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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
He knew exactly who Uthgerd was, he knew her tragic backstory with the Companions, and he knew just how phenomenally violent her temper could be when provoked. The drunk Nord had just crossed an unforgivable line, and Aerion knew, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that the foolish man was about to spend the rest of his life drinking his mead through a spoon.
The stifling, ale soaked air of the Bannered Mare suddenly grew dangerously heavy. The jovial, boisterous noise of the evening crowd began to rapidly evaporate, replaced by a tense, suffocating silence that radiated outward from the roaring central hearth. The lute music died as Mikael the bard wisely stepped back into the shadows, clutching his instrument to his chest.
Aerion stood perfectly still near the edge of the crowd, his golden eyes locked on the unfolding disaster.
The drunk Nord laborer, emboldened by the potent, highly fermented mead coursing through his veins, had made a fatal miscalculation.
He leaned heavily forward, his breath reeking of cheap alcohol and sour cabbage, and jabbed a filthy, calloused finger directly at Uthgerd the Unbroken. He had just called her a rejected, bloodthirsty brute. He had spat on her honor, her pride, and her deepest, most agonizing failure.
Uthgerd did not shout back. She did not engage in a petty tavern screaming match.
The massive, battle hardened Nord woman slowly placed her wooden tankard down on the table. The heavy thud of the mug seemed to echo like a death knell in the quiet room. Her scarred, severe face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated, blinding rage.
"What did you just say to me, you pathetic little worm?" Uthgerd growled, her voice a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated with barely contained violence.
The drunk Nord, entirely oblivious to the fact that he was standing on the precipice of his own destruction, puffed out his chest. "You heard me! You're a disgrace! You couldn't even—"
He never finished the sentence.
Uthgerd exploded from her wooden chair with a terrifying, explosive speed that completely defied the massive weight of the full steel plate armor she wore. She didn't reach for the heavy iron greatsword resting against the table, that would have been a quick death, and she wanted him to suffer.
She lunged forward, her heavy steel gauntlet closing around the front of the man's coarse linen tunic. With a single, brutal heave, she lifted the fully grown laborer entirely off his feet and slammed him violently backward onto the adjacent wooden table.
The heavy oak cracked under the impact, sending plates, roasted pheasant, and tankards of ale flying into the air to crash onto the floorboards.
The man let out a panicked, breathless gasp, the alcohol suddenly fleeing his system as stark, absolute terror took its place. He realized, far too late, the monumental stupidity of his actions. He was wearing nothing but a simple, woven cloth tunic and leather trousers. The woman straddling him was a walking fortress of forged steel.
Uthgerd drew back her right fist. The polished steel of her heavy gauntlet caught the orange light of the hearth fire just before it descended.
CRACK!
The sickening, heavy crunch of breaking bone and cartilage echoed through the tavern as her armored fist slammed directly into the man's face. The Nord screamed, a wet, gargling sound, as his nose shattered instantly, blood spraying violently across Uthgerd's steel breastplate and the splintered wood of the table.
"A disgrace?!" Uthgerd roared, completely surrendering to the blinding, alcohol fueled fury that had gotten her expelled from the Companions in the first place.
She brought her fist down again. And again. It was a brutal, entirely one sided massacre.
The man, desperate and fighting for his life, tried to defend himself. He threw a wild, panicked punch at her head, but since Uthgerd was only missing her helmet, his bare knuckles slammed directly into the thick, rigid steel pauldron guarding her shoulder.
He shrieked in agony as his own hand broke against the unyielding metal. He tried to scramble away, kicking his boots wildly, but Uthgerd's sheer weight and armored mass pinned him to the ruined table like a butterfly on a board.
She grabbed him by the hair, hauling his bloody, battered face up, and delivered a devastating, armored headbutt. The man's eyes rolled back into his skull, his resistance completely breaking under the overwhelming, brutal battery.
