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Aerion slid down from the back of the alpha mammoth, his boots hitting the dirt. Jenassa dropped down silently beside him, her ebony bow slung over her shoulder. "Gather the commanders," Aerion ordered softly, feeling the genuine, bone deep ache of physical fatigue finally creeping into his muscles. He walked into the center of his private unit. The mercenaries and legionnaires were exhausted, bleeding, and bruised, but their eyes were bright with victory.
Aerion raised his hands, focusing the last of his immediate Magicka reserves. He cast a massive, sweeping aura of Grand Healing. The warm, golden light washed over the five hundred legionnaires, the mercenaries, his retainers, and the mammoths. Shallow cuts sealed instantly, bruises faded, and the agonizing ache of fatigue was significantly blunted.
Tribunes Valerius, Hrogar, and Livia stepped forward, their armor battered but their posture proud.
"What's the status," Aerion says, removing his mask to breathe the cold morning air.
Valerius swallowed hard, his expression turning grim. "The line held pretty well, Praefect. We did not yield an inch of the road. But the fighting was brutal all the way before the retreat."
The Tribune pulled a small ledger from his belt. "We have eighty confirmed casualties among the cohort. Eighty men and women who fell holding the defensive line."
Aerion's golden eyes darkened, his face hardening into a solemn, grieving mask. Eighty men. In a massive, chaotic battle involving dragons and thousands of enemies, losing only eighty men from a forward unit was a miraculous, virtually impossible tactical victory. But to Aerion, every life spent was a heavy cost.
"Have their bodies retrieved immediately," Aerion ordered, his voice quiet and completely devoid of its usual metallic edge. "Ensure their armor is cleaned. They will be given proper, honorable burials with full Imperial rites. They held the line. We owe them that much respect."
"Yes, Praefect," the Tribunes saluted, their voices thick with emotion.
Sinmir stepped forward next, wiping a streak of dried blood from his scarred cheek. He leaned heavily on his battleaxe, a wide, disbelieving grin on his face.
"And the mercenaries, Captain?" Aerion asked.
"It's a damn miracle, Boss," Sinmir breathed, looking back at the heavily armed men and women of Tundra Homestead, who were currently passing around water skins and clapping each other on the shoulders. "We took the brunt of the flank charges, but between your healing magic and the three apprentices alongside Eirik restoration magic... not a single boy or girl was lost. A few broken ribs, some deep cuts, but they all survived. It's sheer luck. An engagement like this without a single mercenary casualty is almost impossible."
Aerion looked at the hardened fighters who guarded his home, a rare, genuinely warm smile touching his lips.
"It was not luck, Sinmir," Aerion said softly, looking up at the clear, morning sky where the dragons had fallen. "It is the will of Kyne that they survived today. They fought with honor, and they have earned their rest."
The Praefect of the Imperial Legion turned back toward the towering stone walls of Whiterun, the sun have positioned goes above all of them, casting a bright golden light over the victorious city. The storm had broken, and the Empire had won.
The hot noon wind sweeping down from the Throat of the World did little to clear the heavy, suffocating stench of ozone, charred earth, and spilled blood that blanketed the northern ridge.
Aerion then returned back to stood near the epicenter of the devastation, his Ebony Greatsword at his back resting point down in the frozen mud. Surrounding him was a crater of blasted rock and blackened grass, the direct result of the apocalyptic Elemental Blast that had torn the fire dragon out of the sky. The massive beast lay crumpled in the center of the ruin, its heavy, iron colored scales shattered, its chest cavity hollowed out by the sheer concussive force of the magic.
The heavy crunch of armored boots approaching drew Aerion's attention.
Aeloria and Valdemar were walking up the incline, their weapons sheathed but their armor painted with the grim evidence of the morning's slaughter in the East Camp. Behind Aerion, Lydia, Jenassa, and Eisa stood in a loose, protective half circle, their chests heaving slightly as the adrenaline of the battle finally began to ebb.
Aeloria stopped at the edge of the crater, looking down at the ruined, smoking corpse of the dragon. She didn't say a word. She simply offered Aerion a knowing, solemn nod, and stepped down into the blasted earth.
Aerion watched silently. He knew exactly what was about to happen.
