinned into a hard line. She let out a sharp, disapproving tsk, crossing her arms tighter over her robes. "Listen to me carefully, Aerion," Mirabelle warned, her voice dropping into a stern, uncompromising register. "You may have just been handed the titles of Master and Field Master all in one afternoon while being the Special Advisor as well. And you may command an Imperial army outside our walls. But do not think that your new positions mean you can simply do whatever you please within this institution."
She stepped half a pace closer, refusing to be intimidated by his towering height or his armor.
"I am not jealous of your rapid ascension," Mirabelle stated honestly. "But I am the Headmistress. It is my duty to ensure the stability and the safety of this College. Power like yours breeds arrogance, and arrogance breeds disaster. Consider this a reminder. You are bound by the rules of this sanctuary, just like everyone else."
Aerion did not bristle at the reprimand. He did not flex his magical dominance. He looked down at the strict Breton woman and recognized her genuine dedication to the College. She was exactly the kind of administrator he would need to handle the day to day operations when he eventually took the throne.
Aerion's charismatic smile faded into an expression of sincere gravity. He bowed his head respectfully.
"I understand you perfectly, Headmistress," Aerion replied, his voice devoid of any mockery. "Your dedication to this College is exactly why it still stands. I respect your authority, and I assure you, my only goal is to see this institution thrive. I will not bring disaster to these halls."
Mirabelle searched his golden eyes for a long moment. Finding no deceit, her rigid posture finally relaxed a fraction of an inch.
"See that you don't," Mirabelle muttered, turning on her heel. "Have a good evening, Master Aerion."
"And you, Headmistress Mirabelle," Aerion replied, watching her sweep out of the hall before turning to make his own exit.
The freezing wind howled through the narrow, snow choked streets of Winterhold as Aerion crossed the stone bridge back into the city.
The Imperial occupation was moving with flawless efficiency. Legionnaires were heavily patrolling the intersections, the citizens were safely indoors with full bellies, and the ruined town square was secure. Aerion passed by the main thoroughfare, navigating the icy paths until he reached the heavy, weathered timber doors of The Frozen Hearth.
He pushed the doors open, stepping out of the blizzard and into a wall of glorious, roaring heat.
The tavern was packed to absolute capacity. The vast majority of the patrons were off duty Imperial legionnaires, their crimson cloaks draped over chairs as they drank heavy tankards of ale and devoured hot venison stew. The moment Aerion's towering, armored figure stepped into the firelight, the ambient noise in the tavern ceased instantly.
Every single legionnaire in the room shot to their feet, their heavy boots scraping against the wooden floorboards, snapping crisp, rigid salutes to their conquering Captain.
Aerion raised a gauntlet, a warm, fiercely proud smile breaking across his face.
"At ease, legionnaires!" Aerion called out warmly. "Drink your ale! You've earned every drop!"
A massive cheer erupted through the tavern, the tension instantly dissolving back into boisterous, celebratory laughter.
Aerion navigated through the crowded tables, clapping a few veterans on the shoulder, until he reached a large, secluded circular table in the back corner of the room.
His entire inner circle was gathered there. Lydia and Eisa were currently locked in a fierce, high stakes arm wrestling match, their muscles straining while Jenassa leaned against the wall, smirking as she counted the wagered septims. Sitting opposite them were the four mages, J'zargo, Onmund, Brelyna, and Eirik.
The three newly promoted Adepts were wearing their brand new, beautifully tailored College adept robes and hoods. The dark blue fabric marked them as accomplished scholars, and they wore the garments with a mixture of profound pride and lingering disbelief.
Eirik, however, was still wearing his rugged mercenary leathers.
As Aerion pulled up a heavy wooden chair and sat down at the head of the table, he caught the tail end of a conversation between the mages.
Eirik was staring at Onmund's new Adept hood, a look of deep, undeniable longing etched across his weathered Nordic features.
"I won't lie to you, guys," Eirik sighed, taking a long pull from his flagon of mead. "I'm happy for you. Really, I am. You fought like demons at Kastav and you earned those threads. But... it stings a bit, you know? I've been slinging fireballs for quite some years as a sellsword. I'd give my right arm to be recognized like that. To have a title that isn't just 'mercenary'."
