If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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The effect was vastly more profound and substantial than his previous attempts in Winterhold and Dawnstar. Windhelm was huge, old, and riddled with hidden spaces, decaying cellars, and ancient drainage channels. As his invisible, mental net spread across the stone city, countless small creatures began to emerge from their hiding places in the shadows. Plump mice scurried from the cellars of the taverns, aggressive black rats slipped out of the alleyways, hardy ravens descended from the high rooftops, and freezing insects stirred within the cracks of the mortar.
He utilized the natural, instinctual frequencies of the animals that he slowly picked up to learn thanks to the Animal Affinities skill. He clicked his tongue softly, mimicking the rapid, high pitched scratching and the subtle, guttural sounds of the pack. Because of his max level affinity, the creatures understood the concepts flawlessly, and Aerion perfectly understood their responding squeaks, chirps, and rustling.
He rapidly established the structure of his newest intelligence network in Windhelm.
He directed the larger animals, the ravens and the street rats, to observe the wider city. Watch the mood of the crowds. "Find where the food is stored. Watch the trade ships. Count the guards changing shifts. Report any unusual military visitors."
Then, he turned his focus to a specific, elite cadre of mice.
They were small enough to slip through the tiniest cracks in the stone, entirely ignored by human guards.
"Penetrate the noble homes in the Valunstrad," Aerion directed them, his intent clear. "Slip into the Clan Shatter-Shield offices. Enter the storage rooms and the kitchens. And most importantly... infiltrate the Palace of the Kings. Do not interfere with anything. Do not eat the food. Simply observe the maps, listen to the heavy voices, and return."
The creatures responded in a chorus of natural, affirmative noises before scattering like smoke. Aerion watched them disappear into the shadows, slipping under heavy oak doors, diving into drainage grates, and scurrying up the freezing stone walls.
With his invisible spies perfectly deployed across the capital, Aerion decided to pursue a highly specific, personal objective.
He remembered the White Phial.
He knew from his previous life that repairing the legendary, broken artifact required three exceedingly rare ingredients, unmelting snow from the Throat of the World, mammoth tusk powder, and a Briar Heart. He also remembered that hidden ancient entrance in Forsaken Cave that will eventually led directly to the burial chamber of Curalmil, where the artifact could be recovered, which he walked passed through.
Aerion wanted the White Phial for himself.
The ability of the fully restored artifact to infinitely replenish a chosen, highly potent magical mixture once per day made it an exceptionally valuable asset, particularly for a transmigrator who frequently found himself fighting entire armies.
He decided to begin the questline properly by visiting the shop itself.
He navigated his way through the market district until he found a small, unassuming shop with a mortar and pestle swinging on a wooden sign above the door.
The White Phial.
Aerion paused outside, observing the shop. It was quiet, tucked away from the main thoroughfare. The glass in the windows was thick with frost, but he could see the faint, warm glow of a hearth fire inside.
He pushed the door open, the bell chiming brightly in the quiet interior.
Inside, the shop was crammed with dusty shelves holding thousands of strange ingredients, dried herbs, and glowing potions. Standing behind the counter was an elderly, frail looking Altmer alchemist. Sweeping the floor nearby was his young, male Imperial assistant.
The moment the bell chimed, both men immediately stopped what they were doing and looked toward the door.
The sight of a towering figure encased in heavy Nordic Carved Armor, carrying weapons of pure, black ebony, and wearing the terrifying bronze mask of a Dragon Priest was wildly unusual for a simple alchemy shop.
The elderly Altmer, Nurelion, narrowed his eyes, coughing softly into his fist. He greeted the stranger with professional courtesy, though he was clearly, cautiously trying to determine exactly who, or what, had just walked into his store.
"Welcome to the White Phial," Nurelion greeted, his voice raspy and frail. "What can I do for you, traveler? I specialize in rare mixtures and ancient ingredients... though you look like a man who relies more on steel than potions."
Aerion stepped fully into the warm shop, letting the heavy door click shut behind him. He offered a polite, calm nod.
"Greetings, Alchemist," Aerion replied smoothly, his voice a metallic rumble. "I rely on many things. And I have traveled a very long way to Skyrim to discuss about a matter of significant, ancient history with you that I would like to ask about."
Aerion did not immediately reveal that he knew exactly where the Phial was hidden. He needed to play the game, ensuring the old elf trusted him enough to hand over the necessary information.