As the Dragonborn approached the beast, the air around them began to thrum with a deep, resonating frequency that vibrated in the teeth of everyone present. Suddenly, the flesh, blood, and heavy scales of the fallen dragon ignited. It was not a mundane fire, but a blinding, ethereal, golden conflagration that cast no heat and left no ash.
The meat and muscle burned away in a matter of seconds, dissolving into ribbons of pure, glowing soul energy.
With a sound like rushing wind and roaring thunder, the golden streams of energy violently whipped through the air, converging directly upon Aeloria. The ancient, mythological power slammed into her chest, illuminating her steel armor and her face in a halo of blinding light. She closed her eyes, her spine arching slightly as she absorbed the essence of a god, expanding her innate understanding of the Thu'um and permanently binding the dragon's immortal soul to her own.
As quickly as it began, the ethereal fire vanished.
The wind died down, leaving absolute silence in the crater. Where the massive, terrifying fire dragon had lain just moments before, there was now nothing but a colossal, pristine skeleton of heavy, ivory-colored bone and scattered, hardened scales.
Aeloria let out a long, shuddering breath, opening her eyes. The golden glow slowly faded from her irises, leaving her looking profoundly weary but undeniably more powerful. She stepped out of the crater, walking back toward Aerion.
"Two dragons in one morning," Aeloria murmured, shaking her head in a mixture of awe and exhaustion. She looked back at the massive skeleton, then turned her gaze to the Praefect. "The bones and the scales that remain. Will you be taking them into your keeping, as you did with the others we have slain together?"
Aerion nodded his head, his golden eyes resting analytically on the massive, jagged ribcage of the fallen beast.
"I will," Aerion confirmed smoothly. "They are vastly too valuable to leave rotting in the mud, or worse, to allow scavengers and opportunistic merchants to pick them apart. I have been developing a series of highly complex metallurgical theories regarding these remains. If my calculations are correct, I can forge the bones and scales into something entirely unprecedented. Equipment that can naturally absorb and deflect the elemental fury of the dragons."
Aeloria's eyebrows rose in genuine, keen interest. "Armor forged from dragons?"
"Exactly," Aerion said, a faint, confident smile touching his lips. "It will take time, and a forge burning vastly hotter than anything currently built in Skyrim, but it is possible. When I perfect the process, I intend to forge a set specifically for you, Aeloria. As the Dragonborn, you will face more of these beasts than anyone else alive. You will need armor that can withstand their teeth and their Thu'um. I will also forge sets for a highly select few, the trusted circle we choose to keep close."
Aeloria looked deeply moved by the promise. "I cannot even imagine what that would look like, Aerion. Or how much it would weigh."
"You will see it when it is ready," Aerion deflected politely, not wanting to dive into the intricate mechanics of Smithing at the moment.
He turned his attention away from the crater, his gaze sweeping over the sprawling, chaotic remnants of the Stormcloak North Camp.
When the rebel army had routed in blind, screaming terror, they had abandoned absolutely everything. The grassy ridges were littered with hundreds of pristine canvas tents, heavy supply wagons, crates of salted meats, barrels of Black-Briar mead, and stacks of folded wool blankets. The sheer volume of logistical supplies left behind was staggering.
"Look at this," Aerion commented, gesturing broadly to the abandoned camp. "The Stormcloaks were preparing for a siege that could last for months. They brought enough provisions to feed an army of thousands, and they left it all in the dirt."
Valdemar crossed his massive arms, a low whistle escaping his lips. "That is a fortune in grain and ale alone. The quartermasters in the city are going to weep with joy."
"We are not just handing it over to the quartermasters to lock in a vault," Aerion stated pragmatically. "This city has been terrified for days. The soldiers and the militia have stood on the wallsband the grounds, expecting to die which some have did so. Now that the enemy is broken, we need to release that tension. We will use these exact supplies to throw a massive, hold wide celebration for the men. A feast."
He looked at Aeloria. "It will exponentially increase their morale. And more importantly, by utilizing the enemy's abandoned supplies to feed our tens of thousand soldiers and militias, we completely negate the strain on Whiterun's internal economy. We save the city's private stores from being rapidly depleted, ensuring the market prices do not violently spike in the aftermath of the battle."
