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Legate Rikke stood up straight, snapping off a flawless, incredibly crisp Legion salute. There was no hesitation in her eyes, only deep, profound respect for the warlord standing before her. "Good hunting, Praefect," Rikke said, her voice echoing in the quiet tent. "I will be waiting to see your combat show on the northern ridge."
Aerion's smirk widened into a genuinely terrifying grin.
"Oh, you will absolutely love it, Legate, just wait for it," Aerion promised softly while he saluted.
He then reached down to his belt, unhooking the jagged, bronze visage of Krosis. With a smooth, practiced motion, he pulled the heavy mask over his face, instantly transforming from an aristocratic High Elf into a faceless, demonic avatar of war. His golden eyes glowed dangerously through the dark slits.
Without another word, Aerion turned and strode out of the tent, his heavy cloak billowing behind him, followed closely by Aeloria and his retainers.
He walked with purposeful, ground eating strides toward the extreme left flank of the Imperial lines, where the heavy timber pens of the mammoths had been erected.
The morning air was thick with the musky, overpowering scent of the massive beasts. The eleven armored mammoths were awake, restless, and completely agitated. They could smell the impending violence on the wind, their massive, steel-plated bodies shifting side to side, their iron-capped tusks gleaming dully in the gray light.
As Aerion approached the pens, a large group of officers marched forward to meet him.
Tribunes Valerius, Hrogar, and Livia stood at the front, their armor polished and their faces set in grim determination. Beside them stood Sinmir, his massive frame wrapped in heavy steel, leaning casually on a brutal battleaxe, with Eirik, Onmund, Brelyna, and J'zargo waiting anxiously behind him.
The entire command structure of his private army was assembled.
Valerius stepped forward, snapping off a sharp salute.
"Praefect," Valerius reported, his voice tight with adrenaline. "The entire units are formed. The mercenaries are anchored on the flanks. The mages are primed."
Sinmir offered a dark, feral grin, hefting his axe. "Everyone is ready, Boss. Just point the way."
Aerion looked past them, his glowing eyes settling on the massive, steel clad alpha mammoth waiting patiently for its master.
The waiting was over. The defense had held. Now, it was time to slaughter.
"Prepare yourselves everyone," Aerion commanded, his metallic, echoing voice cutting through the freezing dawn. "We march to the North camp."
The freezing, pre dawn air hung heavy over the Whiterun plains, thick with the scent of damp earth, woodsmoke, and the metallic tang of thousands of drawn blades.
Aerion stood before the mammoths, his golden eyes locked onto the massive, steel clad alpha mammoth. The beast shifted its immense weight, the interlocking plates of custom forged armor clanking ominously in the gray twilight. Aerion didn't bother looking for a mounting block.
He stepped forward, grabbed the thick leather harnessing that secured the heavy plating, and hauled his armored frame upward with a display of raw, predatory strength. He vaulted over the sharp curve of the beast's iron banded tusk guard and settled himself firmly on the wide, flat expanse of the mammoth's back, right behind its massive, domed skull.
The alpha let out a low, vibrating rumble that shook the dirt. Aerion reached down, patting the thick, coarse hair beneath the steel collar.
"We go to war," Aerion murmured, his voice resonating with the absolute authority of his Animal Affinity.
Looking down from his towering vantage point, Aerion surveyed his private army. To his left, the five hundred Imperial legionnaires under the command of Tribunes Valerius, Hrogar, and Livia had already formed up into tight, disciplined phalanxes. Their crimson cloaks were dark in the shadows, their steel shields locked in perfect alignment.
To his right, Sinmir and the hardened mercenaries of Tundra Homestead stood ready, their weapons drawn, their faces set in grim anticipation. Surrounding the mammoth herd were his retainers, Lydia, Jenassa, and Eisa, along with the three College apprentices and Eirik, their hands already crackling with residual Magicka.
Aerion raised his gauntleted hand, pointing directly toward the northern ridges.
"Advance," he commanded, his metallic voice echoing from behind the bronze visage of Krosis.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of legionnaire boots and the earth shattering footfalls of eleven armored mammoths began their steady, inevitable march toward the northern road.
Miles away, on the opposite side of the sprawling city, a vastly larger operation was already in motion.
