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(A/N: Also everyone I have a new novel a Dragon Age Inquisition novel named "From Couch To The Inquisitor", be sure to check it out and give some power stone)
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"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.
"Why have you come to our home, Thane Aerion?" Jorgen asked, his voice still trembling slightly, though his respect for the High Elf kept his manners intact. "Is it vampires again? Has another coven moved into the swamps?"
"It is not vampires, Jorgen," Aerion answered, his golden eyes locking directly onto the miller's. "I have come here tonight because you possess something that belongs to a very dark, very dangerous past. And I have come to secure it."
Jorgen went perfectly still.
The respectful demeanor of a simple miller vanished in a fraction of a second. Jorgen's eyes widened with a sudden, cornered panic. He instinctively threw his arm out, physically shoving his wife behind him to shield her. With his other hand, he reached to his belt, drawing a simple steel dagger with a sharp shring.
Jorgen's hand was shaking violently, but he pointed the blade directly at the towering, armored Praefect.
"How... how could you possibly know about that?" Jorgen demanded, his voice dropping to a frantic, terrified whisper. "No one knows! It has been a secret for generations! Who told you?"
Aerion did not reach for his greatsword or the black prism. He didn't even flinch at the drawn steel. He stood perfectly relaxed, looking at the terrified man with a mixture of quiet authority and profound understanding.
Aerion tapped into his Persuasion skill, not to manipulate, but to completely disarm the panic flooding the small room.
"No one betrayed your secret, Jorgen," Aerion said, his voice a low, incredibly soothing rumble that seemed to physically wrap around the couple, projecting absolute safety. "I know because I have spent months conducting my own deep, arcane research into the history of the Oblivion Crisis. I know about the Mythic Dawn cult. I know about Silus Vesuius attempting to rebuild their legacy in Dawnstar."
Jorgen's breath hitched, the tip of his dagger wavering.
"And I know," Aerion continued gently, taking a slow, deliberate half step forward, "that after the cult was broken, the fragments of Mehrunes' Razor were passed down through the bloodlines of the men who defeated them. The Keepers of the Razor. I know that your ancestor was entrusted with the hilt of the blade, and that the burden of hiding it has rested upon your family for generations."
"You... you serve the Daedra?" Jorgen whispered, pure horror dawning in his eyes.
"I serve no one but myself, and the safety of this province," Aerion corrected firmly. "Listen to me, Jorgen. Silus Vesuius is actively hunting for those pieces. He has money, and he has fanatics who support him. It is only a matter of time before he, or someone far worse, kicks down your door in the middle of the night and slaughters you and your wife for that artifact."
Aerion held out his open, empty, gauntleted hand.
"I am not here to threaten you," Aerion promised, utilizing the absolute, undeniable truth of his words. "I am here to lift that burden from your shoulders. Give the hilt to me. I am powerful enough to protect it, and I swear to you, on my honor as Thane, that I will hide it in a place where no cultist, no Daedric worshipper, and no mortal will ever find it again. You can finally live in peace, without fear for your safety."
Jorgen stared at the massive, open hand. The internal war on the man's face was agonizing. He was bound by centuries of ancestral duty, but he was staring at a man who could turn him to ash with a single word. He gripped the dagger tighter, completely torn.
Behind him, Lami reached out. She gently placed her soft hand over Jorgen's trembling, white knuckled grip on the dagger.
Jorgen flinched, looking back at his wife.
"Jorgen... please," Lami whispered, tears shining in her eyes. "It is time. Let it go."
She looked past her husband, her eyes meeting Aerion's.
"We know who you are, Thane Aerion," Lami said softly, her voice filled with a desperate, hoping trust. "We know what you did to Movarth when the guards were too terrified to enter his lair. And the merchants from the south... they brought rumors today. They said you stood on the walls of Whiterun and tore a dragon out of the sky."
She looked back at Jorgen, gently pushing the dagger down until the blade pointed at the floorboards.
"If anyone in this world is strong enough to keep that cursed thing hidden, Jorgen, it is him," Lami pleaded. "I am so tired of being afraid. I am tired of looking over our shoulders. Give it to him."
Jorgen looked at his wife's tear streaked face. The centuries of ancestral duty finally, completely broke against his profound love for the woman standing behind him.
He let out a long, ragged, shuddering sigh. The fight completely left his body. He lowered the dagger entirely, his shoulders slumping in sheer exhaustion.