Lydia, Jenassa, and Eisa nodded their heads in immediate agreement. It was a flawless logistical and political maneuver. The soldiers would feast like kings, the Jarl would save a fortune in gold, and the enemy would inadvertently pay for the entire celebration.
"A brilliant suggestion, Patron," Jenassa noted, looking over the abandoned wagons. "But how do we move it all? And how do we move the dragon bones? They weigh tons."
Aerion smiled beneath his mask. He turned toward the Imperial defensive lines, raising two fingers to his mouth, and let out a piercing, resonant whistle infused with his Animal Affinity.
A moment later, the ground began to vibrate.
The eleven heavily armored mammoths broke away from the defensive barricades, lumbering up the northern road toward their master. The alpha mammoth arrived first, letting out a low, inquisitive rumble, its massive trunk sweeping the ground.
"They will be our draft horses for the morning," Aerion explained.
He stepped up to the alpha, before then he begin to give out his instructions clearly which was understood through the magical bond. He gestured toward the massive dragon skeleton in the crater, and then pointed toward the distant, shattered East Camp where Aeloria's dragon had fallen.
He instructed the herd to carefully uproot the bones and scales, gather them into massive bundles using the abandoned Stormcloak netting and ropes, and transport the remains back to their temporary pens just outside the outer walls of Whiterun.
He deliberately instructed them not to return to Tundra Homestead yet.
Aerion knew intimately well that he and his apprentices had laid down a highly lethal, overlapping network of invisible Frost, Fire, and Lightning runes in the tall grass surrounding his estate. If he sent the massive beasts home now, their colossal, heavy feet would inevitably trigger multiple traps simultaneously.
Even with their custom forged steel armor, stepping on three overcharged magical landmines would blow their legs out from under them and cripple the herd permanently. He had to personally walk the perimeter and disarm his own lethal security grid before the beasts could return to their pastures.
Understanding the complex command, the alpha mammoth let out a loud, affirmative bugle. The beast immediately moved toward the crater, wrapping its thick, prehensile trunk around the massive, jagged skull of the fire dragon, lifting it effortlessly from the mud. The rest of the herd quickly followed suit, moving to gather the ribs and scales.
With the cleanup operation delegated to his immortal beasts, Aerion turned back to his retainers.
"Let us return to the city," Aerion commanded. "The war is won."
They walked back down the northern road, falling into a relaxed, steady march. As they approached the outer walls of Whiterun, the true magnitude of their victory became apparent.
The Imperial legionnaires and the Whiterun army were not just standing around, they were actively celebrating. As Aerion, Aeloria, and their heavily armed group walked through the shattered remains of the wooden barricades, the soldiers began to notice them.
It started as a murmur, then grew into a roar.
Men and women in blood stained tunics and dented armor parted ways, creating a wide path for them. They slammed the flats of their swords against their shields, creating a deafening, rhythmic clatter of absolute respect.
Soldiers dropped to one knee as the Dragonborn passed, while the Imperial legionnaires snapped off rigid, chest thumping salutes to their towering Praefect. The cheers were deafening, a visceral outpouring of gratitude from thousands of people who knew exactly who had saved them from the fire and the sword.
Waiting for them at the very base of the outer stone wall, having descended from the high battlements, were Legate Rikke and Housecarl Irileth.
Both veteran women looked very exhausted, their armor covered in a fine layer of soot, but their eyes were bright with an undeniable, fierce triumph.
As Aerion and Aeloria approached, Legate Rikke stepped forward, bypassing standard military protocol entirely, and offered a deep, respectful bow of her head.
"Praefect. Dragonborn," Legate Rikke said, her voice thick with emotion, carrying over the cheering crowds. "I have fought in more battles than I can count. But I have never seen anything like what the two of you accomplished today. Taking down two dragons in the middle of a siege... you did not just save the lives of thousands of legionnaires and Whiterun's soldiers. You broke the absolute spirit of the Stormcloak rebellion. You scared them so badly they threw down their weapons and ran."
Irileth crossed her arms, her dark elven features drawn into a rare, genuine expression of respect. "She is right. Whiterun owes its existence to both of you today."
Aerion held up a gauntleted hand, projecting an aura of quiet, composed modesty.
