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!)
...
Aerion turned his head, looking toward the window cracked open to the freezing night air. The ravens and the rats had reported back. But the elite cadre of mice, the tiny, invisible spies he had sent directly into the heavily guarded heart of Windhelm's power, into places where no human spy could ever hope to tread, had not yet returned. Aerion remained perfectly still in the quiet room, waiting in the dark to hear what his smallest spies had discovered inside the throne room of the Rebellion.
The freezing wind howled through the narrow stone alleyways of the Valunstrad district, but Aerion remained perfectly still in the shadowed alcove, his golden eyes closed in absolute concentration.
He waited patiently until the faint, high pitched scratching of tiny claws echoed from a nearby drainage grate. A moment later, his elite cadre of mice scurried out from the dark, gathering in a small, shivering cluster near his heavy steel boots. They had just returned from the heavily guarded heart of the rebellion, the Palace of the Kings.
Aerion focused his Animal Affinity, hearing the raw voices of the mices as it being translated and flood into his mind.
The mice did not speak in perfectly organized military reports. Aerion had to assemble the puzzle from disjointed words of the informations they gave, the heavy thud of pacing boots on stone, the frustrated slamming of fists on wooden tables, scraps of overheard arguments, the scent of spilled wine, and the frantic energy of exhausted messengers.
When the picture finally coalesced, it was a very revealing information. The first and most critical discovery was that the Stormcloaks were facing a massive logistical supply nightmare.
Maintaining a rebellion on this scale, feeding tens of thousands of soldiers, forging replacement weapons, securing unbroken supply lines in the dead of winter, and finding enough coin to pay the mercenaries, was becoming exponentially more difficult every single day. The mice reported the heavy, exhausted voices of Ulfric Stormcloak and his second in command, Galmar Stone-Fist, echoing late into the night as they desperately tried to manage the bleeding logistics behind the scenes.
The war had also reached a brutal, suffocating stalemate.
The soldiers garrisoned in Windhelm were still fiercely loyal to the cause, but the initial, fiery momentum of the rebellion was beginning to curdle. The mice heard the restless murmurs in the barracks. More and more soldiers were beginning to openly ask when they would finally begin pushing west into Imperial territory, rather than constantly sitting in the snow, waiting and defending.
Ulfric was repeatedly forced to reassure his commanders that the time would come, emphasizing relentlessly that Whiterun was the ultimate key. He was desperate for his men to believe that once Jarl Balgruuf finally committed to the Stormcloak cause, the rebellion would gain the momentum it needed to sweep the province.
Aerion recognized the glaring contradiction immediately.
Ulfric was an undeniably charming and inspiring figurehead, but grand speeches and Nordic pride did not erase starving supply lines or prolonged uncertainty. The Stormcloaks were strong enough to remain incredibly dangerous, yet they were no longer strong enough to feel certain of their own victory. The rebellion was stalling.
The mice then relayed a fascinating piece of intelligence regarding Galmar Stone-Fist.
The grizzled commander was completely obsessed with recovering the Jagged Crown. Galmar believed that securing the legendary artifact would provide a massive, unassailable symbolic victory that would permanently legitimize Ulfric's claim as High King, boosting the flagging morale of the troops and giving the rebellion a physical piece of Atmoran history to rally behind.
Aerion actually had to suppress a dark, metallic chuckle behind the bronze mask.
He already taken the Jagged Crown. It was now sitting securely in the hands of the Imperial Legion, already given to General Tullius and the Imperial side in exchange for an immediate rank in the Imperial Legion.
Galmar was currently preparing to commit valuable men, precious time, and desperate resources toward recovering an artifact that Aerion had already stolen.
Aerion decided instantly to let them proceed. He would offer no warnings of course. After all, every single day Galmar spent tearing apart ancient ruins searching for a crown that was no longer there was another day the Stormcloak war machine wasted its most vital resources.
The mice then provided an incredibly serious, volatile piece of information.
Ulfric was rapidly losing patience with Jarl Balgruuf's neutrality. The delay was frustrating the Stormcloak leader to the point that he was actively considering sending a messenger to Whiterun carrying a specific, symbolic item: an axe.
Aerion understood the political context of Skyrim perfectly. Sending an axe to a Jarl was not a gift. It was a final uncompromising ultimatum. A threat of total war. Balgruuf would understand exactly what it meant without needing a single word of explanation.