Legate Rikke and Housecarl Irileth sat atop their warhorses on a small ridge overlooking the eastern plains, commanding a breathtaking, terrifying sea of military might. Over thirty thousand Imperial legionnaires, seamlessly integrated with the sixteen thousand guards and militiamen of Whiterun, were creeping across the tundra in the dim, pre-dawn light.
At the front of the razor sharp tip of this massive spear stood Aeloria and Valdemar.
The Dragonborn's steel armor caught the faint, silvery light of the moons as she walked at the front of the vanguard. She held a beautifully forged Morthal Battleaxe with both of her hand. Beside her, Valdemar carried his massive greatsword resting casually on his broad shoulder, his eyes fixed on the distant, flickering watchfires of the Stormcloak East and Southeast staging camps.
The Stormcloak soldiers in those camps were exhausted. The previous day had been a nightmare of mammoth charges, Daedric slaughter, and a bloody, futile grind against the Whiterun walls. Believing the Imperial army would spend the morning fortifying their positions, the vast majority of the rebel soldiers were still sleeping, wrapped in furs against the biting cold. Only a handful of sentries paced the wooden barricades, rubbing their eyes and blowing into their cupped hands.
As the faint, gray light of morning began to slowly illuminate the plains, one of the sentries on the eastern palisade stopped pacing. He squinted into the lingering mist.
The mist wasn't just drifting, it was moving with a rhythmic, undulating precision.
The sentry leaned forward, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. The fog parted, revealing a solid, unbroken wall of crimson banners, Imperial steel, and the yellow shields of Whiterun. It wasn't a raiding party. It was an ocean of men, and they were already within charging distance.
"IMPERIALS!" the sentry screamed, his voice cracking in sheer, unadulterated terror. "TO ARMS! IMPERIALS ON THE PLAINS!"
The panic was instantaneous and absolute.
War drums began to beat with a frantic, arrhythmic desperation. Shouts echoed through the tents as Stormcloak officers scrambled to wake their men. Soldiers stumbled out into the freezing mud, half dressed, wildly reaching for their axes and shields, desperately trying to form a cohesive line behind the heavy wooden gates of the camp.
But the time to prepare was entirely gone.
"CHARGE!" Legate Rikke roared from the rear, her voice very loud so that it could carry across the vast formations with the soldiers also helping spread the words.
Tens of thousands of soldiers roared in perfect, unified defiance, breaking into a heavy, thunderous sprint.
Aeloria did not run, she sprinted with the supernatural speed of a predator. She vastly outpaced the heavy infantry behind her, her eyes locked directly on the reinforced timber gates of the eastern camp. A dozen panicked Stormcloak archers scrambled onto the palisades, drawing their bows and firing down at her.
Valdemar was there in an instant, raising his heavy steel shield, intercepting the arrows meant for the Dragonborn with a series of loud, percussive thwacks.
"Take the gate, my Thane!" Valdemar bellowed over the din.
Aeloria didn't slow down. She planted her boots into the dirt a mere twenty yards from the massive wooden barricades, dropping her center of gravity. She drew in a breath so deep it seemed to pull the very oxygen out of the surrounding air, tapping into the ancient, draconic power coiled within her soul.
"FUS RO DAH!"
The Unrelenting Force tore from her throat like a physical, visible shockwave of rippling kinetic energy.
The impact was absolutely catastrophic. The heavy timber gates did not just splinter, they instantly exploded inward into a thousand jagged shards of shrapnel. The thick wooden palisades on either side buckled and completely collapsed. The dozen Stormcloak soldiers and archers desperately trying to hold the gate were caught in the epicenter of the Thu'um, their bodies violently launched backward through the air like ragdolls, crashing brutally into the tents and supply wagons fifty yards behind the line.
A massive, deafening cheer erupted from the Whiterun militia and the Imperial legionnaires rushing up behind her. Seeing the Dragonborn physically obliterate the enemy's defenses filled them with a blinding, invincible morale.
"FOR THE EMPIRE! FOR WHITERUN!" the vanguard screamed as they poured through the massive, shattered breach.
The fight that followed was a portrait of brutal, claustrophobic carnage.
The Stormcloaks, though caught completely off guard, were hardened veterans of a bitter war. They did not surrender. They fought with the cornered, desperate fury of wolves.
As Aeloria and Valdemar pushed into the heart of the camp, a massive squad of Stormcloak heavy infantry, clad in thick chainmail and wielding two handed battleaxes, rushed forward to plug the breach.