"You swear it?" Jorgen asked, his voice hollow, looking back up at Aerion. "You swear it will never be used to bring the Mythic Dawn back?"
"I swear it," Aerion vowed, his tone absolute.
Jorgen nodded slowly. He turned, walking over to the heavy wooden bedframe in the corner of the room. He dropped to his knees, reaching into a hidden compartment beneath the floorboards. He pulled out a small, heavily wrapped bundle of dark, oiled leather, bound tightly with thick twine.
He stood up, walking back across the room, and placed the heavy bundle directly into Aerion's waiting hand.
"Take it," Jorgen whispered, stepping back into the protective embrace of his wife. "And may the Divines have mercy on us all."
Aerion closed his gauntleted hand over the bundle. He could feel the latent, dark, thrumming energy of the Daedric artifact vibrating faintly through the leather, a terrifying echo of Mehrunes Dagon's malice.
"You have done the right thing, Jorgen," Aerion said softly. "Sleep well. The burden is no longer yours."
Aerion turned and walked out of the house, the heavy wooden door closing softly behind him.
He stood alone on the creaking wooden boardwalk, the freezing fog of the swamp swirling around his armored boots. He slipped the wrapped hilt of the Razor into the impenetrable security of his dimensional inventory.
[Item Stored: 1x Mehrunes Razor Hilt]
[Inventory Weight Increased by 0.3 KG.]
One piece secured. Two remained.
Aerion pulled the bronze mask of Krosis back over his face, his golden eyes glowing in the dark, and walked back toward the Moorside Inn to rest alongside his retainers for the brutal ride tomorrow.
The freezing, cloying fog of Morthal clung to Aerion's heavy armor as he pushed open the wooden doors of the Moorside Inn. The interior was a stark contrast to the dreary swamp outside, a large fire roared in the central stone hearth, casting a warm, flickering glow over the modest tavern.
He found his entire retinue gathered around two long, adjacent wooden tables near the fire. They were tearing into bowls of hot venison stew and thick wedges of goat cheese, washing the meal down with flagons of spiced wine and cheap ale. As Aerion approached, the heavy tread of his boots drew their attention.
Jenassa looked up, wiping a drop of wine from her chin. "Finished with your business in Morthal already, Patron?"
Aerion pulled out a sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table and sat down with a heavy, metallic clatter. He reached for a spare flagon of wine, offering a simple, satisfied nod. "I am. The matter has been safely handled."
Onmund and J'zargo exchanged looks of absolute bewilderment, pausing with their spoons halfway to their mouths.
"You are truly finished?" Onmund asked, his brow furrowed in disbelief. "Master, we have barely been sitting here for thirsty minutes. You secured your business here t in the time it took us to order and eat for our bowls of stew?"
"Efficiency is the hallmark of a prepared mind, Onmund," Aerion replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of the spiced wine. He set the flagon down, his golden eyes sweeping over the attentive faces of his retainers and apprentices. "Enjoy your hot food and dry your boots tonight. Tomorrow morning, we ride for the Reach."
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice to maintain operational security in the tavern.
"Our next target is a sprawling ruin known as Dead Crone Rock, located deep in the mountains southwest of Markarth," Aerion briefed them. "My intelligence confirms that the ruin is entirely occupied by the Forsworn. Furthermore, the local tribe is led by a Hagraven."
A tense, heavy silence immediately settled over the tables. The apprentices swallowed hard, the warmth of the fire suddenly feeling entirely inadequate.
Every single person sitting at the table knew exactly what the Forsworn were, they are armed and fierce territorial zealots who worshipped the old gods and decorated their camps with the severed heads of their enemies. And a Hagraven, a horrific, corrupted amalgamation of woman and bird steeped in dark, sacrificial magic, was a nightmare made flesh.
"Forsworn," Valdemar grunted in his absence, but Sinmir would have said the same. Lydia merely tightened her jaw, her hand dropping instinctively to rest on the pommel of her sword.
"Eat your fill and prepare your minds for combat," Aerion commanded gently but firmly, seeing the apprehension in the younger mages' eyes. "They are savage, but they are in the end just a more powerful bandits. If you hold your formations and trust your magic, they will break against you."
The group nodded, their previous exhaustion replaced by a sharp, focused adrenaline. They finished their meals in determined silence, mentally preparing for the bloodshed that awaited them in the western mountains.
