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Kematu stared at the towering Altmer for a long, agonizing moment. He weighed the sincerity in Aerion's golden eyes against the overwhelming, suicidal odds of fighting the private army behind him. Slowly, reluctantly, Kematu lowered his scimitars, signaling with a sharp jerk of his chin for his men to sheathe their blades. "Wait here for just a moment," Aerion instructed.
Aerion dismounted Revan, his boots hitting the dirt. He walked forward, stopping just at the edge of the invisible boundary line where the tall tundra grass met the road.
He didn't need to manually trigger the traps or dig them up. He reached into his dimensional inventory, establishing a faint but controlled tether to the Eye of Magnus. He raised his hands, his palms glowing with a deep, pulsing blue light.
Aerion cast a massive, sweeping Dispel aura, pulling the latent Magicka from the environment directly back into his own core.
The air around the estate shimmered with Magicka. Dozens of highly volatile Fire, Frost, and Lightning Runes flared into brilliant, blinding existence in the tall grass for a fraction of a second, before dissolving into harmless, dissipating wisps of colored smoke. The lethal magic minefield that had protected the estate was neutralized in a matter of seconds.
Kematu and the Alik'r warriors stepped back in sheer, unadulterated shock. They had expected him to navigate a safe path, not casually absorb a magical perimeter capable of wiping out a cavalry charge.
Aerion ignored their awe. He turned back toward the hill and waved his hand.
The eleven armored mammoths lumbered forward, passing through the Alik'r entirely, their massive footfalls shaking the dirt. The heavy wooden gates of the estate were hauled open by the waiting workers, and the mammoths marched directly into their reinforced pens, carefully depositing the heavy, netted bundles of dragon bones and scales into the secure storage area.
Sinmir led the mercenaries into the courtyard. The sellswords immediately broke formation, hauling their heavy rucksacks toward the barracks, laughing and boasting about the battle. Sinmir wasted no time, immediately barking orders for a perimeter patrol to ensure the estate was secure. The estate workers, also put down their luggages and immediately returned to their duties, hauling hay and stoking the massive cheese vats.
Aerion handed Revan's reins to Lydia. "Secure the horses. I will handle our guests."
Lydia nodded, taking the reins of the four mounts and leading them toward the stables with Jenassa and Eisa.
Aerion turned and walked into the grand, multi story wooden mansion. The interior was pristine, smelling of polished wood and expensive incense, a stark contrast to the mud and blood of the battlefield. He walked directly to his private master suite, locking the heavy oak door behind him.
He stood in the center of the room, opening his system interface.
He visualized the five massive, bottomless mod chests residing within his dimensional inventory. The cheese trade had been running at peak efficiency for weeks, generating staggering amounts of wealth, which had been securely stored with Ysolda in the Bannered Mare, so he will took the septims not from his inventory but from this five chests.
Aerion mentally commanded the transfer. He siphoned exactly 5,000 septims from each of the five chests.
With a heavy, metallic clatter that resonated in the quiet room, a massive, thick leather sack materialized on the wooden floor at his boots. It was bulging, impossibly heavy, filled with exactly 25,000 solid gold pieces.
Aerion reached down, hauling the heavy sack up with one hand. Even with his massively upgraded physical strength, the sheer, dense weight of the gold was considerable.
He left the room and walking back out into the bright afternoon sun of the courtyard.
Kematu and his men were still waiting near the open gates, watching the frenetic, highly organized activity of the estate with deep suspicion.
Aerion walked up to the Redguard commander and casually dropped the massive leather sack onto the dirt at Kematu's boots. The impact landed with a heavy, distinct, muffled clink of thousands of coins grinding together.
"Twenty five thousand septims," Aerion stated smoothly, crossing his arms over his breastplate. "As agreed. This covers your provisions, your travel expenses, your hazard pay, and a highly substantial bonus for your men."
Kematu stared down at the bulging sack, his eyes wide in utter disbelief. He had expected a few thousand coins, perhaps some gems. Twenty five thousand septims was an absolute fortune. It was enough to buy a small fleet of ships or fund a small local war.
Kematu looked up at the High Elf, his hardened mercenary skepticism warring with the physical reality at his feet. "You are handing me a large amount of septims. Just to walk away?"