The patrons of the Bannered Mare scrambled backward, shouting in alarm, desperately trying to put distance between themselves and the enraged, heavily armored woman turning a laborer into a bloody pulp.
"By the Gods, she's going to kill him!" Saadia screamed from the doorway of the kitchen, dropping a tray of clean bowls.
"Guards! Get the guards!" Hulda shouted frantically from behind the main counter, waving her hands.
The heavy front doors of the tavern burst open, and three Whiterun city guards, clad in their signature yellow painted chainmail and heavy iron helmets, charged into the room.
"By order of the Jarl, stop right there! Now!" the lead guard bellowed, drawing his steel sword and rushing toward the hearth.
It took all three of the heavily muscled guards to physically restrain the enraged warrior. Two of them grabbed Uthgerd's arms, digging their boots into the floorboards and hauling backward with all their might, while the third shoved his wooden shield between her and the unconscious, bleeding man.
"Get off me!" Uthgerd roared, thrashing wildly in their grip, the steel joints of her armor shrieking in protest. "He isn't finished learning his lesson!"
"He's finished, Uthgerd! He's barely breathing!" the lead guard shouted, pointing down at the ruined table.
The drunk Nord was an absolute, horrific mess. His face was a swollen, unrecognizable mass of purple bruises and freely flowing blood. Several of his teeth lay scattered among the spilled ale on the floor, and his jaw hung at a distinctly unnatural, sickening angle.
The lead guard looked at the unconscious man, wincing in sympathetic pain. He turned to the other patrons who had stepped forward to help. "Grab him under the arms! Get him out of here and haul him down to Arcadia's Cauldron immediately! Tell her to use her strongest healing potions! If she can't mend a jaw shattered that badly, drag him up the steps to the Temple of Kynareth and let Priestess Danica Pure-Spring lay hands on him. Move!"
Several brave patrons rushed forward, hauling the groaning, bleeding man off the shattered table and dragging him out of the tavern, leaving a thick trail of blood across the floorboards.
With the victim removed, the guards finally released their desperate grip on Uthgerd, stepping back but keeping their hands resting warily on the hilts of their swords.
"By Ysmir's beard, Uthgerd, what is wrong with you?" the lead guard scolded harshly, rubbing his temples as if trying to ward off an impending migraine. "You nearly beat a man to death in the middle of the busiest tavern in the hold!"
Uthgerd stood tall, adjusting her heavy steel gauntlets and spitting a wad of bloody saliva onto the floor. She wasn't the least bit repentant. Her chest heaved with adrenaline, her face flushed with alcohol and fury.
"He was taunting me!" Uthgerd fired back in a brash, unapologetic, and incredibly loud voice. "He opened his filthy mouth and insulted my honor! I just taught that pathetic milk drinker what a true Nord should be! A warrior doesn't care if it's male or female sitting across from them, steel is steel, and respect is earned! If he didn't want to get broken, he shouldn't have picked a fight with someone wearing plate!"
The guards exchanged exhausted, deeply frustrated looks. This was not the first time they had dealt with the Unbroken's temper, and it was always a logistical nightmare.
"We know he provoked you, Uthgerd," the second guard sighed heavily, shaking his head. "But there are laws! You can't just shatter a man's skull because he called you a name! Commander Caius has explicitly told us to let you go on these minor infractions, considering you are a highly capable warrior of your own standing. You've helped us hold the line against bandits and beasts when we lack the manpower. But you are making it incredibly difficult for us to look the other way! You are a massive headache, woman!"
Aerion, who had been watching the entire exchange with cold, calculating detachment from the edge of the crowd, realized this was his perfect, universe provided window of opportunity.
He needed heavy infantry. He needed shock troopers for Sinmir's growing company, and Uthgerd the Unbroken was a walking, talking siege engine. If he approached her under normal circumstances, her prickly, defensive nature would likely result in a rejection or a brawl. But right now, she was isolated, angry, and actively being scolded by the authorities. She needed an ally.