Valdemar stepped in front of Aeloria, swinging his greatsword in a devastating, horizontal arc. The heavy Nordic steel sheared cleanly through the wooden shield of the leading rebel, biting deep into his ribs and throwing him into the mud.
A second Stormcloak lunged, thrusting a spear at Valdemar's exposed flank, but Aeloria moved with blinding speed. She parried the spear thrust with her longsword, spun on her heel, and drove her blade directly through the gap in the man's armor.
"Shield wall! Form the wall!" a Stormcloak captain screamed, desperately trying to organize his bleeding men as the Imperial infantry began to flood into the camp.
Dozens of rebels slammed their shields together, creating a tight, overlapping turtle formation, digging their boots into the mud to brace against the Imperial tide.
Aeloria's eyes flared with a fierce, golden light. She sheathed her sword in a fluid motion, stepping out from behind Valdemar's protective bulk. She took another deep, resonant breath.
"YOL!"
A roaring weak but concentrated vortex of superheated fire erupted from her mouth, washing entirely over the desperate Stormcloak shield wall. The heat was blinding. The wooden shields instantly blackened and burst into flames.
The men behind them screamed in agony as the fire licked through the gaps in their armor, melting the chainmail to their skin. The formation shattered instantly as soldiers broke rank, dropping their burning shields and falling to the mud to desperately extinguish the flames.
Valdemar roared, charging into the burning gap, his greatsword acting as a scythe of execution, clearing the path for the thousands of Imperial legionnaires who surged forward, completely overwhelming the disorganized defenders.
Blood mixed with the freezing mud. The clash of steel, the sickening crunch of bone, and the desperate, gurgling screams of the dying filled the morning air. The East and Southeast camps had become a chaotic, brutal slaughterhouse, but the Stormcloaks, fueled by their raw hatred of the Empire, were slowly, agonizingly beginning to put up a coordinated stand in the deeper sections of the camp. The fight was going to be long, and it was going to be extraordinarily bloody.
While the East and Southeast camps burned, Aerion and his private army finally reached the strategic chokepoint of the northern road.
The northern Stormcloak camp, largely untouched by the devastation of the previous day, had heard the distant, rolling thunder of the Imperial charge. The rebel officers were frantically organizing their thousands of fresh soldiers, preparing to march out and flank the Imperial host.
As they marched down the winding, rocky road, they suddenly stopped.
Blocking their path, standing alone in the center of the road, was a towering High Elf in terrifying Nordic Carved Armor, his face hidden behind a jagged bronze mask. Behind him stood a single Imperial cohort, a band of mercenaries, and eleven massive, steel plated mammoths.
The Stormcloak commander at the front of the column sneered, drawing his battleaxe.
"They sent five hundred men and some beasts to hold us?" the commander laughed harshly, looking back at his thousands of fresh soldiers. "Crush them! Leave no survivors!"
The northern Stormcloak army roared, breaking into a charge down the wide, grassy incline.
Aerion did not draw his greatsword. He did not order his legionnaires to lock their shields.
He simply raised both of his gauntleted hands toward the sky, closing his eyes beneath the mask.
He forcefully tore open the floodgates of his dimensional inventory, connecting his magical core directly to the infinite, cosmic singularity of the Eye of Magnus. The rush of boundless, unfathomable Magicka was intoxicating. It filled his veins with liquid ice and crackling ozone.
Aerion looked down at the charging Stormcloak army, holding his hands out toward the earth.
He didn't cast a massive, explosive fireball. He took a basic Destruction spell, Frostbite, and overloaded it with a frankly impossible volume of pure Magicka.
Two continuous, roaring streams of absolute cold blasted from both of his palms, striking the grassy earth a hundred yards in front of his troops.
When the spell struck the ground, it did not merely chill the dirt or dissipate into the air. Powered by the Eye of Magnus, the cold became a living, aggressive entity. A blindingly white layer of permafrost raced across the earth with terrifying speed, flash freezing the morning dew and the moisture in the soil.
Then, the true horror of the magic manifested.
Thick, jagged sheets of crystalline ice erupted violently upward from the frozen earth. More ice rapidly followed behind them, stacking upon itself, groaning and cracking as it rapidly expanded. Within seconds, a massive, sheer wall of solid, impenetrable ice, twenty feet high and ten feet thick, tore itself out of the ground, stretching entirely across the width of the northern road and bleeding into the rocky ridges on either side.