"You may count it, if you doubt my arithmetic," Aerion offered, his tone completely indifferent to the staggering sum of wealth. "But I assure you, it is all there."
Kematu shook his head slowly, a deep, profound respect finally settling over his features. He reached down, hauling the heavy sack over his shoulder with a grunt of exertion.
"I do not doubt you, Elf," Kematu said, using Aerion's new rank deliberately. "You have kept your end of the bargain flawlessly. You fight like a demon, and you pay like an big merchant. I will keep mine. My men and I will march for the western border within the hour. We are leaving Skyrim for good."
Kematu stepped back, offering a deep, formal bow of his head. "May the sands guide your path, Aerion."
"Safe travels, Kematu," Aerion replied, returning the nod.
The Alik'r warriors turned as one, falling into a swift, disciplined march down the dirt road, heading west toward the setting sun and the distant borders of Hammerfell.
Aerion stood on the wooden porch of the mansion, watching them disappear over the rolling hills of the tundra. He let out a slow, calculating breath, his mind already shifting from the localized politics of Whiterun to the grander, brutal reality of the upcoming campaign.
He had five days before the massive Imperial war machine finished its logistical preparations. Five days before he marched one thousand men into the freezing, treacherous mountains of Winterhold to lay siege to Fort Kastav.
He needed to maximize his lethality before he faced the hardened Stormcloak veterans in the snow.
His golden eyes narrowed in thought. The fabled dagger of the Daedric Prince of Destructionz Mehrunes' Razor. A blade capable of instant, absolute execution, regardless of armor or magical wards. If he possessed the Razor, cutting down heavily armored Stormcloak commanders or rogue mages would become brutally, terrifyingly efficient.
The pieces of the Razor were scattered across Skyrim. The hilt in Morthal, the pommel stone at Dead Crone Rock, and the blade shards at Cracked Tusk Keep.
And the man who could forge them all back together, Silus Vesuius, who lived in Dawnstar.
It was perfect. He could spend the next three days hunting down the scattered fragments across the province. By the time General Tullius and Legate Rikke cracked the walls of Fort Dunstad and forced Dawnstar to surrender to the Empire, Aerion would march into the newly conquered city with the pieces in hand, forcing Silus to reforge the legendary weapon under his protection.
Aerion turned back toward the doors of his mansion, his mind locked onto the bloody path ahead.
The main hall of Tundra Homestead was practically vibrating with the raucous, unrestrained energy of survival and but cramped as well. The stone hearth in the center of the room roared, casting a warm, flickering amber light over the long wooden tables. The air was incredibly thick with the savory, mouth watering aroma of slow cooked meat stew, freshly baked bread, and sharp, aged mammoth cheese, all mingling with the sweet, heady scent of spiced wine and dark mead.
Aerion stood at the head of the central table, a heavy wooden tankard of mead in his gauntleted hand. He had removed his armor's heavy mantle and the bronze mask of Krosis, revealing his flawless, golden features. He looked out over the crowded hall.
Every single mercenary in the company was present, alongside his personal retainers and the four mages. They were bruised, bandaged, and exhausted, but their eyes were bright with the intoxicating high of victory.
Aerion raised his tankard, and the ambient noise of the hall instantly died down.
"To survival," Aerion began, his resonant, commanding voice effortlessly filling the massive room. "And to the unbreakable steel of our company."
He looked around the table, making eye contact with the hardened men and women who fought for him. "I watched you all upon the plains yesterday. I saw you hold the line against a tidal wave of Stormcloak infantry, and I saw you stand your ground when the dragons fell from the sky. I am very proud of what everyone accomplished, and I am deeply relieved to see every single one of you sitting at these tables today, alive and intact."
Aerion paused, his expression turning slightly more serious, a sober reminder of the reality of their profession.
"You all know that my Restoration magic is potent," Aerion continued, projecting a grounded, pragmatic leadership. "But magic is not a substitute for discipline. I can close your wounds and mend your bones, but if you had not been skilled, if you had not been cautious, keeping your shields locked and watching each other's backs in that grinder, my healing would not have reached you in time. We did not suffer a single casualty yesterday because of your skill, not just my spells. For that, you have my absolute respect."