'The situation around Whiterun is about to immediately escalate,' Aerion realized, his strategic mind racing.
The reports also revealed a growing, bitter tension between Ulfric and Jarl Laila Law-Giver of Riften.
Riften was contributing significantly less manpower and fewer supplies to the war effort than Windhelm demanded. But the reason was not simply logistical, it was entirely political.
Laila's court was heavily, hopelessly compromised by Maven Black-Briar. Maven's immense wealth, ruthless business monopolies, and sprawling political reach made her the true ruler of the Rift. Ulfric had attempted multiple times to convince Maven to throw her full financial weight behind the rebellion.
Those attempts had utterly failed.
Aerion already knew exactly why. Maven Black-Briar's most lucrative interests and trade deals were intimately tied to the Empire. She was not going to jeopardize her empire of coin and corruption simply because a Nord in Windhelm asked her to.
The result was a massive, bleeding weak point in the Stormcloak war machine. Riften possessed enormous manpower and resources, but because of Maven's shadow veto, those advantages were effectively paralyzed.
Finally, the mice revealed something deeply personal about Ulfric himself.
The Bear of Markarth was terrified of time.
Ulfric knew that the southern passes connecting Skyrim to Cyrodiil would eventually thaw. When the snow melted, the Empire would no longer be restricted to the sea routes. They would be able to march their main, overwhelming armies north in far greater strength. If the civil war was still unresolved when the pale pass opened, the Stormcloaks would be crushed under the full, unmitigated weight of the Imperial military machine.
Ulfric desperately needed the war concluded before the spring.
Aerion processed the sheer volume of intelligence, feeling a quiet sense of awe at the fragility of the situation.
Ulfric was suffocating under pressure from every conceivable direction. His army was starving for supplies. His soldiers were restless for action. Whiterun was stubbornly undecided. His top commander was chasing a phantom crown. His strongest allied hold was politically compromised by a crime boss. And the clock was loudly, relentlessly ticking toward an Imperial invasion.
For the first time, Aerion saw past the charismatic speeches and the roaring rebellion. He saw Ulfric Stormcloak for what he truly was in that moment, a man desperately trying to keep an increasingly impossible war from slipping entirely beyond his control.
Aerion reached into his satchel, breaking off a few small pieces of high quality goat cheese, and offered them to the shivering mice.
"Thank you," Aerion said with a smile, watching the tiny spies snatch the cheese before darting back into the shadows.
He stood up, stepping out of the alleyway. He had achieved vastly more in Windhelm than he had ever expected. His intelligence mission in the north was practically complete. There was absolutely no reason to linger in the hostile capital any longer.
His final destination was Riften.
It would be the last major stop before he could finally return to Whiterun, check on his homestead, visit Ysolda, and see if the massive mammoth cheese operation had successfully fermented into the fortune he anticipated.
When Aerion returned to the Candlehearth Hall and announced that they were leaving Windhelm immediately, the entire group let out a collective, profound sigh of relief.
Even the hardened apprentices were desperate to leave. The city's suffocating prejudice and Aerion's constant, strict demands for them to suppress their tempers had left them mentally exhausted.
They quickly returned the heavy iron keys to Elda, packed their gear, and marched back to the stables to collect their horses.
Aerion pulled up his map interface, plotting the fastest route south. They mounted up and rode out of Windhelm, following the main, cobblestone road southeast toward the Rift.
The journey was significantly shorter than their previous trek from Dawnstar, and the atmosphere among the group was noticeably lighter. The apprentices had settled into a comfortable, disciplined rhythm on the road. Eisa rode comfortably behind Brelyna, the two women falling into easy, natural conversation about the oppressive atmosphere of the city they had just escaped.
"I thought bandit camps were tense," Eisa muttered, resting her hands on the back of Brelyna's saddle. "But walking through Windhelm felt like carrying a torch through a powder magazine. Everyone looks like they're just waiting for an excuse to draw steel."
"It is a city poisoned by its own pride," Brelyna agreed softly, adjusting the reins. "I am just glad we are heading south. Is Riften any better?"
"Better?" Eisa snorted a laugh. "Depends on how you define it. In Windhelm, they'll stab you in the chest because of your ears. In Riften, they'll stab you in the back for your coin purse. It's warmer, at least."
