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Aerion understood with chilling clarity that this was the beginning of an entirely different phase of his life in Skyrim. Adventuring in ancient ruins was one thing, gathering intelligence in the shadows was another, but commanding five hundred soldiers in open war was an entirely different game. Aerion straightened his spine, sitting tall in the heavy Nordic saddle. His golden eyes hardened. He spurred Revan forward, leading his retinue toward the barricades to meet the men who would soon become his own, personal legion.
As Aerion guided the group toward the main, barricaded entrance, a squad of heavily armored Legionnaires on guard duty immediately stepped forward, their spears snapping down into a defensive wedge.
"Halt!" the lead sentry barked, raising a gauntleted hand. "This is a restricted Imperial Legion military encampment. Civilians and unauthorized travelers are forbidden from approaching the perimeter. State your who you are, if unauthorized then turn back."
Aerion did not become irritated. He didn't shout about his rank or demand immediate obedience. He understood the absolute necessity of perimeter security.
He calmly dismounted Revan, his heavy steel boots crunching on the dirt. He reached up, unclasped the leather straps, and pulled the bronze mask of Krosis away from his face, revealing his Altmer features.
"I am Praefect Aerion," he introduced himself smoothly, his voice projecting calm authority. He gestured to the group behind him. "And these people are my private retainers and trusted companions."
The guards instantly stiffened, their eyes widening in surprise.
They had been briefed just that morning that their former Tribune had been officially promoted to Praefect by General Tullius, and that he was en route to take command of the cohort. But taking a stranger's word for it, especially when that stranger was a towering High Elf wearing the terrifying, heavy armor of a Nordic warlord and carrying an ebony greatsword, violated every protocol they possessed.
The lead guard snapped off a crisp salute, but did not lower his spear.
"My apologies, sir," the sentry said, his voice respectful but entirely unyielding. "But we were ordered to verify the identity of the incoming Praefect before allowing anyone past the barricade. Do you have your Imperial seal, or a token marking your new rank?"
"I do not," Aerion admitted, accepting the explanation with a slight, approving nod. "The promotion was enacted mere hours before I departed from Solitude. General Tullius did not have the physical seals minted before I left."
He recognized that a restricted military camp could not operate on blind trust alone, and he respected the soldier for standing his ground. "However, if you cannot admit me without a seal, how do you propose we verify my identity?"
Before the conversation could become awkwardly tense, the sharp sound of approaching boots broke the stalemate.
A senior Legion officer, wearing the heavy, ornate armor of a Tribune, marched rapidly toward the barricade after hearing the commotion. The man stopped, his eyes locking onto the towering Altmer. Recognition flashed instantly across his face.
The officer snapped off a flawless, chest-thumping Legion salute.
"Praefect Aerion!" the officer greeted him respectfully, his voice carrying over the wind.
The sentries visibly relaxed, a collective, silent sigh of relief passing through the squad. They immediately lowered their spears and snapped to rigid attention.
Aerion returned the Tribune's salute with crisp precision.
"I am Tribune Valerius, sir," the officer introduced himself. "I have officially taken over your former command role regarding the infantry formations. We received the courier dispatches from Solitude regarding your promotion early this morning. We have already begun receiving the personnel transfers under your new cohort command structure."
"Well met, Tribune Valerius," Aerion welcomed the man professionally, committing the name to memory. "I am deeply pleased the Legion appointed someone highly capable to anchor the soldiers."
The guards at the barricade saluted Aerion properly this time. "Our apologies again, Praefect," the lead sentry offered.
"Your caution is exactly what keeps this camp alive, soldier. I expect that same level of scrutiny applied to anyone approaching this perimeter. Return to your post and keep up the good work," Aerion dismissed the apology, offering a brief nod.
The guards sagged slightly in relief, meanwhile the barricades were pulled aside, and Aerion and his entourage rode slowly into the heart of the encampment.