He raised his tankard higher, a charismatic, triumphant smile breaking across his face.
"To the company!" Aerion roared.
"TO THE BOSS!" Sinmir bellowed in response, raising his own massive flagon.
"TO THE BOSS!" the entire hall chorused, the deafening cheer shaking the rafters. They slammed their tankards together, spilling ale across the polished wood, and drank deeply to the toast.
As the cheering subsided and the mercenaries tore ravenously into the hot stew and fresh bread, Aerion raised his hand once more to make an announcement.
"Furthermore," Aerion declared, ensuring his voice carried over the chewing and laughter. "Because of your exceptional performance holding the outer barricades, every single member of this company will be receiving a substantial pay bonus in your next payment."
Another massive, immediate cheer erupted.
"And," Aerion added, raising a finger, "you have earned a reprieve. Beginning tomorrow, the company will institute a rotating holiday schedule. Every member will be granted a few days of paid leave to go into the city, visit the taverns, sleep in a real bed at the Bannered Mare, and simply relax. You have earned your free time."
The mercenaries slammed the hilts of their daggers against the tables in absolute approval.
"Of course," Aerion noted, a sly smirk touching his lips as he looked toward his towering mercenary captain, "Sinmir will be entirely responsible for managing the rotation schedule, balancing the perimeter watches, and deciding exactly whose turn it is to take a holiday."
Sinmir, who had a massive chunk of bread halfway to his mouth, froze. He slowly lowered the bread, letting out a loud, highly exaggerated groan of sheer logistical agony.
"Oh, by the blood of Ysgramor, Boss," Sinmir complained jovially, throwing his free hand into the air. "You give me a massive pouch of gold, and then you immediately bury me in parchment! How am I supposed to enjoy a holiday if I have to spend the entire week managing the schedules of all these drunken sellswords?"
The entire table erupted into booming laughter at the captain's feigned misery.
Aerion chuckled, leaning forward onto the table. "If you feel that the burden of command is too heavy for your shoulders, Sinmir, you are more than welcome to step down as Captain. I am sure Uthgerd would be absolutely delighted to replace you."
Sitting a few seats down, the fierce, heavily scarred Nord woman immediately slammed her fist onto the table, a wide, predatory grin spreading across her face.
"The Boss speaks the truth!" Uthgerd roared, drawing a massive cheer from her section of the table. She pointed a finger at Sinmir. "Step down, old man! Hand over the ledger! I'll have these milk drinkers organized in an hour, and I'll take the first holiday myself!"
"In your dreams, Unbroken!" Sinmir fired back, immediately abandoning his complaints to defend his title. "If I handed you the ledger, you'd just challenge half the company to a brawl to decide the schedule! I'm the Captain, and I'll suffer the paperwork!"
The hall descended into raucous, good natured jabs and insults, the camaraderie of the mercenary band perfectly solidified. Aerion watched them with a quiet, satisfied smile. The loyalty and camaraderie of the company was unbreakable.
With the morale of the company fully secured, Aerion subtly gestured for his elite inner circle to join him near the massive map table in the adjoining study.
Lydia, Jenassa, and Eisa immediately stepped away from their meals, followed closely by J'zargo, Onmund, Brelyna, and the mage Eirik. The seven of them gathered around the polished wooden table as Aerion unrolled a large, detailed map of Skyrim.
"We are not taking a holiday," Aerion stated plainly, his voice dropping into a low, focused register. "We are going on a very short and rapid expedition. We leave in twenty minutes."
The group exchanged mildly surprised glances, but none of them voiced a complaint. They were his retainers; where he rode, they followed.
"Where are we heading, Patron?" Jenassa asked, leaning over the map, her crimson eyes tracking the province's roads.
Aerion placed three small wooden markers on the map in rapid succession.
"First, we ride directly to Morthal in Hjaalmarch," Aerion pointed to the swampy capital. "From there, we turn sharply southwest, riding deep into the Reach to a ruin called Dead Crone Rock, located just southwest of Markarth. Finally, we cut east, moving into the forests west of Falkreath to a bandit stronghold known as Cracked Tusk Keep."