J'zargo laughed, slapping the heavy wooden table. "Then you should have enrolled in the College, Nord! J'zargo told you, the institution offers prestige! You have the skill. You should petition to join, endure the boring lectures, and in few weeks you took the test, then you too could wear the blue!"
"It's true, Eirik," Brelyna added gently, leaning forward. "You have incredible raw talent. The faculty would certainly accept you as an Apprentice. If you joined the institution, you could formalize your training."
Aerion rested his arms on the table, listening to the exchange. He looked at Eirik, a loyal, battle hardened mage who had stood with him on the walls of Whiterun, who had fought Daedra in the snow, and who possessed vastly more practical combat experience than half the Experts in the College.
"If you truly want to be part of the institution, Eirik, you have my blessing to enroll," Aerion interrupted smoothly, drawing the table's absolute attention.
Aerion leaned back in his chair, a charismatic, deeply powerful aura radiating from him. "But... if you do not want to subject yourself to years of dusty lectures and arrogant aristocratic scholars, you do not have to. I am now the Field Master of the College of Winterhold. I possess the unilateral authority to administer examinations and grant field promotions."
Aerion smiled, his golden eyes locking onto the stunned mercenary. "I have fought beside you, Eirik. I know exactly what you are capable of. If you wish, I will test you myself, right here in the field. And when you pass, I will personally buy you the Adept robes and hood from the College quartermaster, and you will wear the title with my full authority behind it."
Eirik's jaw literally dropped. He stared at the towering High Elf, the flagon of mead slipping slightly in his grip. The overwhelming validation of being offered a formal academic title by a living legend of the arcane, without having to endure the suffocating bureaucracy of the College, was staggering.
"Captain... Master Aerion," Eirik stammered, his eyes wide with profound gratitude. "I... I would be incredibly honored. Truly. Thank you."
A collective groan immediately erupted from the other three mages.
"Oh, come on!" Onmund complained loudly, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation.
"This is an outrage!" J'zargo booed, pointing an accusing, furred finger at Aerion. "J'zargo had to stand in front of the Arch-Mage and the terrifying Headmistress! J'zargo was scrutinized! If J'zargo knew the Master could simply hand out robes in a tavern, J'zargo would never have taken the formal test!"
"It does feel a bit unfair, aster," Brelyna giggled, covering her mouth to hide her smile.
Aerion just chuckled, picking up a flagon of wine that Lydia had poured for him. "You didn't ask me, J'zargo. Therefore, I didn't tell you. Besides, you needed the faculty to see your potential. Eirik only needs me to see his."
The table erupted into laughter, the camaraderie and the unbreakable bond of the unit completely drowning out the howling blizzard outside.
Aerion let them enjoy the warmth and the banter for a few minutes, taking a slow sip of his wine. But the clock was ticking, and the grand strategy required movement.
Aerion set his flagon down with a deliberate heavy thud. The sound instantly silenced the table. His retainers and mages knew that shift in demeanor, the relaxed friend was gone, replaced by the calculating mage.
Aerion leaned forward, gesturing for his inner circle to lean in closer.
"Enjoy the ale tonight," Aerion commanded in a low, hushed whisper, ensuring his words did not carry to the surrounding legionnaire tables. "Because tomorrow, we ride out."
Lydia wiped the sweat from her brow, having just slammed Eisa's arm to the table in victory. She frowned. "Ride out? My Thane, the city just fell. General Tullius will be expecting you to remain here and solidify the occupation."
"The Praefects can solidify the occupation," Aerion dismissed smoothly. "I am leaving the military command in their hands. The transition to Imperial rule is fundamentally complete. Our work here is done."
"Then where are we going, Patron?" Jenassa asked, her crimson eyes gleaming with the promise of violence.
"Southwest," Aerion whispered, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. "We are going to Labyrinthian."
The reaction was instantaneous and profound.
Eirik choked violently on his mead, coughing into his hand. Onmund went completely pale, his Nord blood practically freezing in his veins. Even Eisa, the fearless bandit chief, stiffened in her chair, her eyes widening in absolute shock.
"Labyrinthian?" Onmund gasped, keeping his voice down but unable to hide his terror. "Master... Captain... Labyrinthian isn't a fort. It's a ancient ruins. It's the ruined capital of the Dragon Cult! They say the dead don't sleep there, they rule! Entire armies have marched into those canyons and never returned!"