Windhelm was already proving to be the most difficult, complex hold he had visited. The political paranoia, the overt racial hostility, and the suffocating military tension made every step dangerous.
But as his invisible network of mice began to slip into the Palace of the Kings, and as he stood before the dying alchemist who held the key to an infinite potion... Aerion understood that unraveling the capital of the rebellion would simply require a great deal of patience.
Aerion stepped fully into the shop, letting the heavy door click shut to block out the freezing wind. He reached up, unclasped the leather straps, and pulled Krosis away from his face.
The shock on the faces of the two alchemists immediately deepened into sheer bewilderment.
Neither Nurelion nor his assistant, Quintus, had expected to see another High Elf moving through the streets of Windhelm. To see one presenting himself as a heavily armored, frontline warlord rather than a conventional mage in flowing robes made Aerion a wildly unusual sight, even by the eccentric standards of Skyrim.
"By the Eight..." Quintus muttered, setting his pestle down. He looked from Aerion to the frosted windows, as if expecting a mob to be forming outside. "How did you even get through the main gates? The guards treat almost every High Elf as a potential Thalmor spy."
Nurelion coughed a dry, rattling sound into his fist, nodding slowly in agreement.
"The boy speaks the truth," Nurelion rasped, his eyes narrowing as he studied the armored Altmer. "I have weathered the prejudice of this city for decades. Were I younger, healthier, and less established as the premier alchemist of Eastmarch, I have no doubt I would have been dragged into the Bloodworks on suspicion of espionage by now. My advanced age and my utility to their wounded are the only reasons I am tolerated."
Aerion absorbed the information without showing a flicker of surprise. It perfectly aligned with everything he had seen.
"I am well aware of the Jarl's paranoia, and I assure you, my entry was not without its friction," Aerion replied smoothly, offering a polite, respectful nod. He introduced himself fully. "I am Aerion. I have come to this shop because I heard rumors that an alchemist in Windhelm had named his establishment after the legendary White Phial."
The moment the words left his mouth, the guarded, frail demeanor of the elderly Altmer vanished entirely.
Nurelion's eyes lit up with a sudden, intense spark of vitality. He leaned heavily against the wooden counter, his gaze locking onto Aerion.
"The White Phial?" Nurelion breathed, his voice trembling with a sudden, profound excitement. "Did you travel all the way to Skyrim specifically to seek it out?"
"I did," Aerion confirmed, seamlessly weaving a highly believable cover identity. "I am a scholar and a traveler. I have spent years moving throughout Tamriel, from the sweeping archives of the Summerset Isles to the hidden ruins of Cyrodiil, in search of unusual artifacts, magical phenomena, and forgotten knowledge. Skyrim is my latest destination. The legends surrounding this province, particularly those of the First Era, are too fascinating to ignore."
Nurelion practically beamed. For the first time in what was likely years, the old High Elf had found a kindred spirit, someone who understood the absolute, consuming obsession with forgotten magical history.
"Then you understand!" Nurelion exclaimed, waving a hand excitedly. "The locals here think me a madman chasing a fairy tale. But the Phial is real, Aerion! A legendary vessel, forged in the days when Skyrim was young, capable of miraculously replenishing whatever fluid is placed inside it!"
The two High Elves immediately dove into an enthusiastic, rapid fire discussion about the artifact. Nurelion spoke passionately about his decades of research, the fragmented texts he had translated, and the ancient Atmoran metallurgical techniques that supposedly bound the magic to the glass.
Aerion responded intelligently, drawing on the deep lore he had studied in his previous life to keep the conversation flowing smoothly.
However, within a few minutes, Aerion began to quietly struggle.
Nurelion had spent literal decades of his life obsessively studying the White Phial. He was discussing incredibly specific, obscure alchemical theories and historical footnotes that simply did not exist in the video game's summarized lore. Aerion realized he was rapidly approaching the limit of his meta knowledge. If he tried to bluff his way through a debate on the specific thermal properties of unmelting snow, the master alchemist would see right through him.
Aerion carefully, deliberately steered the conversation away from theory and toward practical application.
"Your research is flawless, Nurelion," Aerion praised, smoothly pivoting the topic. "In fact, it aligns perfectly with my own field expeditions. Based on my studies, I recently explored the depths of Forsaken Cave, believing the Phial might be hidden there."
Nurelion gasped, his hands gripping the edge of the counter tightly. "You went to Forsaken Cave? My own research pointed to that exact location!"