"It was merely my duty to the hold, Legate. Housecarl," Aerion said smoothly, his voice carrying a perfectly calibrated tone of humble reflection. "I must admit, I did not expect my magical reserves to be quite that potent. Taking down a beast of that magnitude was a desperate gamble. I was simply fortunate that the magic held long enough to see the dragon fall."
Irileth stared at him for three long silent seconds.
Then, the Dark Elf let out a sharp, incredibly loud scoff of absolute disbelief from hearing what he said.
"Oh, by Azura, spare me the poetry, Aerion," Irileth sneered, though the corner of her mouth was twitching upward in a cynical smirk. "You want to play the humble scholar now? After what you did yesterday and today? Please."
She took a step closer, pointing a slender finger at his chest plate.
"Before this siege even began, you walked out into the tundra and tamed a herd of wild mammoths to make cheese," Irileth listed off, her voice dripping with biting sarcasm. "Yesterday, you stood on a wall and shot a dozen catapult boulders out of the sky as if you were swatting flies and summoned forty Daedric Attronachs. This morning, you again summoned forty Daedric Atronachs simultaneously, built huge walls of solid ice out of thin air, and then casually blew a hole through a dragon's chest. Do not stand there and tell me you 'didn't expect your magic to be that powerful.' You are a walking natural disaster, and you know it."
Before Aerion could formulate a suitably smooth, deflective response to the Housecarl's razor sharp assessment, a massive, booming burst of laughter echoed across the courtyard.
Legate Rikke and Irileth immediately took a respectful side step, parting to allow Jarl Balgruuf the Greater and General Tullius to walk through the crowd of celebrating soldiers.
Jarl Balgruuf was grinning from ear to ear, his heavy fur mantle swishing around his broad shoulders. He walked directly up to Aerion and Aeloria, clapping both of them on the shoulders with enough physical force to rattle their heavy armor.
"Irileth speaks nothing but the hard truth, my friend!" Balgruuf roared, his voice filled with overwhelming Nordic warmth and deep, fatherly pride. He looked at Aerion, his blue eyes shining. "There is absolutely no need for you to be humble anymore, Aerion! Not after today!"
The Jarl turned, gesturing broadly toward the cheering masses of soldiers and the smoking plains beyond.
"You have done impossible, legendary feats upon this field," Balgruuf declared loudly, ensuring the nearby soldiers heard his decree. "Your name will be heard in every tavern and keep across the entire province of Skyrim. You are the man who commanded the beasts, who shattered an army, and who ripped a dragon from the sky with your bare hands. In the histories of this war, your name will sit proudly, just below the Dragonborn herself!"
Aerion looked at the Jarl, then at the cynical, waiting smirk on Irileth's face. He realized that maintaining the facade of a struggling, lucky mage was entirely pointless now. His power was a known, undeniable reality.
Aerion let out a low, genuine chuckle, shaking his head slightly.
"Very well, my Jarl," Aerion conceded smoothly, letting the false humility fall away, replacing it with the calm, terrifying confidence of a supreme warlord. "If it pleases the court, I will refrain from being humble from this day forward."
"Good," General Tullius interjected, stepping up beside the Jarl.
The supreme commander of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim looked at Aerion with a mixture of profound strategic reliance and absolute relief. General Tullius was a man who dealt in brutal facts, and the facts of the morning were staggering.
"Your lack of humility is entirely earned, Praefect," General Tullius praised him, his gravelly voice carrying deep respect. "Your tactical acumen was as vital as your magic. I must point out that your suggestion of offensive strategy to break the siege this morning saved vastly more than just the lives of my legionnaires. It saved the city itself."
General Tullius gestured toward the distant, smoking craters on the plains.
"If we had followed standard doctrine," he explained to the group, his tactical mind dissecting the timeline. "If we had remained defensive, hunkered down behind the walls and barricades as we originally planned... those two dragons would not have landed in the Stormcloak camps. They would have flown directly over our heads and rained fire down upon the densely packed, wooden structures of the Plains District."
A shudder ran through the nearby soldiers as they realized the horrifying truth of the General's words.