Aerion swept his hands backward, casting the spell again, and again, and again.
He created a staggering, tiered network of overlapping ice walls, complete with narrow, deliberate chokepoints, elevated ramps, and jagged crenellations. In less than a minute, he had physically altered the geography of the battlefield, transforming a vulnerable open road into an impregnable, glacial fortress.
The charging Stormcloaks skidded to a terrified, confused halt, staring up at the towering ramparts of ice that had just grown out of the earth in front of them.
"Take cover behind the walls!" Aerion's voice boomed, magically amplified to carry over the cracking ice.
Tribunes Valerius, Hrogar, and Livia didn't hesitate. They ordered the five hundred legionnaires into the defensive gaps Aerion had deliberately left, using the indestructible ice as perfect, unyielding cover from enemy arrows. Sinmir and the mercenaries took the elevated ramps, drawing their bows.
But Aerion was just getting started.
Maintaining his connection to the Eye of Magnus, he raised his hands again, this time reaching into the dark, chaotic void of Oblivion.
He didn't summon one. He didn't summon ten.
With a series of deafening, spatial tears that sounded like thunderclaps, the sky above the northern road fractured into forty glowing purple rifts.
Forty Daedric Atronachs stepped through the tears in reality.
Fourteen towering Flame Atronachs, their bodies composed of shifting, molten rock and roaring fire. Thirteen massive Frost Atronachs, hulking golems of jagged black ice that mirrored the walls Aerion had just built. Thirteen crackling Storm Atronachs, swirling vortexes of static electricity and shattered stone.
The Stormcloak army, already reeling from the sudden appearance of the ice fortress, stared in absolute, paralyzing horror as a literal army of Daedra materialized before their eyes.
"Attack," Aerion whispered.
He pointed toward the terrified Stormcloaks, and he commanded his mammoths forward.
The eleven heavily armored beasts let out a unified, apocalyptic trumpet. They didn't need to smash through the ice walls; Aerion had sculpted massive, ramped corridors specifically for them. The mammoths thundered over the glacial ramps, cresting the ice walls and crashing down into the paralyzed Stormcloak vanguard like meteors made of steel and ivory.
The fight on the northern road was not a battle. It was a one sided brutal massacre.
The alpha mammoth hit the Stormcloak front line with the force of a battering ram. Its iron sleeved tusks gored three men instantly, tossing them thirty feet into the air. The beast's massive, steel plated feet came down, crushing chests and shattering skulls into the frozen mud. The other ten mammoths spread out, bulldozing through the panicked ranks, grinding the hardened veterans of the rebellion into bloody paste.
Some of the braver Stormcloak soldiers rallied, screaming in defiance as they hacked wildly at the mammoths' legs with battleaxes and thrust spears toward their exposed joints. A few rebel mages managed to launch desperate fireballs, searing the thick fur where the armor didn't quite cover.
Aerion, standing tall and utterly untouched atop the alpha's skull, wove his hands in a complex, terrifying dance of absolute magical supremacy.
With his left hand, he maintained a continuous, pulsing aura of Grand Healing. The golden light washed over the mammoth herd endlessly. Every time a Stormcloak spear drew blood, every time an axe managed to chip a bone, the golden magic rushed in, instantly knitting the flesh, sealing the wound, and restoring the beasts to perfect health before they could even register the pain. They were unkillable, immortal engines of destruction under his care.
With his right hand, Aerion became a god of destruction.
He hurled massive, overcharged Incinerate spells into the densest clusters of Stormcloaks, the explosions vaporizing men where they stood. He cast Chain Lightning that arced through their desperate shield walls, bypassing their armor and electrocuting dozens of men simultaneously, leaving them twitching and smoking in the frost.
He also shoot out Elementals Blast which immediately cooked the soldiers with fire, frost, and lightning at the same time, while the blash blow the area. But sheer physical destruction was inefficient. Aerion sought to break their minds.
He tapped into the school of Illusion, weaving the potent, insidious magic of Rout and Terror into his offensive barrages.
When the purple, mind warping magic washed over a squad of hardened Stormcloak veterans attempting to flank the mammoths, their courage simply evaporated. Their eyes went wide with a sudden, illogical, primal panic.
"FLEE!" one of the veterans screamed, dropping his battleaxe and clutching his head. "WE CANNOT KILL THEM! RUN!"