"I did," Aerion confirmed. He described the icy, Draugr infested corridors perfectly, establishing his credibility. "I scoured the ruins, but I could not physically reach the artifact. The deepest section of the burial chamber is protected by an incredibly unusual, ancient mechanism."
"Curalmil's lock," Nurelion whispered in awe, finishing the thought. "The ancient alchemist who forged it. He wouldn't have used a simple iron tumbler."
"Exactly," Aerion nodded. "The mechanism requires a very specific alchemical mixture to act as a catalyst before the sealed stone will open. Without it, the door is impassable."
Aerion widened his eyes slightly, feigning sudden realization. "Nurelion... do you possess the mixture?"
The old alchemist nodded vigorously. "I do! I spent years synthesizing the exact compound required to bypass Curalmil's seal."
Nurelion reached beneath the counter, his trembling hands pulling out a small, corked vial filled with a shimmering, metallic liquid. But before he handed it over, he paused.
"I would be more than happy to provide you with this, Aerion," Nurelion said, his voice softening with genuine emotion. "But I have one request. If you use this to recover the White Phial... I ask that you bring it here before you leave the city. I am dying, Aerion. My sickness is taking me. The chance to simply look upon the artifact, to confirm that my life's work was not in vain... it would mean everything to me."
"You have my word," Aerion agreed without a moment's hesitation. "If this mixture opens the way, I will return and place the White Phial in your hands."
"Master Nurelion, wait."
Quintus, who had been listening silently, finally stepped forward. The young Imperial looked deeply concerned, placing a gentle hand on the old elf's arm.
"Can we truly trust a stranger with this?" Quintus asked, looking warily at Aerion. "He arrived in Windhelm under highly suspicious circumstances. We don't know him. You have spent your entire life protecting this research, Master. What if he just takes the mixture, finds the Phial, and leaves for Summerset Isles?"
It was a perfectly reasonable objection. Quintus wasn't being malicious, he was genuinely protective of the frail man who had taken him in and taught him a trade. He didn't want to see his master manipulated in his final days.
Nurelion waved the concern away with a warm, confident smile. "Nonsense, Quintus. Look at him! He is a scholar, a fellow lover of the arcane arts. I have spent enough time around merchants and liars to recognize genuine enthusiasm when I see it."
Aerion did not rely solely on the old man's faith. He engaged his max level Persuasion skill, carefully modulating his tone. He didn't use an obvious, heavy handed magical compulsion that would make the interaction feel unnatural. He simply made his words resonate with unbreakable sincerity.
"I understand your skepticism, Quintus," Aerion said softly, looking the Imperial directly in the eye. "If I were in your position, guarding my master's life's work, I would be equally suspicious. But I am not a thief."
Aerion placed a hand over his heart. "I swear an oath before the Divines. If Nurelion gives me this mixture, I will honor my word and return the artifact to this shop. If I break this promise... may the Divines strip the Magicka from my blood and leave me hollow."
For a mage, swearing upon their Magicka was the ultimate, binding vow.
Quintus searched the High Elf's golden eyes for any sign of deception. Finding none, the Imperial slowly relaxed his posture, stepping back with a satisfied nod.
Nurelion smiled, handing the shimmering vial across the counter.
Aerion thanked him, carefully placing the mixture into his leather satchel, seamlessly transferring it into his hidden dimensional inventory where it couldn't be broken.
Before leaving the shop, Aerion reassured Nurelion one last time, promising to return once he had cleared Forsaken Cave.
As Aerion stepped back out into the freezing streets, he realized the encounter had been unexpectedly pleasant. Windhelm was a city choking on its own racial hostility, yet inside that dusty shop, he had found another Altmer who cared deeply about scholarship, alchemy, and the preservation of knowledge, entirely detached from the bitter politics of the war.
It was a small, quiet victory. But the real work was just beginning.
Aerion returned to the Candlehearth Hall as the sun began to set, casting long, dark shadows across the snowy streets.
The tavern was packed, filled with the loud, raucous laughter of off duty Stormcloak soldiers and tired laborers. Aerion navigated through the crowded room, seeking out the innkeeper.
Elda was wiping down a table near the massive central hearth. Aerion approached her quietly. He understood the fundamental truth of espionage, innkeepers heard more than the Jarl's own spymasters. Merchants, guards, soldiers, and drunks all talked freely over ale, assuming the woman pouring it wasn't paying attention.
"Elda. A moment of your time," Aerion requested politely.