Aerion stepped smoothly out of the crowd, his fine, immaculate robes parting the sea of onlookers. He walked directly up to the perimeter of the confrontation, his golden eyes completely calm, his presence projecting an aura of absolute, wealthy authority.
"Officers," Aerion spoke, his melodic, aristocratic voice cutting effortlessly through the tension in the room.
The three guards turned, instantly recognizing the towering High Elf who had been making waves throughout the city.
"This commotion does not need to escalate any further," Aerion said smoothly, reaching into his spatial inventory with a practiced sleight of hand. He pulled out a heavy, jingling leather pouch containing exactly 125 septims.
He extended his hand, pressing the heavy coin purse directly into the chest of the lead guard. "The man who was injured provoked the physical altercation, and he has already been sent to receive excellent medical care. There is no need for this to become a matter for the Jarl's court. Take this 125 septims for your entirely unnecessary troubles, and perhaps to buy yourselves a quiet drink after your shift."
The lead guard blinked in sheer surprise, instinctively grabbing the heavy pouch of gold. 125 septims was a significant bribe, more than a couple of days wages for a standard city watchman. He looked at his two companions, who both gave subtle, eager nods.
They truly did not care why this wealthy High Elf mage was suddenly stepping in to defend a disgraced Nord warrior. They just wanted the headache to end, and the gold was an incredibly persuasive argument.
"Right. Well," the lead guard cleared his throat, securing the pouch to his belt and puffing out his chest to maintain a semblance of authority. He turned back to the armored woman. "You heard the Elf, Uthgerd. We're letting it go this time. But consider this your final warning! Do not cause a commotion like this again, or Commander Caius will have you thrown in the Dragonsreach dungeons, capable warrior or not!"
With their hollow warning delivered and their pockets significantly heavier, the three guards turned on their heels and quickly exited the tavern, eager to divide their spoils.
The crowd of patrons, seeing that the violence was truly over and the authorities had departed, slowly began to filter back to their tables, murmuring in hushed, excited tones about the brutal display they had just witnessed.
Uthgerd, however, did not look relieved. She turned her intense, lingering fury directly onto the man who had just bailed her out.
"What in Oblivion are you doing, elf?" Uthgerd spat, crossing her heavy steel arms over her breastplate, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "I didn't ask for your gold, and I certainly don't need any help. Especially not from some yellow skinned magic user such as you!"
Aerion did not flinch at the racial slur, nor did he rise to the bait of her aggressive posturing. He simply let out a warm, completely disarming smile.
"I am well aware that it was not my problem, Uthgerd," Aerion replied smoothly, keeping his voice low, respectful, and entirely devoid of condescension. "And I am equally aware that a strong, capable warrior such as yourself does not need anyone's help fighting her battles. But from the looks of it, those guards were becoming an annoying, bureaucratic buzzing in your ear. I simply swatted them away to stop them from annoying you any further."
Hearing the calm, respectful logic in the High Elf's words, Uthgerd's defensive posture faltered for just a fraction of a second. But her bruised ego and years of bitter rejection quickly reinforced her walls. She let out a loud, derisive snort.
"Ha! You say that just to avoid getting punched by me," Uthgerd scoffed, her tone dripping with bitter cynicism. She gestured wildly to the shattered table and the blood on the floor. "And how could you possibly know that I am a 'great warrior'? Did you see me swing a real blade? No. For all you know, I could actually be a weak, unworthy warrior who just hits hard in a tavern brawl."
She looked away, staring into the roaring hearth fire, her voice dropping into a dark, painful sneer. "At least... that's what the Companions said to me when they threw me out like garbage."
This was the opening Aerion had been waiting for. He leaned in slightly, allowing the full, overwhelming weight of his Persuasion skill to lace his words with undeniable, absolute truth.
Aerion shook his head slowly, his golden eyes locking onto hers with piercing intensity.