After several hours of hard riding, the snowy, volcanic tundra of Eastmarch gradually gave way to the vibrant, golden autumnal forests of the Rift.
When the city of Riften finally came into view, nestled securely against the shimmering waters of Lake Honrich, the atmosphere shifted drastically.
Where Windhelm felt militaristic, ancient, and openly hostile, Riften appeared incredibly prosperous, bustling, and almost welcoming at first glance. The wooden docks were active, the markets were loud, and the autumn leaves gave the city a warm, inviting glow.
But Aerion knew better.
He remembered precisely what Riften was, the most thorough and systematic corrupt major city in Skyrim. The Thieves Guild's influence ran like rot through the floorboards of the city. Maven Black-Briar wielded political and economic power that outright eclipsed the Jarl. The guards were famously, openly susceptible to bribery, and legitimate business was inextricably intertwined with organized crime.
Yet, as Aerion observed the city from the road, he recognized an important distinction.
Riften was completely corrupt, but the corruption itself was very organized. The Thieves Guild and Maven effectively controlled the city's criminal ecosystem so thoroughly that independent and violent criminals did not operate freely. Lone thieves and rival gangs were quickly and brutally removed because they threatened the established monopoly.
Riften had rules. They just weren't the rules most outsiders expected.
The group approached the stables situated just outside the city's wooden gates. Aerion dismounted and approached the stable owner, a rugged Nord named Hofgrir.
"Keep them fed and watered," Aerion instructed, handing Hofgrir a flat 50 septims without haggling.
"You got it, friend," Hofgrir grunted, accepting the coin easily, barely batting an eye at the diverse group. In Riften, gold was the only race that truly mattered.
As they walked toward the heavy wooden gates of the city, a pair of Riften guards immediately stepped out to block their path, crossing their halberds.
"Hold on there," one of the guards ordered, looking over the heavily armed group. "We need to inspect travelers before allowing them inside. City regulations."
The guard looked specifically at Aerion's bronze mask. "Take the mask off."
Aerion complied, unfastening the straps and pulling Krosis away from his face.
The guards were visibly surprised when they saw the golden skin and sharp features of a High Elf, but their reaction was vastly different from the paranoia of Windhelm. They didn't draw their swords or hurl racial slurs, they simply looked wary.
"You aren't with the Thalmor, are you?" the lead guard asked, narrowing his eyes.
"I am not," Aerion replied calmly. He leaned into a subtle application of his Persuasion skill, guiding the conversation with smooth common sense rather than magical force. "I am a scholar and a Thane of Whiterun. Do I look like an emissary of the Aldmeri Dominion? I wear Nordic steel, and I travel with Nords, a Khajiit, and Dunmer. The Thalmor would likely execute me for the company I keep."
The guards considered the logic. It made perfect sense.
"Fair enough," the guard nodded, lowering his halberd.
Then came the inevitable, expected pivot.
"However," the guard continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. "There is a... visitor's tax. To help support the city watch, you understand. Keep the streets safe."
Aerion recognized the blatant shakedown immediately.
He didn't argue. He didn't threaten them with his political status. He smiled warmly, perfectly understanding the rules of Riften.
"Of course," Aerion agreed smoothly. "I am always happy to help support the diligent guards of this fine city."
He reached into his pouch, produced 150 septims, and placed the heavy coins directly into the guard's open hand.
The guards grinned broadly, the coins disappearing instantly into their pockets.
"Welcome to Riften, traveler," the guard said cheerfully, stepping aside and waving them through the gates. "Keep your nose clean, and enjoy your stay."
The exchange was almost absurdly normal compared to the explosive, life threatening confrontation at the Windhelm checkpoint.
Aerion led the group into the city. As they crossed the wooden bridges over the canals, he took in the bustling atmosphere. The city truly looked prosperous. Merchants shouted their wares in the central square, workers carried crates of Black-Briar mead, and the water beneath the bridges reflected the warm light of the lanterns.
But Aerion remained alert.
As they crossed the bridge leading toward the Bee and Barb inn, they passed two people engaged in a highly heated, frustrated conversation.
One was a tall, powerfully built Nord woman warrior, her face painted with striking war paint, carrying a massive glass battleaxe on her back. The other was a well dressed Imperial man, who looked entirely out of place next to her.