"Furthermore," General Tullius continued grimly, "if the dragons had attacked the city interior, you, Praefect, and you, Dragonborn, would have been forced to abandon the frontline walls to chase the beasts through the streets. We would have lost our two greatest combat assets on the perimeter exactly when the Stormcloaks charged. The walls would have buckled. The casualties would have been catastrophic. Your decision to push out and engage them in the open fields prevented the absolute destruction of Whiterun's infrastructure and its civilians."
Hearing the General's stark and undeniable logic, murmurs of profound agreement rippled through the gathered retainers and officers. The sheer brilliance of Aerion's strategic pivot had literally saved the city from burning to the ground.
Jarl Balgruuf, overwhelmed by the realization of how close they had come to total annihilation, turned back to his soldiers.
He drew his steel sword, raising it high above his head, the metal flashing in the morning sun.
"HEAR ME, WHITERUN!" Balgruuf roared, his voice tearing across the entire military encampment. "LET YOUR VOICES BE HEARD! THREE CHEERS FOR THE HEROES OF THE HOLD!"
The response was an instantaneous, deafening explosion of sound.
"DRAGONBORN! MASTER AERION!"
The cheer was chanted by thousands of voices, a rhythmic, thunderous mantra that shook the ancient stones of the outer wall. Imperial legionnaires and Whiterun militiamen alike raised their weapons, screaming the names of their saviors until their throats were raw. Aeloria smiled fiercely, raising her own greataxe in acknowledgment, while Aerion offered a slow, deeply respectful bow to the men who had bled to hold the line.
When the cheering finally, slowly began to subside, the brutal logistical realities of the aftermath demanded attention.
"We have a massive mess to clean up," General Tullius noted pragmatically, sheathing his sword. "Legate Rikke. Organize the burial details. I want the Imperial and Whiterun dead recovered immediately. They will be given full rites. As for the Stormcloaks... stack their bodies and burn them, their rites will be given in the mass burning. There's to much of them and we cannot risk disease."
"Yes, General," Legate Rikke saluted, immediately turning to bark orders to the Quaestors to get the orders up and running.
"My Jarl. General," Aerion spoke up, catching their attention before they could finalize the cleanup orders. "Regarding the logistics of the aftermath. I strongly suggest we immediately dispatch heavy wagons to the abandoned Stormcloak camps in the North, East, and Southeast."
Aerion outlined his proposal clearly. "The rebels routed in complete panic. They left behind massive stockpiles of untouched provisions, grain, salted meats, ale, and medical supplies. I suggest we commandeer all of it immediately. Use their supplies to throw a massive, hold wide feast for the soldiers tonight. It will solidify morale, celebrate this major breakthrough, and spare Whiterun's treasury from feeding an army of forty thousand men."
Jarl Balgruuf's eyes widened in sheer delight, while General Tullius let out a rare, barking laugh of pure, pragmatic approval.
"A brilliant suggestion, Praefect!" General Tullius agreed instantly. "Make them pay for their own defeat. Legate! Send the quartermasters to the camps! Strip them bare!"
"A feast for the soldiers that are paid for by Ulfric Stormcloak!" Jarl Balgruuf cheered, clapping his hands together. "Hah! The men will love it! I agree!" When the order was relayed to the ranks, another massive, roaring cheer went up from the exhausted soldiers. The promise of hot food and cold ale, scavenged from their defeated enemies, was the ultimate reward for their survival.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 930/930
Stamina: 970/970
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 245
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(+6)/Lightning(+4)/Frost(+3)) (Level 0/0/0), Restoration (Healing(+3)/Purify(+2)) (Level 0/98), Alteration (Level 43), Illusion (Level 62), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+2)) (Level 37/0), Persuasion(+3) (Level 28), Smithing(+1) (Level 79), 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(+1) (Level 0)
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, Mage Boots Of Weight, Master Robes Of Destruction, Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson, Gauldur Black Bow, & Dwarven Battleaxe
2x Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), & Potions of Plentiful Magicka
3x Potions of Minor Stamina, Petty Soul Gem (Filled), Potions of Minor Magicka, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), & Greater Soul Gems
5x Mod Chests
8x Iron Arrows, Ancient Nord Arrows, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
10x Lesser Soul Gems
12x Black Soul Gem (Filled)
Weight: 49.21 KG / 785 KG
Septims: 252,867