As they passed through the perfectly aligned rows of tents, hundreds of off duty Legionnaires paused their tasks, glancing toward the procession with intense curiosity. The sight of a Khajiit, two Dunmer, a hardened bandit, and a heavily armored Nord housecarl following an Altmer warlord was wildly unusual for a standard Imperial staging ground.
Some of the veterans recognized Aerion from their expedition around the hold and saw him fighting a dragon with the Dragonborn, whispering his name to the recruits. Others simply stared, utterly bewildered as to why their newly promoted, highly esteemed Praefect was arriving flanked by three young mages in College robes and a heavily armed former bandit.
Tribune Valerius, marching beside Revan, immediately turned and barked at a group of staring soldiers.
"Attention! Salute your Praefect!"
The soldiers snapped instantly to rigid attention, their fists slamming against their chest plates in perfect unison.
It was Aerion's first true moment of seeing exactly what his new rank looked like from the outside. These men did not know him personally. They had not seen him fight. Yet, they stood at absolute full attention simply because the title he held carried the ultimate authority of the Empire.
Aerion returned their salutes without a trace of arrogance, a quiet, profound sense of responsibility settling over his shoulders.
They reached the central command area of the camp, marked by a massive, reinforced pavilion tent. Aerion and his entourage dismounted, handing their reins to nearby handlers.
"Have all the reinforcements that are assigned to this unit have arrived?" Aerion asked Valerius as they approached the tent flaps.
"They have not, Praefect," Valerius reported smoothly. "Logistical delays in the mountain passes and pulling men from the western garrisons takes time. We currently have two hundred and sixty legionnaires present in the camp. The remainder are marching from Markarth and Falkreath, and should arrive within the week. We are awaiting the rest of the cohort. However, your other two Tribunes have already arrived. I am currently commanding this detachment alongside them."
Aerion nodded, digesting the numbers. Two hundred and sixty was a formidable force, but to anchor Whiterun against a full Stormcloak siege, he would need the entire five hundred. But at least with Valerius and two others, he would possess three senior field officers under his direct command structure once the full five hundred man formation was completely assembled.
Aerion pushed through the heavy canvas flaps into the command tent.
The military organization of the camp became instantly, glaringly clear. The massive tent was dominated by a huge wooden table. Highly detailed maps of Whiterun Hold covered one section, while a sweeping, larger map of Skyrim covered the other. Tiny carved wooden markers, handwritten logistical notes, and colored flags indicated troop positions, known bandit patrols, road conditions, fortifications, and vital terrain chokepoints.
Standing near the table were two officers. They turned and instantly saluted as Aerion entered.
The first was a massive, scarred Nord man with a thick blond beard. The second was a sharp eyed, highly observant Imperial woman.
"Praefect," Valerius introduced them. "This is Tribune Hrogar, and Tribune Livia. They will command the left and right flanks of the cohort."
Aerion deliberately committed their names to memory. These three officers would become his closest field commanders and operational deputies. He did not treat them as interchangeable, faceless subordinates. He stepped forward, grasping their forearms in turn, greeting them personally.
"Tribune Hrogar. Tribune Livia. It is an honor to serve with you," Aerion said warmly.
He then gestured for all three of them to gather tightly around the map table.
"Gather around the table. We have a war to prepare for. Let us begin immediately," Aerion commanded, his tone shifting into the cold, calculating edge of a spymaster. "What do we know about Stormcloak activity along the borders? Specifically, the northern, eastern, and southeastern edges of the hold."
The Tribunes stepped forward, looking at the Altmer with a mixture of awe and intense curiosity.
"There has not yet been a major, coordinated Stormcloak movement across the borders, Praefect," Tribune Livia reported, pointing to the unmarked edges of the map. "However, their scouts have become exponentially more active in the last four days."
"They are probing the line," Hrogar grunted, tapping a location near the Pale. "Small and very mobile groups of three to five men regularly cross incredibly close to the border, sometimes venturing slightly inside Whiterun territory before immediately withdrawing when challenged."