"I speak the truth, Uthgerd, and I do not say it merely to avoid your fists," Aerion began, his voice dropping into a captivating, resonant cadence. "And it is absolute, utter nonsense for anyone to call you a weak or unworthy warrior."
He gestured gracefully to the heavy, interlocking plates of steel covering her body. "Someone who can wear a full, incredibly restrictive suit of heavy steel plate armor with such casual ease... someone who can move with that kind of terrifying, explosive speed while carrying sixty pounds of metal... that is not a weak, unworthy warrior who simply got lucky or who was rich enough to buy the steel. That is the mark of a veteran who has forged her body into a living weapon."
Aerion paused, letting the validation sink deep into her battered pride, before delivering the final, psychological strike.
"And as for the Companions?" Aerion continued, his tone turning dismissive and slightly mocking toward the legendary guild. "If they looked at you and saw an unworthy warrior, then they are either completely, hopelessly blind, or they are far too egotistical to recognize true strength when it sits right here in their own city."
Uthgerd's eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock. For years, she had carried the heavy, suffocating shame of her rejection from Jorrvaskr. She had internalized their judgment, believing herself flawed and broken.
To hear a complete stranger, and a High Elf, no less, so casually, confidently dismantle the Companions' judgment and validate her strength was intoxicating.
Uthgerd threw her head back and let out a loud, booming voice of triumphant acknowledgment that echoed through the tavern.
"Ha! You hear that?!" Uthgerd roared to the room at large, slamming her steel gauntlet against her breastplate with a resounding CLANG. "Even a magic wielding milk drinker such as him could recognize that I am worthy! Then it really is those Companions that are just too arrogant!"
She looked back at Aerion, a fierce, vindicated grin splitting her scarred face. "How could I possibly be unworthy just because I am too quick to temper in a fight?! They send you into a ring to bleed, and then act surprised when you see red!"
Aerion kept his warm, supportive smile perfectly plastered on his face, but inwardly, he let out a profound, heavy sigh.
'Because being too quick to temper is exactly what makes you a massive liability in a coordinated shield wall,' Aerion thought to himself, his strategic mind analyzing her glaring flaw. 'A warrior who loses themselves to the bloodlust breaks formation. They chase routing enemies, expose the flank, and get their brothers and sisters slaughtered. That is why they rejected you.'
But Aerion had no intention of voicing that critical, logical truth. He wasn't looking to hire a disciplined, rank and file guardsman. He was building a private army, and every army needed a vanguard, a heavily armored berserker whose sole purpose was to be pointed at the enemy lines and unleashed like a wild beast.
Her fatal flaw was, for his specific purposes, a highly useful tactical asset. And more importantly, validating her delusion was the absolute fastest way to secure her loyalty.
"I completely agree," Aerion lied smoothly, offering a respectful bow of his head. "Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Aerion."
Uthgerd wiped the remaining blood from her gauntlet onto her trousers and extended her heavy hand. "Uthgerd. They call me the Unbroken."
Aerion took her hand, his elven grip surprisingly firm against her steel. "A fitting title, Uthgerd. Tell me... what if I could introduce you to a group of people who will actually appreciate your unyielding nature? A group who will trust you as the highly capable, worthy warrior you so clearly are?"
Uthgerd's fierce grin slowly faded, replaced by a look of sharp, cautious interest. "What kind of group are we talking about, Elf?"
"A private company," Aerion explained, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Perhaps they are not as historically famous or as bound by arrogant traditions as the Companions, but they are highly skilled, incredibly well funded, and they will become legendary in their own right one day. Mark my words."
Uthgerd crossed her arms, the prospect of finding a place where she belonged, a place where she could swing her greatsword without being judged for her ferocity, clearly appealing to her. "I'm listening."
"Follow me," Aerion commanded gently.
He led the heavy armored warrior away from the shattered ruins of the table, walking across the tavern floor toward the secluded back corner. As they approached, Aerion saw that Sinmir, Torsten, Titus, and Jenassa had been watching the entire brutal confrontation and subsequent negotiation from start to finish.
