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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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By attacking Helgen to unleash his apocalyptic wrath, the ancient dragon god would inadvertently, directly save the life of the one mortal explicitly destined to destroy him. Aerion closed his golden eyes, listening to the absolute, haunting silence of the sleeping town. 'Enjoy the quiet, Helgen,' Aerion thought, his hands resting on the bed. 'Because tomorrow, the world ends for this town.'
Sleep did not come easily to Aerion, despite the crushing physical exhaustion of the previous day's ride. The coarse woolen blankets of the Helgen Hearth offered little comfort when his mind was a chaotic storm of tactical calculations and impending doom.
He drifted in and out of a shallow, fitful rest, his hyper vigilant senses constantly straining against the quiet of the mountain town, waiting for the heavy rumble of wagon wheels.
When the awakening finally came, it was not the sound of the Imperial Legion that pulled him from the darkness. It was a sharp, urgent rapping at his chamber door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Down on the floorboards, Lupin immediately scrambled to his paws, letting out a low, defensive growl and scratching his sharp little claws aggressively against the base of the wooden door.
Aerion's golden eyes snapped open. The room was no longer pitch black; the faint, gray, watery light of early dawn was just beginning to filter through the frost rimed window.
"I am awake," Aerion called out softly, his voice instantly clear of sleep. "Who is it?"
"It is Jenassa, Patron," the gravelly, muffled voice of the Dark Elf filtered through the thick wood. "There is a massive commotion brewing outside. The town is waking up in a panic. Something is happening on the main road that requires your immediate attention."
The last remnants of sleep instantly evaporated from Aerion's mind, replaced entirely by cold, hyper focused adrenaline.
They are here.
"One moment," Aerion replied.
He didn't need to don armor, he had slept in his immaculate, dark aristocratic robes. He swiftly buckled the heavy leather sword belt around his waist, ensuring the dark, terrifying weight of the Black Prism rested securely at his hip.
He smoothed his silver hair, composing his features into a flawless mask of mild, wealthy curiosity, and pulled the heavy iron door open.
Jenassa stood in the narrow hallway, her twin blades already drawn a fraction of an inch from their scabbards, her crimson eyes tense.
Aerion offered her a single, sharp nod. He stepped past her, scooping Lupin up into his arm to prevent the fox from being trampled in whatever chaos was unfolding, and rapidly descended the creaking wooden stairs of the inn.
They pushed through the heavy front doors of the Helgen Hearth, stepping out onto the freezing cobblestones.
The crisp, biting air of the Jerall Mountains was thick with tension. The once quiet military town was now swarming with activity.
Dozens of Helgen's civilian populace, farmers, bakers, blacksmiths, and their children,bhad spilled out of their homes. They lined the streets and stood on their elevated wooden porches, their breaths pluming in the freezing air, all craning their necks to look toward the northern gates.
A heavy, rhythmic, synchronized thud of marching boots echoed against the stone walls.
"The Legion," Jenassa murmured, stepping close to Aerion's shoulder.
Entering through the massive, raised portcullis of the northern gate was a massive, heavily armed Imperial procession.
Riding at the absolute front of the column, sitting tall and rigid atop a magnificent armored warhorse, was General Tullius. The Supreme Commander of the Imperial forces in Skyrim wore his gleaming, gilded heavy armor with the stoic, exhausted grace of a man who had fought a hundred wars.
Riding flanking him to his left was a fierce, scowling female Imperial Captain in heavy steel. Flanking him to his right, riding slightly behind, was a younger, highly observant male Nord soldier.
Aerion's transmigrator mind instantly matched the faces to the digital models of his past life. Tullius. The Captain. And Hadvar. He is wearing the standard Imperial light studded armor.
But it was what followed the commanders that commanded the absolute, morbid attention of the town.
Lumbering heavily down the cobblestone street were four massive, reinforced wooden prisoner transport wagons, pulled by straining draft horses.
The wagons were packed full. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on the rough wooden benches were dozens of men and women wearing the iconic, blue sashed padded armor of the Stormcloak rebellion. Their hands were heavily bound behind their backs with thick ropes, and brutal leather gags had been stuffed into their mouths to prevent them from shouting their rebel slogans or inciting a riot.