"Their behavior suggests heavy reconnaissance to gain more information," Valerius agreed. "They are testing response times and mapping the terrain. It is not an immediate attack, but they are absolutely preparing the ground for an invasion against Whiterun."
"And the skies? What if the dragons?" Aerion asked.
"It's worsening sir," Livia admitted, her expression tightening. "Dragons have been sighted far more frequently around the borders in recent weeks. They have been frequently circling the borderlands. They aren't attacking the camps directly, but their presence is agitating the men."
Aerion considered the tactical implications. "It is highly plausible that the unusually large concentrations of both Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers massing on the borders are actively attracting the dragons," Aerion reasoned aloud. "A battlefield containing tens or thousands of people presents massive opportunities for food, territorial aggression, or simply highly visible targets for a creature that views standing armies merely as loud obstacles."
The officers nodded grimly in agreement. A dragon did not care about the color of a uniform.
Aerion then pivoted the briefing. "Then let's talk about logistics. How are the camp's supplies?"
"Reassuring, for the moment sir," Valerius answered, pulling a ledger from his belt. "Food, clean water, firewood, canvas tents, and medical supplies are currently adequate for the men we have, with enough surplus for the reinforcements. But when the remaining reinforcements arrive, those provisions will stretch dangerously thin. We are scheduled for a logistical supply train from Solitude, but it is weeks away. Weapons and armor are in excellent condition and meet standard Legion requirements."
"And the armaments?" Aerion pressed.
"The armor and blades are in excellent condition, fully up to Legion standards," Hroldar reported proudly. Then, he grimaced. "But we have one massive shortage, Praefect."
"Say it," Aerion ordered.
"Arrows," the Nord Tribune stated bluntly. "We simply do not have enough arrows in the armory for a prolonged, multi day engagement. The fletchers in Solitude couldn't keep up with the sudden deployment orders. If the Stormcloaks march tomorrow, our archers will be shooting dry after three volleys."
Aerion processed the shortage instantly. General Tullius had explicitly ordered him to prepare Whiterun without openly flying Imperial banners in the city until Jarl Balgruuf committed. Ordering a massive visible Imperial supply train into Whiterun would alert Ulfric prematurely.
Ten minutes later, Aerion stepped out of the command tent and stood on a slightly elevated wooden platform overlooking the staging yard.
Aerion nodded, unfazed. He thanked them for the concise report.
"I will solve the arrow shortage in the short term," Aerion promised smoothly. "I have deep contacts within Whiterun. I can personally order a massive surplus of iron and steel arrows through Adrianne Avenicci at Warmaiden's, and have them transported discreetly to this camp via unmarked wagons. If she cannot meet the demand, I will approach the Battle-Born family. Their wealth and Imperial loyalty should make securing additional fletching materials trivial."
He looked at the three officers. "Understand, this is temporary, private support to ensure our readiness, not a permanent substitute for the Legion's official logistical chain."
The three Tribunes exchanged highly impressed looks. They deeply appreciated that their new Praefect was already thinking vastly beyond mere battlefield tactics and actively solving their bleeding logistical issues with his own political influence. Having a commanding officer who could instantly solve logistical nightmares with his own private funds and local connections was a massive tactical advantage.
"Thank you, Praefect," Valerius nodded deeply.
Aerion nodded his head and stepped back from the table. ending the command meeting.
"We are done here for now. Have all available soldiers assembled in the camp's open courtyard immediately," Aerion ordered. "I want to introduce myself to the men personally."
Within ten minutes, approximately two hundred and sixty Legionnaires were gathered in the dusty courtyard, standing in perfect, rigid formation.
Aerion walked out of the command tent, the afternoon sun glinting off his heavy Nordic steel. His retainers remained standing near the tent flaps. He explicitly allowed J'zargo, Onmund, and Brelyna to stand at the front to observe. They needed to see exactly how a military commander operated.