"It is a death trap, Thane," Lydia agreed, her voice tight with genuine concern. "The legends say the ancient magics are still active. It is a place cursed by the Divines."
Aerion remained completely unbothered by their panic. He took another slow sip of his wine.
"I am well aware of the legends," Aerion replied calmly. "But I have been researching the ancient texts deeply in the Arcanaeum. There is something buried in the absolute lowest levels of Bromjunaar. An artifact of unimaginable power. I want it."
The table fell utterly silent. They stared at the High Elf, realizing that no amount of logic, terror, or legend was going to sway him. He had just conquered a city without drawing a sword, and now he was willingly walking into a mythological nightmare purely because he wanted the loot inside.
Lydia stared at the ceiling, letting out a long, heavy, long-suffering sigh.
"Of course you do," Lydia grumbled, her loyalty overriding her common sense. "Gods forbid we spend a week resting in a warm tavern. We have to go fight ancient dead kings because the Thane read a book."
Eisa let out a dark, fatalistic chuckle, resting her hand on the Pale Blade. "Well, if anyone can butcher a myth, it's the boss. I'm in."
The mages exchanged terrified but resigned glances. They were bound to his service, and where the Master went, they followed.
"Pack your heavy furs and prepare your reagents tonight," Aerion ordered softly, standing up from the table. "We leave at first light."
Aerion left his retainers to their preparations and navigated his way out of the tavern, stepping back into the freezing night air. He walked purposefully through the snowy streets, heading directly for the Jarl's longhouse.
Inside the longhouse, the throne room had been completely converted into a functioning Imperial war room. Praefects Valerius and Quintus, alongside the five Tribunes, were bent over a massive map of the northern holds, surrounded by logistical manifests and patrol schedules.
When Aerion entered, the command staff immediately snapped to attention, slamming their fists to their breastplates.
"At ease," Aerion commanded, walking up to the table. "Status report."
"The city is entirely pacified, Captain," Valerius reported quickly. "Jarl Kraldar has formally addressed the citizenry from the longhouse steps. The transition of power was remarkably smooth. The people are fed, the Stormcloak prisoners are secured in the lower dungeons, and the perimeter patrols are fully established."
"Flawless work," Aerion praised them, his golden eyes sweeping over the officers. "You have handled the logistics perfectly. Because you have secured the capital so efficiently, I am leaving the remainder of the occupation in your hands."
Valerius blinked, clearly confused. "In our hands, sir?"
"I am departing Winterhold tomorrow at dawn," Aerion announced smoothly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. "I have uncovered intelligence regarding a highly secure, ancient Nordic ruin to the southwest. I am taking my personal retainers and my mages to clear it."
The command staff was completely shocked.
"Captain!" Valerius protested, his military discipline warring with his anxiety. "With all due respect, we are at a critical junction in the war! General Tullius and Legate Rikke are currently besieging Fort Dunstad! The moment they break the Pale, the General will undoubtedly require your presence, and your magical superiority, for the final push on Dawnstar!"
"General Tullius has thirty thousand men and the Dragonborn," Aerion countered coldly, his voice slicing through the Praefect's concerns. "Fort Dunstad is a heavy stone redoubt. Even with their trebuchets, it will take the main army several days to shatter the walls, process the prisoners, and organize the march on Dawnstar. I have more than enough time to clear a single ruin and return to the theater of war before the General calls for my banner."
Quintus frowned, looking at the map. "Captain, a Nordic ruin? The danger—"
"Is my concern, Praefect," Aerion interrupted, his golden eyes flashing with a sudden, overwhelming authority that silenced the older officer instantly. "I have broken the back of the northern rebellion. I have handed you a capital of a hold. I am taking three days to pursue my own objectives. My decision is absolutely final."
The sheer, oppressive weight of his command settled over the room. Valerius and Quintus realized there was no arguing with a man who had ripped a dragon from the sky.
Valerius swallowed hard and saluted sharply. "Understood, Captain. We will maintain the control over Winterhold and Fort Kastav in your absence. We await your return."
"Hold the line," Aerion commanded, turning on his heel and leaving the war room.
Aerion retired to the private, luxurious quarters that had once belonged to Jarl Korir. He slept deeply, his enhanced vitality completely purging any lingering fatigue from his system.
