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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Aeloria did not hesitate for a fraction of a second. She placed her hand over his. "You don't even need to ask, Aerion," Aeloria agreed fiercely, her blue eyes burning with resolve. "I will practically be like living in Dragonsreach while you are gone. If anyone so much as looks at the Jarl or his children with ill intent, they will have to deal with the Axe of Morthal in my hand. You do not need to worry about Whiterun."
"I knew I could rely on you," Aerion praised her softly. "Keep your axe sharp."
With his political rear completely secured, Aerion left Aeloria to coordinate with Valdemar and Sinmir. He turned and walked into the main house, navigating the quiet halls until he reached his private, heavily secured bedroom.
He closed the heavy oak door, locking it behind him.
The time for political maneuvering was over. He was heading into the heart of hostile, rebel territory. He could no longer rely on the intimidating aura of an Imperial Tribune or the aristocratic wealth of his silk robes. He needed raw, undeniable, physical survivability.
Aerion stood in the center of the room and engaged his system inventory.
With a thought, the heavy, masterfully crafted Nordic Carved Armor set materialized in his physical space. He immediately felt the shift in his spatial weight.
[Inventory Weight Decreased by 22.00 KG.]
He began the methodical, practical process of arming himself.
He untied the enchanted Mage Boots he had worn since finding the mod chests, slipping them off and storing them quickly into his inventory. He replaced them with the heavy, fur lined steel of the Nordic Carved Boots.
As he buckled the thick leather straps over his calves, he felt the familiar, comforting surge of the enchantment taking hold. He had intentionally maintained the Fortify Carry Weight enchantment from his previous gear.
Next came the robes. He unclasped the beautiful, intricate Master Robes of Destruction, the fabric that had defined his identity as a pure mage for months. He folded them neatly and sent them into the void of his system, the loss of their massive magicka regeneration enchantments a calculated sacrifice.
[Inventory Weight Increased by 1.2 KG.]
He picked up the massive, heavy steel cuirass of the Nordic Carved Armor. It was a beautiful, brutal piece of engineering. Thick, overlapping plates of high carbon steel etched with deep Nordic knotwork, layered over dense, dark leather and lined with heavy bear fur to insulate against the freezing eastern winds.
Aerion pulled the heavy armor over his head, securing the thick leather buckles at his ribs and shoulders.
The moment the clasps locked into place, the inherent enchantment flared.
[Health increased by 50 points.]
Aerion took a slow, deep breath. The physical sensation was profound. The heavy steel did not feel restrictive; it felt incredibly grounding. His already vastly augmented, transmigrator biology absorbed the health enchantment, making his bones feel like solid iron and his muscle fibers dense enough to shatter a warhammer impact. He no longer felt like a scholar, he felt like a warlord.
For his hands, he made a practical and efficient adjustment.
The thin, enchanted silk mage gloves he currently wore provided excellent enchantment of providing 50 Magicka increase. The Nordic Carved Gauntlets, heavy with steel and fur, were designed for gripping a massive broadsword.
Because his mage gloves were so thin and form fitting, Aerion simply slid the heavy steel gauntlets directly over them, the thick leather interiors accommodating the silk perfectly.
He flexed his fingers, testing the grip. It was flawless. He had layered his magical protection directly beneath his physical armor.
Finally, he reached back into his inventory.
[Inventory Weight Decreased by 2.50 KG.]
He withdrew the jagged, ancient bronze mask of Krosis.
The artifact was still coated in a thin layer of gray ash and grime from the centuries it had spent buried in the sarcophagus at Shearpoint.
Aerion walked over to the washbasin in the corner of his room. He poured fresh, cold water over the bronze, using a coarse cloth to meticulously scrub the ancient metal until the deep, unearthly blue hues and polished bronze shone clearly in the candlelight.
He didn't reach for a towel. He simply raised his left hand, generating a highly controlled wave of raw thermal energy. The intense heat instantly evaporated the water droplets, leaving the mask bone dry and comfortably warm.
Aerion picked up the Adept Hood he usually wore, pulling the dark fabric over his head to conceal his distinctively Elven golden hair.
Then, he lifted the mask of Krosis and pressed it to his face.
The heavy bronze locked into place with a faint, magical hum, the ancient straps securing themselves seamlessly around the back of his head, hidden by the hood.