The reaction from the citizens of Helgen was immediate and visceral.
"Traitors!" a local man shouted from a nearby porch, spitting into the street as the first wagon rolled past.
"Death to the Stormcloaks!" a woman shrieked, her voice echoing off the stone keep. "Justice for the High King!"
"You brought this on yourselves!"
Aerion ignored the political theater of the crowd entirely. His golden eyes were fixed with laser like, predatory intensity on the fourth and final wagon in the procession.
As the last cart rolled past the inn, Aerion identified the primary variables of the timeline.
Sitting near the front of the cart was a massive, powerfully built Nord man. He was dressed not in standard rebel armor, but in a thick, luxurious black bear fur coat. His face was stern, proud, and defiant, though his mouth was secured by a heavy, reinforced iron gag designed specifically to prevent him from utilizing the Thu'um.
Ulfric Stormcloak. The Jarl of Windhelm. The Kingslayer.
Sitting directly across from Ulfric was a blonde Nord man wearing standard Stormcloak armor, his head bowed slightly in defeat. Ralof of Riverwood. Sitting beside Ralof was a thin, terrified looking man wearing cheap, dirty brown rags, his eyes darting frantically around the town walls. Lokir of Rorikstead. The horse thief.
But there were two more prisoners in the final wagon.
Sitting right beside Ulfric, also dressed in rough, unremarkable brown rags, were two unknown Nords.
One was a broad shouldered male with wild, unkempt blond hair and a thick beard. The other was a fiercely built female with war paint smeared across her sharp cheekbones and long, braided brown hair. Unlike Ulfric and the rebel soldiers, neither the male nor the female were gagged, though their wrists were heavily bound with thick hemp rope.
Aerion's mind raced at a million miles an hour.
The game always allowed the player to choose their gender and race during the carriage ride, Aerion analyzed rapidly, his eyes tracking the two unknown prisoners.
It appears reality has manifested both 'default' Nord options into the world to fill the wagon. One of them is merely a random civilian caught crossing the border. The other is the Last Dragonborn. The absolute nexus of this universe.
He needed to know which one possessed the soul of a dragon. And the only way to confirm it was to watch the execution roster play out.
"Move," Aerion commanded Jenassa softly.
They stepped off the porch of the inn, blending seamlessly into the moving crowd of townspeople who were following the grim procession. They navigated the winding cobblestone streets, moving deeper into the town until they reached the massive, open courtyard situated directly in front of the primary Helgen Keep.
The courtyard had been entirely repurposed for death.
A heavy, wooden chopping block sat in the center of the yard, stained dark with the blood of past traitors.
Standing beside the block, resting a massive, terrifyingly sharp iron greataxe against the stone, was a heavily muscled, hooded executioner. Surrounding the perimeter of the courtyard was a dense ring of Imperial archers and heavy infantry, their weapons drawn and ready to crush any escape attempt.
Aerion and Jenassa maneuvered through the gathering crowd, securing a vantage point near the front line of the civilians, kept back only by the crossed spears of two Imperial guards. It provided a clear, unobstructed view of the wagons parking in the center of the yard.
General Tullius dismounted, conferring quietly with the Thalmor emissary, Elenwen, near the keep doors, while the Imperial Captain barked brutal orders at the guards.
"Get them out of the wagons! Line them up!" the Captain shrieked.
The Imperial soldiers moved in, roughly hauling the bound prisoners down from the wooden carts. They were shoved into a long, ragged line facing the chopping block.
Hadvar, holding a heavy leather bound ledger and an ink quill, stepped forward to begin the agonizing process of confirming the identities of the condemned.
Aerion couldn't hear the specific names being called over the ambient noise of the crowd and the wind, but he recognized the sequence of events perfectly.
Suddenly, the thin man in the brown rags, Lokir, broke from the line.
"You're not going to kill me!" Lokir screamed, absolute terror fracturing his sanity.
He shoved past an Imperial guard and began sprinting desperately toward the northern gates, his bound hands making his running gait awkward and frantic.