Elda looked up, her expression immediately guarded. She wiped her hands on her apron, glancing around the crowded room. "I'm busy, Elf. And I don't make a habit of gossiping. Words can get a person thrown in the Bloodworks these days."
Aerion understood that simple charm wouldn't pry open a hardened Nord in a warzone.
He reached into his pouch, pulled out 200 septims, and placed the heavy stack of gold coins deliberately on the wooden table.
"This is yours, regardless of whether you answer my questions," Aerion said quietly, sliding the gold toward her. "Consider it payment for the excellent stew."
Elda stared at the fortune on the table. It was more than she made in a week. She was still incredibly cautious, but the sheer generosity convinced her that the High Elf was at least serious, and unlikely to be a petty informant for the guards. She discreetly swept the gold into her apron.
"Make it quick," Elda muttered, pretending to scrub a stain on the wood.
Aerion utilized his Persuasion skill carefully. He didn't fire questions like an Imperial interrogator, he asked them like a curious, concerned traveler trying to understand the pulse of the city.
He asked what the ordinary citizens thought about Windhelm's current state. He asked about the deep, boiling tension between the Nords and the Dunmer in the Gray Quarter. He asked about the Argonians confined to the freezing docks. He asked if the constant military presence had inflated the price of bread, if merchants from the west were still braving the roads, and what the people truly feared in the dark.
Elda, initially terse, slowly began to open up under the weight of his empathetic questioning.
Her answers painted a vivid, troubling portrait of a city that looked incredibly strong on the surface, but was riddled with deep, catastrophic fractures underneath.
Windhelm possessed considerable wealth and immense strategic importance. Its military presence was formidable, the palace was secure, and the Stormcloaks were visibly, confidently in control. But the city was profoundly divided.
The tension between the Nords and the Dunmer wasn't just a political disagreement, it was a deeply rooted, generational rot. The Argonian workers, barred from even entering the city walls, added a volatile layer of huge resentment.
"The war has changed everything," Elda whispered, scrubbing harder. "Some folk are proud, sure. They think Ulfric is going to save Skyrim. But a lot of us... we worry. Ulfric's leadership is turning Windhelm into a place defined by pure anger. If you don't fit their exact idea of what a true Nord should be, you're an enemy."
Aerion also learned that the military traffic was staggering. Soldiers, couriers, and massive supply trains were constantly moving through the city, feeding the northern lines he had discovered in Dawnstar.
The true danger to Windhelm, Aerion realized, wasn't just an Imperial siege. The danger was that the city's internal, racial, and social tensions could violently detonate, tearing the capital apart from the inside before the Legion ever breached the walls.
"Hey! Elda!"
A loud, slurred voice broke the quiet conversation. Three heavily intoxicated Nord soldiers had stumbled up to the bar nearby. One of them pointed an aggressive, meaty finger at Aerion.
"Stop wasting time whispering to the damn Elf and bring us more mead!" the soldier slurred, his hand resting sloppily on the pommel of his sword.
Aerion recognized instantly that pushing the conversation any further would attract dangerous attention. He offered Elda a polite, respectful nod.
"Thank you for your time, Elda," Aerion said smoothly.
"Be careful who you ask questions to, traveler," Elda warned softly, turning away to deal with the drunks. "Not everyone in this city can be bought."
Aerion gracefully exited the conversation, returning to his group's corner table.
The next two days in Windhelm became an exhausting, relentless grind of intelligence gathering.
Aerion's animal network continued to expand like an invisible web across the city. His entourage moved through the different districts in pairs, speaking with ordinary people and buying goods to gauge the economy. The three apprentices proved surprisingly adept at field intelligence, gathering useful observations from the market vendors while blending in as naive scholars.
Aerion spent hours in his room, comparing the practical, logistical information provided by his animal network against the emotional and social context gathered by his retainers and his conversations with Elda.
Throughout those forty eight hours, Aerion was forced to repeatedly lean on his Persuasion skill just to navigate the city.
And for perhaps the first time since he had awakened in Skyrim, Aerion became very tired of these world.
It wasn't a physical exhaustion. It was the sheer psychological fatigue of constantly having to negotiate simple, everyday interactions. Asking a merchant for the price of iron ore required careful diplomacy to avoid a racial slur. Entering a shop could instantly escalate into an argument if the proprietor decided they didn't like Elves that day. He had to suppress his pride, monitor his tone, and constantly de escalate situations that would normally require no thought at all.
He found himself standing on the snowy bridge overlooking the Gray Quarter, quietly reminiscing about his first months in Whiterun.