Aerion blinked, entirely surprised by the things eh could see through it. From the outside, the mask appeared to have only narrow, jagged, incredibly restrictive slits for eyes. But from the inside, the ancient draconic magic woven into the bronze completely bypassed physical limitations.
The metal around his eyes was entirely transparent to his vision, acting like a flawless, highly polished pane of glass. It provided a wide, unobstructed, almost focused field of view, while completely obscuring his golden eyes from anyone looking at him.
He walked over to the full-length mirror standing in the corner of the room.
The reflection staring back at him was terrifying. The towering High Elf scholar was gone. In his place stood an imposing, heavily armored juggernaut of thick steel and dark fur, his face completely hidden behind the soulless, ancient, grinning bronze visage of a dead demigod.
He was ready for the east.
"Lydia," Aerion called out, his melodic voice slightly muffled and heavily distorted by the acoustics of the bronze mask, giving it a deep, metallic resonance.
A moment later, the heavy oak door opened. Lydia stepped into the room, wiping her hands on a rag, expecting her Thane to issue a new order to her.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
The rag slipped from her fingers, falling to the floorboards. Her dark eyes went wide, sweeping over the heavy steel plates, the deep Nordic knotwork, the thick bear fur, and finally settling on the terrifying, ancient bronze mask.
As a Nord born and bred in Skyrim, the cultural impact of the armor hit her like a physical blow. She didn't see an Imperial Tribune. She saw the armor worn by the ancient, conquering Nordic armies in their absolute, bloody heyday. She saw a myth brought to life in her patron's bedroom.
"Shor's bones, Thane Aerion..." Lydia whispered, her voice thick with absolute, unadulterated awe. She took a slow step forward, looking at the intricate steelwork. "You... you look like a king of the old wars. Like a warlord of Atmora."
"The east requires a different kind of diplomacy, Lydia," Aerion replied, the metallic resonance of the mask making his words sound incredibly dangerous. "Robes will not command respect in the alleys of Windhelm. Steel will."
Lydia swallowed hard, nodding in deep, instinctual agreement. She had always respected his magic, but seeing him clad in the heavy armor of her ancestors filled her with a profound, fierce pride.
Aerion turned away from the mirror, the heavy steel plates shifting with barely a whisper of sound thanks to his high level of Light Armor and Sneak Skill proficiencies perfectly compensating for the weight.
He looked directly at his Housecarl, his golden eyes completely invisible behind the dark slits of the mask.
"Tell me, Lydia," Aerion asked, his voice calm, but heavily laden with violent anticipation. "When we cleared the ruins weeks ago... where exactly did you store the Ebony Greatsword I handed to you for safekeeping?"
Lydia immediately understood Aerion's request. The shock of his new, imposing appearance momentarily faded, replaced by the crisp, reliable diligence of a Whiterun Housecarl.
"Oh, yes. Right away, my Thane," Lydia answered at once, turning on her heel.
She did not head toward the armory racks or the heavy iron chests lining the walls of the estate's main hall. Instead, she walked directly to the simple, sturdy wooden bed that had been assigned to her in the corner of the adjacent quarters. She gripped the heavy oak frame and, with a brief exertion of effort, slid the entire bed aside, the legs scraping softly against the floorboards.
Aerion watched with mild curiosity as Lydia knelt on the exposed floor. She wedged her fingers into a barely visible seam between the wooden planks and lifted. A perfectly concealed section of the flooring came away, revealing a dark, shallow compartment dug directly into the foundation of the house.
Inside the hidden space, carefully wrapped in heavy, oiled leather to protect against moisture, lay a small arsenal.
Lydia pulled back the leather folds. Resting inside was the massive, dark metal of the Ebony Greatsword, alongside the sleek, lethal curve of the Ebony Bow, and a full quiver of black fletched ebony arrows. Tucked safely beside them were the two ancient, frost rimed relic weapons, Eduj and Okin.
Aerion stepped forward, genuinely surprised by the sight. He possessed a mind that calculated every variable, yet this small, analog piece of security had completely eluded his notice.
"You created the perfect hiding place, Lydia," Aerion praised her, his voice echoing with a deep, metallic resonance through the bronze mask. "One that no one, not even myself, knew existed."
Lydia stood up, dusting off her knees. She gave a small, slightly awkward chuckle, a faint blush warming her cheeks under his direct praise.