Sinmir was leaning back in his chair, a look of profound, approving respect on his bearded face as he looked at Uthgerd. Jenassa, sitting quietly in the shadows, simply watched the new addition with cold, calculating crimson eyes.
"Everyone, allow me to make an introduction," Aerion announced as they reached the table. He gestured to the massive Nords and the scarred Imperial. "Uthgerd, this is the private mercenary company I'm talking about. They are currently tasked with keeping Whiterun and the surrounding farming holds safe from the escalating bandit and beast threats."
Aerion pointed to the massive, bearded man at the head of the table. "This is Captain Sinmir. He commands the heavy infantry and coordinates our perimeter defenses." He then gestured to the others. "These are Torsten Iron-Arm and Titus Varr, two of our finest front line combatants. And the woman in the shadows is Jenassa, my personal friend."
Aerion then turned and gestured grandly to the steel clad woman standing beside him. "Company, this is Uthgerd the Unbroken. She is highly interested in joining your ranks."
Sinmir stood up, extending a massive hand. "I know of you, Uthgerd. I saw you crack a mercenary's ribs in a brawl outside the city gates three years ago. You hit like a runaway carriage. We could use a heavy blade like yours on the line."
Uthgerd took Sinmir's hand, a genuine, thrilled smile finally breaking through her bitter exterior. To be instantly recognized and validated by a seasoned veteran commander was everything she had been craving. "It is an honor, Captain. I would very much like to get to know this company better."
Aerion smiled warmly. "I imagine she would like to get to know you all through the traditional Nord methods. Copious amounts of ale tonight, and perhaps a brutal test of arms in the training ring tomorrow morning."
The table erupted in deep, booming laughter. Torsten slammed his fist on the wood in eager anticipation of a good spar, and Titus raised his tankard in a welcoming toast. Only Jenassa remained perfectly silent, a faint, cynical smirk playing on her lips as she watched the loud, boisterous Nords bond over the promise of future violence.
Their expanded group had suddenly become the absolute focal point of the entire Bannered Mare. The remaining patrons cast wide, intimidated glances toward the back corner. A towering, wealthy High Elf mage, a lethal Dark Elf assassin, a massive veteran Captain, two scarred mercenaries, and the most violently unpredictable, heavy armored woman in the city. It was a terrifyingly formidable party, and the sheer concentration of martial power was undeniable.
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[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 320/320 Stamina: 310/310 Magicka: 450/450 Level: 65
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire/Lightning) (Level MAX/62), Persuasion (Level 77), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak (Level 26), One Handed (Level 67), Restoration (Healing) (Level 37), Two Handed (Level 65), Lockpicking (Level 23), Archery (Level 72), Alteration (Level 4), Enchanting (Level 19), Light Armor (Level 53), Block (Level 60), Illusion (Level 6), Pickpocket (Level 8)
Shouts: Fus (Force)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Steel Dagger, Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, Mammoth Tusk, Iron Shield, Steel Mace, Steel Warhammer, the Golden Claw, Calm Spellbook, Arvel's Journal, Inkwell & Quill, Thief Book, Scroll Of Summoning (Wolf), Scroll Of Healing, Steel Dagger of Minor Souls, Weak Potion of Paralysis, Ancient Nord Bow, Dragonstone, Ancient Nord Battleaxe Of Blaze, & Potion of Minor Pickpocketing
2x Iron Mace, Steel Axe, Steel Greatsword, & Lockpicks
3x Iron Greatsword, Steel Sword, Scroll Of Fireball, Glowing Mushrooms, & Potions of Minor Stamina
4x Potions of Minor Magicka & Spider Eggs
5x Lesser Soul Gem
8x Iron Arrows & Ancient Nord Arrows
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
Weight: 109.07 KG / 455 KG
Septims = 56,302