The next morning, the sky over Winterhold was a bruised, pale gray, the blizzard finally dying down to a light, freezing snow.
Aerion, Lydia, Jenassa, Eisa, and the four mages gathered in the courtyard just inside the city gates. The quartermasters had saddled their heavily furred warhorses. Aerion mounted his massive black stallion, Revan, securing his heavy dark cloak over his armor.
Without fanfare, the small, elite strike team rode out of the city gates, leaving the Imperial occupation behind.
They rode hard to the southwest. The journey was grueling, taking them out of the relatively flat, frozen plains of the coast and plunging them into the deep, treacherous, jagged mountain canyons that separated Hjaalmarch from the Pale.
It was mid-afternoon, the sky darkening rapidly within the shadows of the towering peaks, when the canyon finally widened, revealing the terrifying, monumental architecture of their destination.
Labyrinthian.
It was not merely a ruin, it was a sprawling, ancient metropolis of dark, imposing stone, buried under centuries of snow and ice. Massive, vaulted archways soared hundreds of feet into the freezing air, casting long, menacing shadows across the valley floor. The sheer scale of Bromjunaar, the ancient capital of the Dragon Cult, was breathtaking and deeply oppressive. The air here felt thick, heavy with the weight of ancient, malevolent magic that had never truly faded.
Aerion pulled Revan to a halt near the base of the massive, wide stone steps leading up into the outer courtyard of the complex.
"Let's get off here," Aerion ordered softly, the silence of the ruins amplifying his voice. "Hitch the horses to the ancient pillars. They go no further."
The group dismounted, their faces grim and pale. The mages could feel the ambient magical dread radiating from the stones. Lydia and Eisa drew their blades silently, their eyes scanning the dark, gaping archways above them.
As they began to ascend the massive, snow-covered stone stairs, the silence was violently shattered.
From the dark, shadowed alcoves flanking the massive staircase, three massive shapes erupted into the gray light.
They were Frost Trolls. But they were not the standard, sickly beasts found wandering the lower passes. These were apex predators, massive, towering monstrosities of heavy muscle, covered in thick, matted white fur, boasting three jagged, glowing red eyes and colossal, razor sharp claws. They roared, a deafening, blood curdling sound that echoed through the ancient city, beating their massive chests as they charged down the stairs toward the intruders.
"Trolls! Formation!" Lydia roared, instantly dropping into a heavy shield stance, bracing for a devastating impact.
Jenassa drew her bow with blinding speed, notching a steel arrow, while Eirik and Brelyna summoned volatile spheres of fire to their palms, knowing that trolls were highly susceptible to extreme heat.
"Hold your fire!" Aerion's voice commanded, ringing with absolute, unnatural authority. "Do not attack!"
The retainers froze, their discipline overriding their terror, though their weapons remained drawn.
Aerion didn't draw his greatsword. He didn't summon destruction magic. He stepped forward, pushing past Lydia's heavy shield, and walked completely unarmed up the steps toward the charging, roaring monstrosities.
"My Thane, what in Oblivion are you doing?!" Lydia screamed, sheer panic gripping her heart.
Aerion ignored her. He focused his mind, tapping into the zenith of his powers.
He didn't just cast a spell, he unleashed the total enhanced aura of his Max Level Animal Affinity.
A profound, thrumming wave of ancient, primal energy exploded from Aerion's core, washing entirely over the stone staircase. It wasn't a physical force, but a deep, psychological tether that aggressively bypassed the cognitive functions of any beast caught within its radius.
The effect on the charging Frost Trolls was instantaneous and completely staggering.
The massive beasts, mere feet from tearing Aerion to shreds, suddenly ground to a violent halt, their heavy claws tearing deep gouges into the ancient stone. The blood curdling roars died in their throats, replaced by a series of confused, low, rumbling grunts. Their aggressive, forward leaning postures broke. They stood up to their full, terrifying height, their three red eyes blinking rapidly as the magical aura flooded their primitive minds, replacing their feral aggression with a profound, overwhelming sense of absolute submission.
Behind Aerion, the retainers and the mages stood in paralyzed shock. They had seen him tame the mammoths outside Whiterun, but the mammoths were herbivores, relatively docile unless provoked. Frost Trolls were mindless and aggressive killing machines that viewed every living creature as meat. To stop three predators mid charge with nothing but presence was terrifying.