Aerion did not immediately launch into a screaming, theatrical speech. He walked slowly across the front line, his golden eyes sweeping over the stoic, hardened faces of the men and women who would soon bleed for his orders.
He stopped in the center.
"Soldiers of the Empire, I am Praefect Aerion," he introduced himself, his voice completely calm, but carrying effortlessly over the silent courtyard.
"You have been pulled from the safety of your garrisons and marched into the open plains of Whiterun," Aerion continued, his words weaving a subtle, unbreakable spell of loyalty over the men. "Ulfric Stormcloak looks at this city and sees the key to Skyrim. But I look at this city, and I see the anvil upon which his rebellion will be shattered!"
"I know that many of you have likely heard rumors," Aerion looked around. "Stories about the blood spilled at Fort Greymoor, or the politics surrounding my rapid promotion. But rumors whispered around a campfire are entirely different from looking into the eyes of the man who will actually be giving you orders when the arrows start falling."
He began to pace slowly.
"I will not lie to you. The coming battle for Whiterun is going to be incredibly difficult. Ulfric Stormcloak will not simply surrender this hold because we ask nicely. There will be scouts in the dark. There will be raids on our supply lines. There will be ambushes in the fog, and eventually, there will be brutal, open warfare on the plains."
He stopped, turning back to face them. He shifted his tone, dropping the formal cadence of a general and speaking directly to the soldiers as a warrior.
"I do not expect you to be fearless," Aerion told them, his voice ringing with absolute sincerity. "Fear is entirely normal. Only a fool or a corpse feels no fear when a shield wall clashes. What I expect from you is discipline. When the order comes, you will hold formation. When the enemy charges, you must trust the man or woman standing beside you with your life. And when someone falls... you must step into the gap and continue doing your duty."
He let the heavy reality of the words settle before shifting the narrative.
"But you will not be fighting alone," Aerion promised, a subtle, confident smirk playing on his lips behind the mask.
"As some of you may know, my private household near the city possesses six enormous, highly territorial animals."
He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. Because they were stationed so close to Whiterun, the rumors had already spread wildly.
"Mammoths."
A ripple of genuine surprise, amusement, and fierce excitement washed through the rigid formation. Some of the soldiers had heard the wild tavern stories; others had actually seen the massive beasts grazing from a distance on patrol.
Aerion used the moment brilliantly to spike their morale.
"If the Stormcloaks break our lines, they will find themselves staring down the tusks of six fully grown mammoths supporting our vanguard," Aerion told them, his voice rising in volume. "I assure you, it will give them an excellent reason to strongly reconsider charging into the field."
A low murmur of excited agreement swept through the ranks.
Aerion then finished his speech with a simple, unbreakable vow.
"I make you this promise," Aerion declared, striking his breastplate. "I will never ask a single one of you to do something that I am not entirely willing to do myself. I will lead from the front."
His Persuasion skill hummed quietly beneath the words, reinforcing the speech perfectly. It wasn't mind control. It was simply the raw, magnetic weight of genuine conviction. The soldiers staring back at him began to see him not merely as an arrogant High Elf who had bought a rank, but as a true warlord who intended to bleed beside them.
The courtyard erupted.
The soldiers cheered, their voices echoing off the surrounding hills. Men struck their gauntleted fists violently against their shields, the metallic ringing joining the roar as they called out his name.
Aerion allowed the chaotic, morale boosting moment to continue briefly before raising a single, gauntleted hand.
Instant, absolute silence fell over the courtyard.
"Maintain your readiness," Aerion gave his final, sharp instructions. "Keep this camp disciplined. Report any suspicious Stormcloak activity on the borders immediately. Do not underestimate the dragons in the sky. And be prepared to march the moment the orders come. For the Empire!"
"FOR THE EMPIRE!" the two hundred and sixty soldiers roared in unison.