The terror spread like a contagion. Dozens, then hundreds of Stormcloaks broke rank, screaming in absolute horror, throwing down their weapons and trampling their own comrades in a desperate, blind attempt to escape the towering High Elf and his immortal beasts.
But there was nowhere to run.
The forty Atronachs had engaged. The Flame Atronachs hovered above the chaos, hurling precise, spiraling pillars of fire that incinerated the fleeing rebels. The Frost Atronachs waded directly into the melee, their massive ice fists crushing Stormcloaks with every swing, completely shrugging off the desperate sword strikes of the defenders. The Storm Atronachs rained continuous, devastating lightning bolts from the sky, turning the battlefield into a strobe-lit nightmare.
Those few Stormcloaks who managed to slip past the mammoths and the Daedra found no reprieve.
They rushed the ice walls, only to be met by the disciplined, ruthless defense of Aerion's private army.
Sinmir stood atop a jagged ice crenellation, his booming laughter echoing over the screams as he swung his massive steel battleaxe, severing the head of a climbing rebel.
"Come on, you rebel dogs!" Sinmir roared, kicking the headless body off the wall. "Is this the best Ulfric has to offer?!"
Lydia and Jenassa worked with lethal precision behind the ice. Lydia used the glacial wall to anchor her shield, bashing any Stormcloak who got too close, while Jenassa slipped her ebony arrows through the narrow gaps Aerion had created, scoring perfect, lethal headshots on the rebel officers trying to rally their men. Eisa fought at the choke points, the Pale Blade flashing, freezing the blood of any man foolish enough to cross her path.
The five hundred Imperial legionnaires functioned perfectly. They remained completely protected behind the sheer ice, methodically thrusting their short spears through the designated murder holes, silently and efficiently executing the desperate Stormcloaks who crashed against their frozen fortress. They worked in flawless tandem with the Atronachs, the Imperial steel finishing whatever the elemental Daedra had crippled.
Aerion stood at the epicenter of the carnage, his arms weaving spells with the terrifying, beautiful grace of a maestro conducting a symphony of death. He was untouchable, a force of nature wearing a bronze mask, drowning the rebellion in a sea of fire, ice, and blood.
Miles away, standing safely upon the high fortified battlements of Whiterun's outer wall that they returned to father giving the order of attack, Legate Rikke and Housecarl Irileth watched the distant display in shocked silence.
From their elevated vantage point, they had a perfect view of the northern road. They watched as massive, impossible walls of sheer ice erupted from the earth. They saw the sky tear open, disgorging a literal army of Daedra. They watched the continuous, blinding flashes of overcharged Destruction magic illuminating the dawn, tearing the massive northern Stormcloak army to bloody shreds.
Legate Rikke, a hardened veteran who had bled in the Great War and seen the horrors of the Aldmeri Dominion firsthand, let out a slow, trembling gasp. Her hands gripped the stone parapet so tightly her knuckles were stark white.
"I... I did not expect this," Legate Rikke whispered, her voice devoid of its usual booming authority, replaced by a hollow, terrifying awe. "I have heard of what he did yesterday, but this... this is beyond mortal capability. He is destroying an entire army single handedly."
Irileth stood beside her, her dark elven features drawn into a tight, grim mask. She crossed her arms over her leather armor.
"I felt the exact same way when I watched him shoot catapult boulders out of the sky yesterday," Irileth said, her voice laced with a dark, cynical realism. "Aerion is not just a mortal, Legate Rikke. He is a force of nature. He is a walking cataclysm."
The Housecarl turned her head, her red eyes locking onto the Legate.
"And you must realize the political reality of what is happening down there," Irileth warned quietly. "After this war is won, the Thalmor woll absolutely going to take an active interest in him. They have spies in this city. They will hear the reports. How can the Dominion tolerate the existence of one of their own kin growing so absurdly, impossibly powerful, operating entirely outside their control, and wearing the armor of the Imperial Legion? They will view him as the ultimate threat to their supremacy."
Legate Rikke swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "They will send Justiciars. Or assassins."
"They will die," Irileth stated matter of factly, gesturing to the distant fighting. "But the Thalmor's paranoia aside, everyone in Skyrim should know the truth by tomorrow morning. With Aerion wielding that kind of catastrophic power, and Aeloria leading your vanguards with the voice of a dragon... the civil war is over, Legate. It is just a matter of how many Stormcloaks have to die before Ulfric realizes it. You have two living weapons fighting for the Empire."
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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