Aerion took another slow step forward, ensuring he didn't trigger any lingering defensive instincts. He looked directly up at the towering, muscular beast in the center, and spoke aloud in a low, soothing, yet incredibly dominant tone.
"You are safe now," Aerion promised the beasts, his voice a rhythmic, calming anchor in the freezing air. "You do not need to fight for territory. You do not need to hunt in the freezing dark. You do not need to fear the starvation of the snow."
The central Frost Troll tilted its massive, heavily furred head, letting out a deep, questioning grunt, its long arms hanging loosely at its sides.
"Follow me," Aerion commanded gently, extending a gauntleted hand toward them. "Stand with my pack, and you will have a better life. You will be fed, you will be warm, and you will never fear the dark again."
The tense silence on the ancient stairs stretched for a long, impossible moment.
Then, the central Frost Troll let out a long, heavy exhale that plumed in the cold air. It didn't roar. It let out a soft, rhythmic series of low grunts, slowly lowering its massive bulk until it was crouched submissively on the stone steps. The beast offered a slow, deliberate nod of its heavy head.
To the terrified retainers, it looked like a monster simply giving up.
But to Aerion, thanks to his maximized Animal Affinity, the intent behind the grunts was flawlessly translated in his mind.
"We do not know you... but the cold does not bite when you are near. The hunger sleeps. We feel safe. We will follow."
Aerion smiled, a genuine expression of triumph and satisfaction. He had just secured his shock infantry.
He reached out, resting his gauntlet fearlessly against the thick, muscular forearm of the massive beast.
"Welcome to the pack," Aerion murmured softly.
He turned back to look down the stairs at his absolutely dumbstruck retinue. Lydia's jaw was slack, Eisa had lowered her sword, and the mages looked as though they had just witnessed a Daedric Prince walk Nirn.
"Put your weapons away," Aerion commanded smoothly, gesturing to his new, terrifyingly massive bodyguards. "We have an ancient city to breach, and we are no longer walking in alone."
The freezing winds whipping through the jagged canyons of Hjaalmarch did little to chill the sweat forming on the brows of Aerion's retainers. They stood in the shadow of the colossal, ancient archways of Labyrinthian, their weapons drawn, completely surrounded by the ancient history of the Dragon Cult.
But their tension was not directed at the ruined city. It was directed at the three towering, muscular Frost Trolls crouching submissively on the stone steps before them.
The beasts were colossal, their thick white fur matted with snow and old blood. Their three glowing red eyes blinked slowly, their massive, razor sharp claws resting idly against the frost heaved stone. They let out low, rumbling grunts that vibrated in the chests of the humans standing nearby.
Lydia's grip on her longsword was white knuckled. Eisa Blackthorn had the Pale Blade held in a low, ready guard, her eyes locked onto the thick tendons of the closest troll's neck.
"Patron," Jenassa murmured, breaking the heavy silence. The Dunmer mercenary had not lowered her bow. She kept an arrow notched, the steel tip aimed directly at the center of the alpha troll's mass. "I do not question your power, but are you absolutely certain this is safe? We cannot afford to lower our guard in a ruin like this, especially if we have to constantly look over our shoulders to ensure these monsters do not suddenly revert to their nature and tear us apart from behind."
Aerion stood calmly amidst the beasts, running a gauntleted hand over the thick, coarse fur of the alpha troll's shoulder. He looked back at his tense retinue, a reassuring, confident smile touching his lips.
"You can lower your weapons," Aerion instructed smoothly, his voice radiating an absolute, grounded certainty. "It is perfectly safe. I have not simply frightened them into submission, I have altered their mind to see us not as good but as friends."
Aerion patted the beast, stepping back toward his group. "I did some tinkering with the magical frequencies I used to tame the mammoths upon the tundra. Mammoths are herd animals, driven by defense. Trolls are apex predators, driven by hunger and territory. The magic required to subjugate them is vastly different, and admittedly, much harder to anchor. Very few mages have ever attempted to train a troll because their minds are chaotic, feral voids. But... I found the correct resonant frequency. It worked perfectly. They view me as the alpha of their pack. They will protect you as fiercely as they protect themselves."
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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, & Torc of Labyrinthian
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: 50.79 KG / 885 KG
Septims: 255,867