Onmund frowned, looking at the massive distances between the three locations. "That is an incredibly grueling route, Master. We will be in the saddle for days. What exactly are we hunting that requires such a wide net?"
Aerion looked at his apprentices and his retainers. He needed them focused, but he could not reveal that he was actively assembling the shattered pieces of a Daedric Prince's legendary dagger. Some secrets were too dark to share, even with his most trusted circle, at least for now.
"I have been conducting extensive historical and arcane research over the past few weeks," Aerion lied flawlessly, weaving a half truth that perfectly justified the urgency. "I have tracked the location of an incredibly powerful, ancient artifact. However, the artifact was deliberately shattered into three distinct pieces centuries ago to prevent its power from being misused. My intelligence indicates that the fragments are currently being hoarded in these three specific locations."
He looked directly at the three College apprentices and Eirik. "With the Imperial campaign for Fort Kastav launching in exactly five days, I need this artifact secured. If we can reassemble it, our lethality on the northern front will increase exponentially."
Hearing that they were hunting a powerful, fractured magical artifact to aid the war effort, the mages immediately nodded their heads. They were deeply loyal to Aerion, and the prospect of assisting their master, a mage whose power had already transcended mortal limits, in securing ancient magic was a thrilling proposition. Lydia, Jenassa, and Eisa simply tightened the straps on their armor.
"Then we ride, my Thane," Lydia said firmly.
"Prepare your gear, secure your potions, and saddle the horses," Aerion commanded. "We leave the moment the sun begins its descent."
As the group dispersed to gather their traveling supplies, Aerion stepped out onto the back porch of the mansion.
Lying lazily in a patch of afternoon sunlight, his bushy tail draped over the edge of the wooden decking, was Lupin. Thefully and intelligent fox cracked one dark eye open as Aerion approached, letting out a soft, inquisitive trill.
Aerion knelt down, the heavy steel plates of his armor clanking softly, and ran his gauntleted hand through the thick, soft fur behind Lupin's ears.
"I am leaving for a few days, Lupin," Aerion murmured quietly. "I need you to stay here at the estate. But more importantly, I need you to dispatch your brothers and sisters into the city. Keep a constant, unseen watch over Ysolda at the Bannered Mare. The Gray-Manes are plotting, and if they cannot strike at me, they may attempt to strike at my assets. Do not let anything happen to her."
Lupin let out a sharp, highly exaggerated huff. He rolled onto his back, exposing his belly, and unleashed a rapid series of loud, sassy yips and clicking chitters.
Aerion closed his eyes, effortlessly translating the empathic, magical frequencies of his Animal Affinity.
'I have already done it!' Lupin's smug voice echoed in Aerion's mind. 'The little birds are watching the windows, and the gray rats are sleeping in the cellar. I protect the Mistress perfectly! She is vastly better than you anyway, Master! She gives me the sweetbreads and scratches the spot you always miss. You left me to fight the fire breathers, so she is my master now!'
Aerion let out a long, heavy sigh, shaking his head in fond exasperation as he gave the fox a firm but affectionate pat on the belly.
"You really can hold a grudge, can't you?" Aerion chuckled softly. "Keep her safe, Lupin. I will bring you fresh pheasant from the Reach when I return."
Satisfied with the bribe, Lupin let out a happy, vibrating purr and rolled back over to resume his nap.
Aerion stood up and walked around to the front courtyard. His retainers were already mounted on their warhorses, the saddlebags packed with travel rations and medical supplies.
Sinmir walked up to Aerion's black stallion, Revan, handing the Praefect the heavy leather reins.
"Keep this estate absolutely secure while I am gone, Sinmir," Aerion ordered, swinging smoothly into the saddle. "If any personnel from the Imperial regiment arrive from Solitude to reinforce my unit, you tell them to wait in the forward camp, or leave a written dispatch with you. Do not let anyone past the gates."
"You have my word, Boss," Sinmir saluted crisply. "The homestead is locked down."
"Let's move!" Aerion commanded his group.
They spurred their horses forward, riding out through the heavy timber gates of Tundra Homestead and turning sharply west.