"Dismissed."
The formation broke smoothly, the soldiers returning to their duties with visibly renewed vigor.
Aerion turned back toward his entourage. His first visit to his new command had gone vastly better than he had anticipated. The men were disciplined, and their morale was now sky high.
He approached the three Tribunes. "Continue managing the camp and maintaining peak readiness. I will return soon to finalize our logistical supply lines. But for now, I must handle several urgent matters at Tundra Homestead."
"Understood, Praefect," Valerius saluted.
Aerion and his entourage mounted their horses, riding out of the camp and heading back toward the sprawling plains of Whiterun.
As the rhythmic clatter of hooves filled the silence, Aerion's highly analytical mind immediately began prioritizing his next moves.
One issue glared immediately at the forefront of his thoughts, the mammoths.
If he was genuinely going to integrate the massive beasts into a battlefield scenario, he could not simply send six completely unprotected, fleshy animals into a rain of Stormcloak arrows and spears. They would be slaughtered.
He needed armor for them.
Not decorative, ceremonial padding. Actual, functional, heavy protection. Massive, interlocking steel plates for their sides to deflect arrows. Heavy iron head protection for their skulls. Thick, defensive coverings for their vulnerable underbellies and legs. And it all had to be designed flawlessly, so it wouldn't hinder their ability to walk, charge, or turn in the chaos of battle.
He began silently considering the staggering, unprecedented smithing challenge. Mammoths were enormous. Standard armor schematics were utterly useless. He would likely need to combine massive sheets of forged metal, heavily reinforced leather, long leather straps, and entirely custom built iron fittings.
He also needed more mammoths.
The existing four females and two bulls had become incredibly valuable. Expanding the herd would exponentially improve both the massive profits of the cheese business and the physical military strength of his household. He began quietly calculating om where he might acquire, transport, and tame additional wild mammoths without attracting the panicked attention of every guard in the hold.
Then, his thoughts drifted toward the massive pile of unfinished business accumulating around him.
The White Phial. Nurelion, the dying Altmer alchemist, was waiting for him to return to Windhelm after exploring Forsaken Cave.
The Gauldur Amulet. He possessed two fragments, their ancient magic thrumming against his chest. The final, elusive piece remained hidden somewhere in the world, waiting to be recovered to complete the legendary artifact.
And then there was Mehrunes' Razor.
Silus Vesuius was waiting for him back in Dawnstar. Aerion already knew the Razor was an incredibly dangerous Daedric artifact, vastly more lethal than the museum owner realized. Recovering the three shattered fragments would eventually force him into a direct dangerous confrontation at the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon with several Daedra.
He had not forgotten a single thread.
As the familiar, fortified stone walls of Tundra Homestead finally came into view on the horizon, Aerion realized exactly how many massive, world altering plans were accumulating on his plate.
Military command over a legion cohort. The incoming imminent, bloody defense of Whiterun. Designing unprecedented mammoth armor. Expanding the herd. Managing the booming cheese empire. The White Phial. The Gauldur Amulet. Mehrunes' Razor. Training his students. Expanding the mercenary organization.
And, looming above all of it, the catastrophic, impending battle between the Empire and the Stormcloaks that would determine the fate of Skyrim.
Aerion knew he could not possibly do everything at once. But as a transmigrator who viewed the world through the lens of absolute optimization, he had never been particularly good at leaving a useful and profitable opportunity untouched. He smiled faintly beneath the bronze mask as the group rode toward the open gates of Tundra Homestead. For this evening, he would handle what was directly in front of him. Tomorrow, he would deal with the rest of the world.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 860/860
Stamina: 900/900
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 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), Summon Dragon (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, 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, Wuuthrad's Fragments, Mage Boots Of Weight, Master Robes Of Destruction, Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson, & Gauldur Black Bow
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: 47.71 KG / 750 KG
Septims: 102,867