"Well, you never actually asked me where I stored everything, my Thane," Lydia explained, rubbing the back of her neck. "You simply told me to keep them safe. So, I figured the best way to do that was to make a place only I knew about, just in case the estate was ever breached or the armory was compromised. I wanted to make absolutely sure they were exactly where you left them."
Aerion nodded, deeply appreciative of her proactive mindset. It was exactly the kind of independent, protective initiative he valued in a retainer.
"It is perfectly fine, Lydia," Aerion reassured her smoothly. "In fact, I am very glad that you followed my instructions so carefully. Your discretion is an asset."
He gestured toward the open floorboard. "Hand me the Ebony Greatsword, the Ebony Bow, and the quiver of arrows. The two ancient artifacts, Eduj and Okin, can stay hidden down there for now. They are safe where they are."
Lydia bent down, carefully lifting the heavy, volcanic glass weaponry. She handed the massive greatsword to Aerion first.
He took the weapon, feeling the familiar, dense weight of the ebony. He slid it smoothly into the heavy leather harness secured across the back of his Nordic Carved Armor. It locked into place with a satisfying, heavy clack. Lydia then handed him the Ebony Bow, which he secured diagonally across the broadsword, before taking the heavy quiver of ebony arrows and fastening it securely to his waist belt.
He left the Black Prism, his favored, elegantly lethal ebony sword, sheathed at his left hip, untouched.
Once he had everything in place, Aerion stood completely still for a moment. He took a slow breath, letting the full physical reality of his new loadout settle over him.
The weight was significant. Between the thick steel plates, the dense bear fur, the heavy greatsword, the bow, and the quiver, he was carrying a small armory on his shoulders.
Thanks to his vastly augmented health, the stamina enchantments, and his light armor skill proficiency, the burden was far from unbearable. He could still move with lethal grace.
But it was enough to serve as a constant, physical reminder that he was no longer operating as a nimble, cloth wearing scholar. This was a proper, frontline melee setup. If he was careless with his footwork, the sheer momentum of the steel could slow him down.
Lydia watched him adjust the straps. Even as his sworn sword, she felt a distinct, undeniable flutter of intimidation. The High Elf she had followed out of Dragonsreach was gone. Standing before her was a towering, faceless warlord of the north, clad in heavy steel and ancient bronze, radiating an aura of absolute, imposing violence.
"I will be leaving for Whiterun shortly," Aerion announced, breaking the quiet tension in the room. "And from there, we will head out to Winterhold. I want you and Jenassa to come with me."
Lydia straightened her posture, the familiarity of a direct order grounding her. "Understood, my Thane. I will go find Jenassa immediately."
She offered a quick bow and stepped outside to call for the assassin. Aerion followed her out a moment later, his heavy steel boots thudding softly against the floorboards.
As Aerion stepped out onto the front porch of the main house, the afternoon sun caught the polished steel of his Nordic Carved Armor and the dull, ancient bronze of his mask.
The effect on the courtyard was instantaneous.
The mercenaries, who were sparring near the barracks or tending to their gear, stopped what they were doing. A ripple of surprise and clear, unmasked impression swept through the ranks. They were hardened men and women who had seen all manner of warriors, but the figure standing on the porch looked like something ripped directly from the bloody tapestries of the Merethic Era.
None of them, with the possible exception of Valdemar, had expected their magic wielding Patron to change into a full, heavy melee loadout. They all knew he was highly skilled in close combat, they had seen him fight, but to abandon the robes entirely was a stark shift in doctrine.
What shocked them most, however, was the armor itself. The Nordic Carved set was a rare, master crafted design that commanded immediate respect, but the mask he wore was entirely alien to most of them. It was strange, angular, and deeply unsettling.
A few of the older, more superstitious mercenaries, well versed in the dark legends of Skyrim, immediately recognized the bronze visage from the old stories. A collective, nervous murmur passed between them as they whispered the term Dragon Priest.
Aeloria and Valdemar, who had been discussing patrol routes near the forge, walked over. They were the first to break the heavy silence.
Aeloria's blue eyes were wide with genuine admiration. She looked him up and down, taking in the heavy ebony weaponry strapped to his back.
"By the Eight, Aerion," Aeloria praised him openly, a bright smile breaking across her face. "You look incredible. I always knew you could handle a blade, but this... you look like you could break a shield wall all on your own. It suits you."
Valdemar approached with a more measured, practical eye. The older Nord warrior respected the craftsmanship of the steel, but his concern lay in the logistics of combat.