The ride was brutal. Aerion did not allow for a leisurely pace. He pushed the horses to their absolute physical limits, intending to cross half the province before nightfall. They thundered across the golden plains of Whiterun, the wind whipping their cloaks, bypassing the sprawling Imperial encampments and plunging into the rocky, uneven hills leading toward Rorikstead.
They didn't stop in the farming village. They blew past the wooden farmhouses in a blur of galloping hooves, turning north and cutting through the narrow, treacherous mountain passes that bordered the hold.
As the sun finally sank below the jagged peaks of the western mountains, plunging the world into a deep, bruising twilight, the geography drastically shifted. The open, grassy plains gave way to dense, suffocating fog, twisted black trees, and the foul, stagnant water of the Hjaalmarch swamps. The air grew instantly colder, biting through their cloaks and carrying the distinct, unsettling scent of decaying vegetation and ancient mud.
By the time they saw the flickering, dim torches of Morthal reflecting off the black waters of the swamp, it was fully night.
The town of Morthal was small, isolated, and inherently unwelcoming. The wooden houses were built on stilts over the freezing muck, and the citizens viewed strangers with deep, paranoid suspicion.
Aerion led his exhausted group across the wooden boardwalks, pulling their panting, sweat lathered horses to a halt in front of the Moorside Inn.
He dismounted, reaching into his heavy leather coin purse. He pulled out a stack of gold coins and handed exactly one hundred and fifty septims to Jenassa.
"Take the horses to the hitching post and secure rooms for everyone," Aerion instructed quietly. "Buy hot meals and dry out your boots by the hearth. Do not draw attention to yourselves. I have a brief, private matter to attend to in the town."
"Yes, Patron," Jenassa nodded, taking the gold and gesturing for the apprentices to help her with the exhausted mounts.
Leaving his group at the inn, Aerion turned and walked away into the chilling fog.
He didn't need a map. He navigated the creaking wooden boardwalks of Morthal with perfect memory, moving north toward the edge of the town. He crossed the small, sturdy stone bridge that spanned the dark, freezing waters of the river, the heavy tread of his armored boots echoing unnervingly in the quiet swamp.
He approached a modest, isolated wooden house sitting near the lumber mill. The windows were shuttered tight against the cold, but faint candlelight spilled through the cracks in the wood.
Aerion stepped up to the wooden door and knocked three times. The sound was sharp and commanding.
For a long moment, there was only silence from within. Then, the sound of a heavy iron bolt sliding back echoed through the wood.
The door creaked open a few inches, revealing the wary, exhausted face of Jorgen, the town's miller. Standing slightly behind him, clutching a shawl around her shoulders, was his wife, Lami.
The moment Jorgen saw the towering, impossibly broad figure filling his doorway, clad in jagged Nordic Carved Armor and wearing the terrifying, demonic bronze mask of a Dragon Priest, the blood instantly drained from his face.
"By the Divines..." Jorgen gasped, instinctively taking a half step backward, trying to push the heavy door shut.
Aerion immediately raised a gauntleted hand, catching the edge of the door effortlessly and holding it open.
"Peace, Jorgen," Aerion said, his voice entirely devoid of threat, utilizing a calm, soothing resonance to instantly de escalate the man's terror.
Aerion reached up with his other hand and smoothly unhooked the mask of Krosis, pulling it away to reveal his golden, aristocratic features.
Jorgen blinked, his terrified expression morphing into one of profound, stuttering recognition. Lami gasped softly from the shadows of the room.
"Thane Aerion?" Jorgen breathed, his grip on the door loosening.
They recognized him instantly. Aerion had earned the title of Thane of Morthal some time ago ago when he had eradicated the ancient vampire, Movarth Piquine, who had been secretly plotting to enslave the entire town. To the people of Hjaalmarch, Aerion was a terrifying, deeply respected savior.
"Forgive the late hour and the armor," Aerion apologized smoothly, offering a polite inclination of his head. "May I come in?"
"Of course, my Thane, please," Lami urged, stepping forward to pull her husband back and opening the door wide. "It is freezing out there." Aerion stepped into the modest, warm interior of the house. The smell of sawdust and simple stew filled the air. He waited until Jorgen had securely bolted the door behind him before turning to face the couple.
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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