"Archers!" the Imperial Captain roared, pointing a steel gauntleted finger at the fleeing man.
THWACK. THWACK.
Two heavy Imperial arrows shot across the courtyard with lethal precision. They struck Lokir squarely in the back. The horse thief let out a sharp, choked gasp, his momentum carrying him forward for another two steps before he collapsed face first onto the cold cobblestones, dead before he truly understood he had failed.
The crowd gasped, the reality of the brutal military justice violently settling over the courtyard.
"Anyone else feel like running?" the Captain sneered, looking down the line of terrified prisoners.
Hadvar resumed the roll call. Aerion watched as Ulfric Stormcloak was forced to step forward, his silent, defiant glare meeting Tullius's. Following him, the male and female Nords in rags were pushed roughly to the front of the line, standing just yards away from the blood stained block.
A high ranking priestess of Arkay stepped forward, raising her hands to the sky to begin the final rites for the condemned.
"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you..."
"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" a defiant Stormcloak soldier roared from the line, aggressively interrupting the priestess.
The soldier proudly, fearlessly marched himself directly up to the chopping block. "Come on! I haven't got all morning!"
The Captain smirked, kicking the rebel firmly behind the knees, forcing him down. The soldier proudly rested his neck against the curved indentation of the wood. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"
The executioner raised the massive iron greataxe high into the air.
CHOP.
The heavy blade severed the spine instantly. The soldier's head rolled into the woven basket, a massive fountain of arterial blood staining the cobblestones.
The townspeople let out a collective, horrified gasp.
Jenassa's face remained entirely impassive; she had seen more beheadings in Morrowind than she cared to count. Aerion simply narrowed his eyes, waiting for the anomaly.
The executioner kicked the headless corpse aside, letting it flop limply into the dirt.
"Next!" the Captain barked.
Hadvar looked down at his ledger, then pointed his quill directly at the broad shouldered, blond haired male Nord in the brown rags.
"You. Step forward," Hadvar ordered.
The male Nord's face went completely pale. His chest heaved with suppressed terror. He didn't say a word as two Imperial guards grabbed his bound arms, roughly hauling him forward and forcing him down onto his knees before the blood-slicked chopping block.
Aerion's entire body went absolutely, terrifyingly rigid.
This is it, Aerion thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. This is the moment. The World-Eater descends now.
Aerion tilted his head slightly, his highly sensitive elven ears straining past the murmurs of the crowd, waiting for the apocalyptic roar from the mountains.
He waited for the sky to darken. He waited for the violent tremor in the earth.
The executioner raised the heavy iron greataxe, the metal gleaming in the morning sun.
Aerion held his breath. Any second now.
The axe reached its zenith.
Nothing happened.
The sky remained perfectly clear. The mountains remained silent.
CHOP.
The heavy iron blade slammed down. The male Nord's head was cleanly severed, dropping heavily into the bloody basket alongside the Stormcloak soldier. The man's muscular body collapsed lifelessly to the stone.
Aerion exhaled sharply, a massive, incredibly dark realization washing over him. The male Nord was just a random unfortunate soul crossing the border. He had died for absolutely nothing.
Which meant, by the process of elimination, the true anomaly was the only remaining variable.
Aerion shifted his golden gaze, locking it entirely onto the fierce, brown haired female Nord standing in the prisoner line. Her face was pale, but her jaw was set in absolute, terrified defiance.
It is her. She is the Last Dragonborn.
"Next!" the Imperial Captain shrieked, annoyed by the blood pooling on her boots. "The woman! To the block!"
Hadvar offered the woman a look of profound, helpless pity as the guards grabbed her arms. They shoved her forward, forcing her to stumble to her knees. The Imperial Captain planted a heavy steel boot on the middle of the woman's back, violently forcing her head down onto the curved, blood-soaked wood of the chopping block.
The executioner slowly stepped forward, wiping the fresh blood from his axe blade with a dirty rag, preparing for the third strike.
And then, the universe finally shattered.
It started not as a sound, but as a profound, terrifying vibration deep within the bedrock of the mountain. The cobblestones beneath Aerion's boots trembled violently.