As the tavern slowly emptied of local patrons, Aerion stood up. Lydia approached him, handing over a heavy iron key attached to a block of wood.
"Your room is at the end of the hall, my Thane," Lydia reported dutifully. "I have secured the area. We are directly across from you."
"Thank you, Lydia. Rest well," Aerion nodded.
As he turned toward the narrow wooden hallway leading to the rented rooms, the heavy door to the room adjacent to his clicked open. Aerion paused.
Eisa and Brelyna were walking into the room together. The hardened, cynical former bandit member and the sheltered, aristocratic Dunmer scholar were sharing a hushed, genuinely warm laugh over something Eisa had whispered. Eisa playfully bumped her shoulder against Brelyna's as they slipped inside, the heavy wooden door closing behind them with a soft click.
Aerion stood in the hallway for a moment, a rare, genuine chuckle escaping his lips. The crucible of the civil war and the long hours on the road were forging bonds he hadn't explicitly planned for, but entirely welcomed. Their relationship had grown remarkably warm, bridging a massive cultural gap.
He inserted his key into the lock of his own door, turning the heavy tumbler and stepping inside.
He bolted the door behind him and methodically stripped off the heavy, fur lined plates of his Nordic Carved Armor, laying the steel pieces carefully across a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. Dressed only in his linen undershirt and trousers, he sat cross legged on the edge of the mattress and closed his eyes.
It was time to process the monumental, cataclysmic violence he had unleashed upon the plains of Whiterun.
Aerion opened his System interface.
The ethereal, glowing text cascaded down the absolute darkness of his mind, calculating the sheer volume of experience he had accumulated by slaughtering a dragon, summoning an army of Daedra, and annihilating the Stormcloak vanguard. The numbers were staggering.
[SKILL UPDATES DETECTED]
[Destruction Fire (+6) ➔ Level 100 (MAX)]
[Destruction Lightning (+4) ➔ Level 100 (MAX)]
[Destruction Frost (+3) ➔ Level 100 (MAX)]
[Restoration Healing (+3) ➔ Level 100 (MAX)]
[Conjuration Summoning (+2) ➔ Level 100 (MAX)]
[Heavy Armor (+1) ➔ Level 100 (MAX)]
[Light Armor (+2) ➔ Level 10 ➔ Level 42]
[Persuasion (+3) ➔ Level 28 ➔ Level 92]
[LEVEL UP DETECTED! You have leveled up 20 times!]
[Current Level: 267]
[You have gained 20 Attribute Points!]
Aerion took a slow, deep breath, stabilizing his heartbeat. Maxing out his six combat magic skills simultaneously yet again was an unprecedented surge. The magical saturation in his blood felt almost suffocating, begging to be compressed and refined into something permanent.
He didn't hesitate. He selected all six maxed out skills and initiated the Legendary Reset.
[Initiating Multiple Legendary Resets...]
[All selected skills returned to Level 0. Prestige Multipliers increased by 1.]
With his magical foundation permanently expanded, he turned to his physical vessel.
[Attribute Points Allocated: Health x10 (+100 Points)]
[Attribute Points Allocated: Stamina x10 (+100 Points)]
[Maximum Weight Limit Increased by 100 KG.]
A torrential, roaring wave of pure vitality exploded from his core. His bones hardened, increasing in density until they felt like tempered ebony. His lungs expanded, drawing in the cold air of the room with the effortless, boundless power of a predator. His dimensional inventory stretched further into the void, comfortably absorbing the new physical parameters.
Aerion opened his golden eyes. They practically glowed in the dim candlelight of the inn room. He was evolving into something that completely defied the mortal boundaries of Nirn.
He lay back against the coarse wool blankets, letting the adrenaline of the ascension slowly bleed out of his system, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, the group was mounted and riding out of Morthal before the freezing fog had even begun to lift.
Aerion rode at the head of the column on his massive black stallion, Revan, navigating by the detailed parchment map he kept secured to his saddle horn. Because he had never personally traveled the winding, treacherous roads of the Reach in this life, he relied on the map to guide them south and west.
The journey was a stark, brutal lesson in Skyrim's shifting geography. The oppressive, stagnant swamps of Hjaalmarch slowly gave way to towering, jagged cliffs of gray stone. The air grew thinner, crisper, smelling of crushed juniper berries and the roaring, white water rapids of the Karth River.