"It is a formidable set of plates, Patron, truly," Valdemar noted respectfully, crossing his arms. "But... is the armor not a bit too heavy for you? These set of carved steel armor is notoriously thick, and with an ebony greatsword on your back, it might hinder your casting or slow your guard in a prolonged fight."
Before Aerion could formulate a calm reassurance, Aeloria stepped in, waving off the housecarl's concern.
"Don't worry about him, Valdemar," Aeloria said confidently, gesturing to the High Elf. "You saw him on the peak of Shearpoint. He is a highly capable warrior with more physical strength and skill than he lets on. A few extra pounds of steel aren't going to slow him down. He knows exactly what he's doing."
Aerion smiled beneath the bronze mask, amused and touched by her quick defense of his capabilities.
At that moment, Lydia returned, with Jenassa walking smoothly at her side. The Morag Tong assassin took one look at her patron's new, imposing silhouette, her crimson eyes gleaming with quiet approval, though she kept her thoughts to herself.
Aerion turned his attention back to Aeloria.
"Since I am heading into the city," Aerion began, his voice carrying clearly through the mask, "would you like to join me on the trip to Whiterun? We have some time before I depart for the northern holds."
Aeloria tilted her head, curious. "I'd be glad to. Is there something specific you need me for in the city?"
"I intend to use the opportunity to formally introduce you to the Companions," Aerion explained smoothly. "You are the Dragonborn, and a warrior of immense talent. It is only fitting that you meet the Shield-Brothers of Jorrvaskr. Their culture and their history align perfectly with your own path."
Aeloria's eyes lit up at the mention of the legendary mercenary group. She nodded without a single moment of hesitation. "I would be honored, Aerion. Let me grab my cloak."
With the travel arrangements settled, the group of four walked out through the heavy wooden gates of the estate, collecting their horses from the adjacent stables. They mounted up and rode out onto the golden tundra, setting a steady, comfortable pace toward the capital.
The ride was quiet, the wind whistling softly against Aerion's steel plates. He spent the journey acclimating to the new balance of his body in the saddle, adjusting to the slight restriction in his peripheral vision caused by the mask, though the magical transparency compensated for much of it.
When they reached the bustling outskirts of Whiterun, they pulled their horses into the stables. Geimund took the reins with a respectful nod, though he cast a wary, lingering glance at the masked warrior standing among them.
Leaving the animals behind, the group walked up the winding, cobblestone path toward the city's main gates.
The heavy iron portcullis was lowered halfway, and four Whiterun guards were stationed at the entrance, their spears resting casually against their shoulders. As Aerion's group approached, the guards' relaxed posture instantly vanished.
Seeing a towering, faceless warrior clad in heavy Nordic steel, carrying a massive ebony greatsword and a dark metal bow, the guards immediately stepped forward. They crossed their spears, physically blocking the path, their hands tight on the wooden shafts.
"Halt right there," the lead guard ordered, his voice firm but laced with undeniable tension. He looked at the strange bronze mask, entirely unnerved. "State your business in Whiterun, stranger. We don't take kindly to heavily armed mercenaries wandering the streets without a clear purpose, especially wearing a face like that."
Lydia bristled, taking a half step forward to reprimand the guard for his insolence, but Aerion held up a heavy, steel clad hand to stop her.
He didn't take offense. The guards were simply doing their duty, and his new appearance was intentionally designed to be intimidating.
Aerion reached up, wrapping his fingers around the edges of the bronze mask. He didn't remove it, but he tilted his head slightly, allowing the familiar, melodic cadence of his voice to cut through the metallic distortion.
"Peace, guardsman," Aerion spoke, his tone calm and composed. "It is I, Aerion. Thane of this hold."
The guard blinked, leaning forward slightly. He recognized the voice, the cadence, and the unmistakable aristocratic authority that the High Elf always carried. He looked past the imposing armor, noting Lydia and Aeloria, figures well known to the city guard, standing relaxed at his side.
The realization hit him like a cold splash of water. The guard's eyes went wide, and he immediately pulled his spear back, standing at rigid attention.
"My apologies, Thane Aerion!" the guard stammered, his face flushing with embarrassment. "I... I did not recognize you in the new armor. You look like a completely different elf. Please, enter freely."
"Your vigilance is commendable. Keep the gates secure," Aerion replied graciously, stepping past the guards and into the city.