Whiterun had its flaws, but the people there had treated him with curiosity, respect, or at the very least, basic civility. He could walk the streets of the plains city openly, conducting business without his race being the absolute focal point of every interaction.
Windhelm was different. The city's suspicion was a constant, suffocating weight. It was a relentless reminder that, despite his power and his wealth, he was an outsider.
Still, Aerion did not let his internal frustration derail the mission. The sheer volume of intelligence he was gathering was worth the bitter inconvenience.
By the late evening of their second day, Aerion sat by the hearth in his private room, reviewing the invisible map of the northern holds in his mind. He finally possessed a clear, comprehensive understanding of the geopolitical landscape.
Winterhold was fragile, economically starved, and politically irrelevant.
Dawnstar was prosperous, but highly exposed, acting as a logistical shield.
Windhelm was incredibly powerful, heavily fortified, and well supplied... but on the inside, internally, it was dangerously fractured.
The war hadn't unified Ulfric's capital, it had intensified old grievances to a boiling point. The two northern holds and the capital of the rebellion presented three completely different problems, and breaking them would require three entirely different strategic approaches.
Aerion realized, with a cold sense of clarity, that Windhelm was arguably the most dangerous place he had visited during his intelligence mission. Not because its standing armies were the strongest, but because so many different, volatile pressures were building in the exact same place.
It felt less like a city preparing for war, and more like a massive powder keg sitting quietly beside an open flame. A single spark, a riot in the Gray Quarter, or a strike at the docks, could bring the capital to its knees if it's not handled well.
Aerion leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.
He finally had enough hard intelligence to report back to General Tullius. But he also knew, with the meticulous perfectionism of a spymaster, that he had only scratched the surface.
He had mapped the streets, the markets, and the mood of the people.
But there were still the noble houses of the Valunstrad.
There was still the Palace of the Kings.
There was still Ulfric Stormcloak himself.
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.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 770/770
Stamina: 810/810
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 213
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Dragon Master (MAX LEVEL), Eye Of Magnus (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+4)/Lightning(+2)/Frost(+2)) (Level 73/91/70), Restoration (Healing(+2)/Purify(+2)) (Level 50/75), Alteration (Level 35), Illusion (Level 50), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/90), Persuasion(+2) (Level 45), Smithing (Level 57), Sneak(+1) (Level 50), One Handed(+2) (Level 0), Two Handed(+1) (Level 0), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 91), Enchanting(+1) (Level 23), Light Armor(+2) (Level 10), Block (Level 70), Pickpocket (Level 8), & Heavy Armor (Level 31)
Shouts: Fus Roh Dah (Force Balance Push), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim Zii Gron (Fade Spirit Bind), Su (Air), Laas (Life), Yol Toor (Fire Inferno), Kaan (Kyne), Zul Mey Gut (Voice Fool Far), & IIZ (Ice)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, Mammoth Tusk, the Golden Claw, Calm Spellbook, Arvel's Journal, Inkwell & Quill, Thief Book, Scroll Of Summoning (Wolf), Scroll Of Healing, Weak Potion of Paralysis, Golden Staff of Flames, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, Orcish Dagger, The Mirror, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Reanimate Corpse Tome, Staff of Lightning, Deed to Tundra Homestead, Sapphire, Ruby, Dawnbreaker, Traveling Backpack (Supplies), Potion of Minor Magicka, Vampire Armor, Vampire Boots, Movarth's Golden Ash (Unique), Dwarven Sword, Elven Dagger, Potion of Healing, Gold Emerald Circlet, Scroll of Fire Storm, Iron Garnet Circlet, Iron Sapphire Circlet, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Glass Boots, Dwarven Sword, Dwarven Shield, Wuuthrad's Fragments, Staff of Fireball, Mage Boots Of Weight, Master Robes Of Destruction, & Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson
2x Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), Elven Sword, Amethysts, Potions of Plentiful Magicka, Scroll of Conjure Familiar, & Scroll of Magelight
3x Glowing Mushrooms, Potions of Minor Stamina, Flawless Sapphires, Gold Necklace, Iron Necklace, Petty Soul Gem (Filled), & Potions of Minor Magicka
4x Spider Eggs, Garnets, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
5x Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
7x Vampires Dust
8x Iron Arrows & Ancient Nord Arrows
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
12x Black Soul Gem (Filled)
Weight: 93.41 KG / 705 KG
Septims: 78,247