As they navigated a particularly narrow, rocky pass hemmed in by steep canyon walls, the inevitable reality of traveling the roads of Skyrim reared its head.
A sharp whistle echoed from the cliffs above.
Twenty hardened bandits, clad in mismatched fur and iron armor, poured out from behind the boulders, blocking the road ahead and sealing the pass behind them. The bandit chief, a scarred Orc wielding a massive steel warhammer, sneered at the armored group.
"Drop the coin purses and the horses, and you get to walk away with your lives!" the Orc bellowed, highly confident in his numbers.
Aerion didn't even draw his greatsword. He didn't pull his reins. He simply stopped his horse and looked back at his retainers and apprentices.
"Clear the road," Aerion commanded softly.
What followed was a testament to how profoundly the group had evolved under his command. They didn't panic, they executed.
Lydia spurred her horse forward, leaping from the saddle mid charge. She slammed her heavy ebony shield directly into the chest of the nearest bandit, shattering his ribs and sending him tumbling into the gorge. Eisa was a blur of pale motion, the Pale Blade flashing in the sunlight, instantly freezing the blood in the veins of two archers trying to draw a bead on the mages.
The apprentices did not hold back. J'zargo let out a manic, booming laugh as he unleashed a perfectly chained bolt of lightning that arced through five bandits simultaneously, leaving them twitching and smoking on the gravel. Onmund and Brelyna worked in flawless tandem, creating walls of jagged frost to trap the remaining bandits while Eirik rained fireballs down upon their heads.
In less than forty seconds, twenty bandits lay dead.
"Road is clear, Patron," Jenassa reported casually, wiping a stray drop of blood from her orcish dagger before sliding it back into its sheath.
"Well done," Aerion nodded approvingly, urging Revan forward through the carnage.
They continued their ride, crossing a massive, ancient stone bridge that arched precariously over a roaring waterfall. They passed the small, heavily guarded mining settlement of Karthwasten, officially crossing into the borders of Markarth Hold. Hours later, through a gap in the jagged peaks, they caught a glimpse of Markarth itself in the distance, a breathtaking, terrifying fortress of golden Dwemer metal and gray stone carved directly into the side of a mountain.
But they did not stop at the capital. They pushed further west, following the winding, treacherous dirt paths deep into the true wilderness of the Reach.
By late afternoon, the canyon opened up, revealing a massive, sprawling complex of ancient Nordic ruins built into the side of a sheer cliff face. Jagged wooden palisades, sharpened spikes adorned with animal skulls, and heavy tribal banners marked the territory.
They had reached the outskirts of Dead Crone Rock.
Aerion held up a fist, halting the column in a dense grove of twisted juniper trees a safe distance from the primary road. Through the branches, they could clearly see dozens of Forsworn warriors, clad in furs, bone armor, and the antlers of deer, patrolling the stone steps and the wooden barricades with lethal, feral vigilance.
"Dismount," Aerion ordered quietly. "Hitch the horses deep in the brush. They will be safe here."
Once the mounts were secured, Aerion gathered his three retainers and four apprentices into a tight circle amidst the rocks.
"Listen closely," Aerion began, dropping into the focused, clinical tone of a battlefield commander. "If I desired to, I could walk up that path right now and annihilate this entire encampment with a single sustained magical barrage. But I will not do that."
He looked directly at J'zargo, Onmund, Brelyna, and Eirik. "You four proved your mettle on the walls of Whiterun. You held the line against the Stormcloaks army. But shooting down from a fortified wall is different from close quarters infiltration. If you are to survive what is coming in this war, you need to elevate your instincts. After today, I expect all four of you to operate comfortably at the Adept rank of magical combat."
Onmund swallowed hard, gripping his sleeve tightly, but nodded with fierce determination.
"Here is the strategy," Aerion outlined, drawing a rough map in the dirt with his gauntlet. "I will act as the primary decoy. I will walk directly up the main road and engage their forward patrols. The Forsworn are zealots, the moment they see a heavily armored High Elf challenging them, their bloodlust will override their discipline. They will pull every warrior from the flanks and the upper terraces to swarm me."
He drew two flanking arrows around the main road.
"While their absolute attention is focused on trying to kill me, you will split into two strike teams. You will use the rocky ridges on the left and right to bypass their forward barricades entirely. You will move silently, get into advantageous positions, and when the bulk of their forces are engaging me in the courtyard, you will strike them from behind."