"It's infuriating!" the Nord woman complained loudly, throwing her hands up in the air. "Every time I think I've made meaningful progress against the rot in this city, I uncover three more criminals embedded in the guard! It's like pulling up weeds, only to find the roots go all the way down to the Jarl's throne!"
The Imperial man placed a calming hand on her armored arm.
"You need to be patient, Mjoll," the man urged softly. "The corruption has been entrenched in Riften for a very long time. Maven Black-Briar and the Guild... they aren't just going to disappear overnight. We can't expect to overturn the whole city in a week."
Mjoll sighed heavily, her broad shoulders slumping.
"I know, Aerin. I know," Mjoll admitted reluctantly. "But knowing you're right doesn't make it any easier to watch."
Aerion paused, his golden eyes locking onto the pair.
He recognized them immediately from his previous life. Mjoll the Lioness. The wandering, incorruptible warrior who had returned to Riften after traveling widely through Tamriel. She was a massive anomaly in the city, one of the very few people openly and fiercely determined to oppose the corruption rather than profit from it.
Aerion quietly analyzed her potential.
She was highly experienced. She was incredibly well traveled. She was a brutally capable frontline warrior. But more importantly, she possessed something that many people in Aerion's pragmatic orbit lacked: a strong, unwavering moral compass and a genuine willingness to oppose systemic corruption despite immense personal risk.
The thought of recruiting another elite retainer flared brightly in Aerion's transmigrator mind. Having an incorruptible champion of the people in his vanguard would be an incredible political and martial asset.
However, he deliberately pushed the ambition aside for the moment.
He had an intelligence mission to complete. Riften's political landscape came first. Recruitment could wait until the board was set.
"Come," Aerion instructed his group, tearing his eyes away from Mjoll. "Let us secure our rooms."
He led the apprentices and his retainers toward the large wooden doors of the Bee and Barb inn.
Aerion looked back once more toward Mjoll and Aerin before stepping inside. He already knew that the Lioness was potentially invaluable. But for now, he had another city to dissect. Riften might be the most corrupt city in Skyrim. And Aerion fully intended to find out exactly how deep that corruption truly went.
The air inside the Bee and Barb was thick with the smell of roasting honey nut treats, spilled mead, and unwashed bodies.
As Aerion and his group stepped through the heavy wooden doors, the atmosphere immediately felt profoundly different from the tense, racially charged silence they had endured in Windhelm. The tavern was crowded and deafeningly noisy, but the patrons were a vast, chaotic tapestry of Tamriel. Hardened Nord mercenaries shared tables with Imperial merchants. Dunmer refugees haggled over drinks, and Argonian dockworkers rested their scaled hands by the massive hearth.
Riften was arguably the most corrupt city in the province, but that very corruption fostered a strange, cosmopolitan equality. Coin was the only metric of worth that mattered here, regardless of the hand that held it.
The innkeeper, a sharp eyed Argonian woman named Kehala-Rei, stood behind the bar. She carried herself with the practical, hardened vigilance of someone who knew exactly how fast a peaceful evening could escalate into a knife fight.
Aerion approached the bar, his heavy steel boots thudding against the wooden floorboards.
"Six rooms, for three days," Aerion requested smoothly.
Kehala-Rei looked over the heavily armed, diverse retinue. She didn't inflate the price or hurl insults. She simply stated the standard rate.
"One hundred and eighty septims," the Argonian replied. "But I'll warn you now, stranger. I want no trouble inside my establishment. You have a disagreement, you take it to the canals. You draw steel in here, the guards won't care who started it, and neither will I."
Aerion produced the exact coin, sliding it across the bar without a hint of argument.
"We bring no trouble, Miss. You have my word," Aerion promised.
The innkeeper swept the coins away, handing him the heavy iron keys.
"Take your belongings upstairs and rest," Aerion instructed the group. "Brelyna, you are with Eisa again. The rest of you take singles."
The group gratefully hauled their heavy packs up the wooden stairs. Aerion claimed the room at the end of the hall, closing and locking the door behind him. The air was slightly damp, but the bed looked reasonably comfortable.
He didn't sleep immediately. He sat on the edge of the mattress and mentally commanded the System to display the accumulated notifications from the journey and the grueling training sessions on the coast of Dawnstar.
The golden text cascaded across his vision.