The atmosphere in the Plains District was lively and crowded, as usual for the late afternoon. But as Aerion walked down the main thoroughfare, his presence acted like a stone dropped into a still pond.
The casual chatter of the market stalls died down as he passed. Blacksmiths paused their hammering, and merchants stopped hawking their wares. The townsfolk simply stared. They were used to seeing heavily armed adventurers, but the pristine, brutal quality of the Nordic Carved steel, combined with the eerie, ancient bronze mask, made him the absolute center of attention.
Whispers followed them like a shadow.
"Who is that?" a woman muttered to a baker.
"Look at the sword on his back... is that ebony?"
"Why is he hiding his face?"
Aerion ignored the stares, his posture perfectly straight, letting the mystery and the intimidation work their natural course. He led the group directly across the market square, heading for the heavy wooden doors of the Bannered Mare.
They stepped into the tavern. The warm, savory smell of the new menu items, seared beef, melted cheese, and fried potatoes, filled the air, mingling with the scent of spilled ale and woodsmoke. The tavern was packed, nearly every table occupied by patrons happily enjoying the modern dishes he had introduced.
The moment the heavy doors closed behind them, the noise level in the room noticeably dropped.
The patrons sitting nearest to the entrance stopped eating, their eyes fixed on the imposing, armored giant standing in the doorway. The silence rippled outward until the entire common room was quiet, filled only with the crackle of the hearth and the low, speculative whispers of the crowd trying to guess the identity of the new warrior in town.
Behind the main counter, Hulda looked up from wiping down a mug, her brow furrowing in surprise and mild concern.
Ysolda, who was currently balancing two wooden plates piled high with golden french fries, turned around to see what had silenced her bustling tavern. She saw the heavy steel armor, the bear fur, and the terrifying bronze mask. Her first instinct was protective apprehension; heavily armed strangers who commanded this much silence usually brought trouble.
Aerion stood in the entryway for a moment, letting the silence hold. Then, slowly, he raised his heavy steel gauntlets, opening his arms wide in a familiar, welcoming gesture.
"Is this any way to greet your lovely courtier, honey?" Aerion asked. Even muffled by the mask, the smooth, affectionate cadence of his voice was unmistakable. The tension in the room instantly evaporated. The patrons, realizing the fearsome warrior was simply the eccentric, wealthy High Elf they all knew by reputation, returned to their meals with a collective sigh of relief and renewed, loud chatter.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 760/760 Stamina: 740/740 Magicka: 950/950
Level: 200
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Dragon Master (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+4)/Lightning(+2)/Frost(+2)) (Level 73/91/70), Restoration (Healing(+2)/Purify(+2)) (Level 50/75), Alteration (Level 35), Illusion (Level 50), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/90), Persuasion(+2) (Level 19), Smithing (Level 57), Sneak(+1) (Level 33), One Handed(+1) (Level 72), Two Handed (Level 81), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 72), Enchanting(+1) (Level 2), Light Armor(+2) (Level 0), Block (Level 70), & Pickpocket (Level 8)
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)
[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, Golden Staff of Flames, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, Orcish Dagger, The Mirror, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Reanimate Corpse Tome, Staff of Lightning, Deed to Tundra Homestead, Sapphire, Ruby, Dawnbreaker, Traveling Backpack (Supplies), Potion of Minor Magicka, Vampire Armor, Vampire Boots, Movarth's Golden Ash (Unique), Dwarven Sword, Elven Dagger, Potion of Healing, Gold Emerald Circlet, Scroll of Fire Storm, Iron Garnet Circlet, Iron Sapphire Circlet, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Glass Boots, Dwarven Sword, Dwarven Shield, Wuuthrad's Fragments, Staff of Fireball, Mage Boots Of Weight, & Master Robes Of Destruction
2x Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), Elven Sword, Amethysts, Potions of Plentiful Magicka, Scroll of Conjure Familiar, & Scroll of Magelight
3x Glowing Mushrooms, Potions of Minor Stamina, Flawless Sapphires, Gold Necklace, Iron Necklace, Petty Soul Gem (Filled), & Potions of Minor Magicka
4x Spider Eggs, Garnets, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
5x Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
7x Vampires Dust
8x Iron Arrows & Ancient Nord Arrows
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
12x Black Soul Gem (Filled)
Weight: 92.41 KG / 670 KG
Septims: 81,082