Then, rolling over the jagged peaks of the Jerall Mountains like a wave of physical, crushing pressure, came the sound.
RROOOOAAAAARRRR.
It was a sound of absolute, ancient, apocalyptic hatred. It was vastly louder than thunder, vibrating the very air in their lungs and rattling the windows of the keep.
The entire courtyard froze. The townspeople gasped, looking frantically toward the sky.
"What was that?!" General Tullius barked, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword as his warhorse whinnied in terror and reared back.
"It's nothing! Just a distant avalanche!" the Imperial Captain yelled, her voice bordering on hysterical denial. She pushed her boot down harder on the Dragonborn's back.
"Executioner! Do it now! Sever her head!"
The executioner, his arms trembling slightly from the sheer, unnatural terror vibrating in the air, raised the massive greataxe high above his head, preparing to bring it down on the woman's neck.
He never got the chance.
The sky directly above Helgen suddenly, violently darkened, as if the sun had been instantly eclipsed by a massive, moving mountain.
With a deafening, sonic boom that shattered the slate roof tiles of the nearby buildings, a colossal, terrifying silhouette dropped out of the clouds.
It did not land gracefully. It crashed down with the force of a meteor, its massive, razor sharp talons violently gripping the heavy stone masonry of the tall observation tower situated directly behind the chopping block.
The impact shook the entire town, sending a shower of heavy stone debris raining down into the courtyard.
It was Alduin the World-Eater.
The ancient dragon god was a creature of absolute nightmares. He was vastly larger than any dragon Aerion had ever read about in the lore. His scales were the color of the deepest, light consuming obsidian.
Massive, jagged spikes protruded from his spine, and his glowing, malevolent red eyes burned with the hatred of a thousand eternities.
Alduin threw his massive, horned head back, opening jaws lined with teeth the size of greatswords.
"YOL... TOOR... SHUL!"
The Thu'um did not sound like magic; it sounded like the fabric of reality tearing apart.
A massive, continuous, blindingly bright torrent of superheated, apocalyptic fire erupted from the dragon's maw. The inferno washed directly over the chopping block.
The executioner was incinerated instantly, his flesh flashing to ash before he could even scream. The Imperial Captain, caught in the edge of the blast, was thrown backward, her heavy steel armor glowing cherry red as she writhed on the burning cobblestones.
The female Nord, the Dragonborn, who had been pushed down onto the block, was miraculously shielded from the direct blast by the stone lip of the executioner's platform, though the intense heat instantly singed her hair and clothes.
Absolute, unadulterated chaos instantly consumed Helgen.
The townspeople shrieked in absolute terror, scrambling frantically over each other to flee the courtyard as buildings spontaneously burst into flames. Imperial archers blindly fired arrows into the sky, the tiny steel projectiles bouncing harmlessly off Alduin's impenetrable black scales.
"Guards! Get the townspeople to safety!" General Tullius roared over the deafening roar of the flames, drawing his sword. "Mages! Bring that thing down!"
Alduin leapt from the tower, taking to the air with a massive, thunderous beat of his wings. As he circled the town, the sky above Helgen violently ripped open.
A highly localized, apocalyptic meteor shower, the Storm Call shout twisted into fire, began to rain massive, burning boulders of rock and plasma down upon the wooden houses, obliterating the inn where they had slept just hours ago.
Standing amidst the screaming crowd and the falling debris, Jenassa remained completely frozen, her crimson eyes wide with profound, primal terror as she stared up at the mythic beast circling the sky.
She turned slowly to Aerion, her voice barely audible over the roaring inferno.
"Patron..." Jenassa whispered, her hands trembling as they gripped the hilts of her blades. "Is... is this the 'bad feeling' you were talking about? The sudden return of a dragon from the ancient myths?!"
Aerion maintained his flawless, calculated composure, though his heart was racing with the sheer adrenaline of the moment. He pulled his heavy cloak over his head to shield himself from the falling ash.