[SKILL LEVEL UP: Destruction Fire (+4)]
[Level 73 ➔ MAX LEVEL (+27 Levels)]
[Maximum Mastery Reached. Initiate Legendary Reset?]
Aerion smiled slightly. The creation of the explosive spells of Elemental Blast and the other Elemental spells, alongside the intense drilling with the apprentices have pushed his primary offensive magic to its max level. He immediately accepted the prompt.
[LEGENDARY RESET EXECUTED: Destruction Fire (+4) ➔ (+5)]
[Skill Level reset to 0.]
The notifications continued, highlighting the sheer breadth of his recent exertions.
[SKILL LEVEL UP: Restoration Purify (+2)]
[Level 75 ➔ 98 (+23 Levels)]
[SKILL LEVEL UP: Persuasion (+2)]
[Level 45 ➔ 83 (+38 Levels)]
The massive jump in Persuasion was entirely expected. He had spent the last week actively, constantly negotiating checkpoints, merchants, and tense diplomatic situations.
[SKILL LEVEL UP: Sneak (+1)]
[Level 50 ➔ 64 (+14 Levels)]
[SKILL LEVEL UP: Two-Handed (+1)]
[Level 0 ➔ 29 (+29 Levels)]
His massive Ebony Greatsword, which he had recently reset to zero, was already rapidly climbing back up the proficiency ladder, reaping the massive experience yields of his higher progression modifier.
[SKILL LEVEL UP: Lockpicking]
[Level 35 ➔ 55 (+20 Levels)]
[SKILL LEVEL UP: Archery]
[Level 91 ➔ MAX LEVEL (+29 Levels)]
[Maximum Mastery Reached. Initiate Legendary Reset?]
Aerion reset his archery immediately. The devastating ranged combat during the Frostmere drawbridge assault and the bandit ambush on the road had honed his accuracy to lethal perfection.
[LEGENDARY RESET EXECUTED: Archery (0) ➔ (+1)]
[Skill Level reset to 0.]
[SKILL LEVEL UP: Heavy Armor]
[Level 31 ➔ 59 (+28 Levels)]
Finally, the most significant notification flashed in the center of his vision.
[LEVEL UP DETECTED! You have leveled up 18 times!]
[You have gained 18 Attribute Points!]
Aerion paused, considering the eighteen available points. With the Eye of Magnus granting him infinite Magicka, investing points into that pool was entirely redundant. He needed to focus purely on physical survivability and endurance.
He split the points evenly.
[Attribute Points Allocated: Health x9 (+90 Points)]
[Attribute Points Allocated: Stamina x9 (+90 Points)]
[Inventory Weight Limit Increased by 45 KG.]
Aerion physically registered the changes immediately. A deep, resonant heat bloomed in his chest, radiating outward into his limbs. His bones felt denser, his muscles tighter, and his lung capacity expanded significantly. The invisible spatial dimensions of his inventory stretched wider, easily accommodating the extra forty five kilograms of carrying capacity.
He was deeply pleased with the continued progress. The demanding, varied nature of his travels had forced skills that he had previously neglected like Lockpicking, Archery, and gaining Heavy Armor, to develop naturally and rapidly.
He allowed himself an hour of quiet rest on the bed before heading back downstairs.
He found the rest of his group clustered around a large table near the fire, already halfway through a hearty meal of baked salmon and boiled potatoes.
The atmosphere was incredibly relaxed, the tension of Windhelm finally bleeding out of the apprentices. J'zargo, looking significantly more comfortable now that he wasn't surrounded by glaring Nords, leaned back in his chair and looked at Aerion. "So, Expert Aerion," the Khajiit asked, tearing into a piece of bread. "When are we going on another teaching trip? The training has been grueling, yes, but J'zargo's Chain Lightning is becoming much faster. We wish to continue."
_____________________________
[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 860/860
Stamina: 900/900
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 213 ➔ 231
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(+5)/Lightning(+2)/Frost(+2)) (Level 0/91/70), Restoration (Healing(+2)/Purify(+2)) (Level 50/98), Alteration (Level 35), Illusion (Level 50), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/90), Persuasion(+2) (Level 83), Smithing (Level 57), 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 10), Block (Level 70), Pickpocket (Level 8), & Heavy Armor (Level 59)
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 / 750 KG
Septims: 77,867