Aerion paused, his golden eyes hardening.
"But you must be incredibly cautious," he warned, his tone deadly serious. "You will be looking for a specific type of warrior. The Forsworn Briarhearts. They are their elite commanders. They have undergone a horrific, dark ritual where their physical hearts have been carved out and replaced with a cursed briar seed. They feel absolutely no pain, they are unnaturally fast, and they dual wield weapons with terrifying efficiency."
He looked around the circle. "Briarhearts are rare, but given the size of this ruin, there may be several inside. Do not engage them in a test of strength. If you see one, coordinate your magic and put them down immediately."
Aerion then divided his forces.
"Team One will take the left ridge," Aerion instructed. "Lydia, Eisa, Onmund, and Brelyna. Two blades to hold the line, two mages to provide artillery support."
"Team Two will take the right," he continued. "Jenassa, J'zargo, and Eirik. Jenassa, you lead. Keep to the shadows and prioritize their archers."
Lydia, whose absolute, sworn duty was to act as Aerion's personal shield, immediately frowned. The idea of leaving her Thane to face an entire Forsworn encampment alone violated every instinct in her Nordic blood.
"My Thane," Lydia protested respectfully, her brow heavily furrowed. "I understand the necessity of a decoy, but you are walking into a fortified funnel alone. If they swarm you with dozens of men before we can get into position—"
Jenassa let out a soft, dark chuckle, placing a hand on Lydia's armored shoulder.
"Let it go, Housecarl," the Dunmer mercenary advised, her crimson eyes glinting with absolute amusement. "You saw him on the walls of Whiterun. The Patron could walk into that courtyard blindfolded and with his hands tied, and he would still walk out over a mountain of corpses. He shot a dragon out of the sky by himself. You shouldn't be afraid for him."
Jenassa looked back at the sprawling ruin of Dead Crone Rock, a cruel, anticipatory smile touching her lips. "You should pity the Forsworn."
The stark, undeniable reality of Jenassa's words washed over the group. The apprentices exchanged glances, suddenly realizing that the danger wasn't that Aerion would be overwhelmed, the danger was that there wouldn't be anything left for them to fight if they were too slow.
Lydia let out a heavy sigh, conceding the point. "Very well. But do not take unnecessary risks, my Thane."
"I rarely do, Lydia," Aerion replied smoothly. "Move to your positions. Wait for the chaos, then strike."
The two teams immediately broke away, slipping silently into the dense, rocky underbrush on either side of the ancient stone road, utilizing the natural cover to bypass the forward sentries.
Aerion waited exactly three minutes to ensure they were in position. Then, he stepped out of the tree line and walked directly onto the center of the paved stone path.
He didn't sneak. He didn't crouch. He walked with the heavy, purposeful strides of a conqueror, his dark armor glinting in the bright sun, the terrifying bronze visage of Krosis reflecting the afternoon sun.
It did not take long for the Forsworn to notice him.
"OUTSIDER!" a harsh, guttural scream echoed from the upper wooden palisades.
A Forsworn sentry, wearing a hollowed out deer skull as a helmet, pointed a jagged bone sword down at the road. Instantly, a dozen heavily armed tribal warriors swarmed to the barricades, peering down at the lone, heavily armored High Elf.
"You walk in the lands of the true sons of the Reach, stranger!" a heavily tattooed Forsworn raider shouted, laughing cruelly as he drew a notched iron battleaxe. "Your armor will look beautiful on our pikes! We will offer your heart to the old gods!" Aerion stopped in the center of the road, looking up at the jeering zealots. He did not waste breath on a retort. He smoothly reached over his shoulder and drew his massive Ebony Bow. In one fluid, terrifyingly fast motion, he nocked an ebony arrow, drew the heavy bowstring back to his ear, and released.
_____________________________
[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 1030/1030
Stamina: 1070/1070
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 245 ➔ 267
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(+7)/Lightning(+5)/Frost(+4)) (Level 0/0/0), Restoration (Healing(+4)/Purify(+2)) (Level 0/98), Alteration (Level 43), Illusion (Level 62), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+3)) (Level 37/0), Persuasion(+3) (Level 92), 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 42), Block (Level 70), Pickpocket (Level 8), & Heavy Armor(+2) (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, & Mehrunes Razor Hilt
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: 49.51 KG / 885 KG
Septims: 252,867