"I cannot claim to have foreseen the exact nature of the beast, Jenassa," Aerion lied smoothly, acting the part of a surprised but highly adaptable mage. "But my bad feeling has completely vanished, entirely replaced by the undeniable reality of a dragon attack."
He drew the Black Prism. The ebony blade flared with its dark, pulsing aura, contrasting sharply with the chaotic orange fires consuming the town.
"We must act immediately," Aerion commanded, his voice sharp and decisive. "We cannot flee like the peasants. We must assist the Imperial soldiers. It is the only tactical way to secure goodwill and survive the collapse of the town."
Jenassa wanted to argue. Plunging directly into the epicenter of a dragon attack to help a few doomed soldiers was the absolute antithesis of mercenary logic. But the sheer, commanding authority in Aerion's voice left no room for debate.
"As you command," Jenassa clicked her tongue in frustration, sliding her blades back into their scabbards and unstrapping her heavy Dwarven Bow. If they were fighting a dragon, steel swords were useless.
Aerion didn't wait. He sprinted directly into the burning, chaotic epicenter of the courtyard.
He completely ignored the fleeing Imperial soldiers and the screaming civilians. His golden eyes were locked entirely on the stone execution platform.
Through the thick, choking smoke and the dancing flames, he spotted the female Nord. The Dragonborn had managed to push herself up from the blood slicked stone. She was coughing violently, completely disoriented, and her hands were still tightly bound behind her back with the thick hemp rope.
Suddenly, sprinting out from the cover of a burning wooden cart, came Ralof. The blond Stormcloak soldier had survived the initial blast and was charging toward the dizzy Dragonborn.
"Hey! Kinswoman! Get up!" Ralof shouted over the roar of the fire, reaching out to grab her bound arms. "The gods won't give us another chance! Come with me, we have to reach the tower with Jarl Ulfric!"
Aerion's tactical mind snapped into overdrive.
If she follows Ralof into the tower, the timeline proceeds normally. She escapes with the Stormcloaks, builds an affinity for the rebellion, and becomes a variable outside of my immediate influence.
He could not allow it. He needed to establish a direct, life saving connection with the Dragonborn right here, right now. He needed to be the one who guided her through the inferno, solidifying himself as her savior and primary ally before she even knew what she was.
Aerion engaged his Alteration magic, casting a rapid, localized Ebonyflesh spell over his robes to shield himself from the intense heat, and surged forward with terrifying, superhuman speed.
He materialized out of the thick black smoke directly between Ralof and the Dragonborn, physically cutting the Stormcloak off. "She is coming with me, Nord," Aerion declared, his melodic voice ringing with absolute, undeniable command as he raised the Black Prism, the dark blade gleaming with lethal intent in the firelight.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 430/430 Stamina: 430/430 Magicka: 600/600
Level: 106
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+2)/Lightning(+1)/Frost) (Level 62/41/98), Restoration (Healing/Purify(+1)) (Level 83/56), Alteration (Level 35), Alteration (Level 20), Illusion (Level 42), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/10), Persuasion(+1) (Level 37), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak (Level 41), One Handed (Level 85), Two Handed (Level 65), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 72), Enchanting (Level 66), Light Armor (Level 53), Block (Level 70), & Pickpocket (Level 8)
Shouts: Fus (Force), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim (Fade), & Su (Air)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, Mammoth Tusk, the Golden Claw, Calm Spellbook, Arvel's Journal, Inkwell & Quill, Thief Book, Scroll Of Summoning (Wolf), Scroll Of Healing, Weak Potion of Paralysis, Dragonstone, Golden Staff of Flames, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, Orcish Dagger, Jagged Crown, The Mirror, Glass Sword, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Reanimate Corpse Tome, Staff of Lightning, Deed to Tundra Homestead, Garnet, Sapphire, Ruby, & Dawnbreaker
2x Potion Of Ultimate Magicka, Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), & Elven Sword
3x Glowing Mushrooms, Potions of Minor Stamina, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
4x Potions of Minor Magicka, Spider Eggs, & Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
5x Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
8x Iron Arrows, Ancient Nord Arrows, & Black Soul Gems (Filled)
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
Weight: 74.92 KG / 515 KG
Septims: 77,555