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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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The twin brothers grinned fiercely, pushing away from the table. "With pleasure, old man," Farkas chuckled, rolling his massive shoulders. The entire hall practically emptied as the Companions eagerly poured out the back doors, forming a wide, enthusiastic half circle around the packed dirt sparring ring in the courtyard.
Aerion walked out with Kodlak, Aela, and Skjor, taking up a position on the sidelines. Lydia, Jenassa, and Valdemar stood close by, watching intently.
Aeloria stepped into the center of the ring. She unbuckled the heavy ebony greatsword from her back, handing it carefully to Valdemar. A veteran Companion tossed her a standard training weapon, a heavy, blunted iron battleaxe with a thick oaken haft. It lacked the lethal bite and magical heat of her usual weapon, forcing her to rely entirely on pure technique and raw strength.
Farkas stepped into the ring first. The massive, dark haired warrior drew a heavy, blunted iron greatsword, rolling his neck until it popped. He didn't look malicious, just wildly eager for a good brawl.
"Show me what you've got, Dragonborn," Farkas grinned, dropping into a wide, aggressive stance. "Don't hold back."
"I won't," Aeloria promised, her blue eyes narrowing in absolute focus.
Farkas didn't hesitate. He launched himself forward with the speed and ferocity of a charging bear. He swung the massive greatsword in a brutal, sweeping horizontal arc aimed directly at her ribs.
Aeloria didn't try to dodge. She wanted to establish her physical baseline immediately. She planted her boots into the dirt, bringing the haft of her training axe up in a rigid, two handed block.
CRACK!
The impact of the heavy iron practice weapons echoed sharply across the courtyard. Farkas's raw strength was legendary within the Companions, but Aeloria didn't buckle.
The augmented, mythical resilience of her Dragonborn blood absorbed the kinetic shock. Her boots slid back two inches in the dirt, but her guard held perfectly firm.
Farkas's eyes widened in genuine surprise. Usually, that strike knocked recruits flat on their backs.
Before he could pull his blade back for a second swing, Aeloria twisted her hips, redirecting the momentum of his heavy sword downward. She stepped flawlessly inside his guard, bringing the heavy, blunted head of her axe around in a tight, vicious uppercut.
The dull iron slammed squarely into Farkas's heavy steel breastplate with a resounding CLANG.
The sheer force of the blow lifted the massive warrior slightly off his feet, sending him staggering backward, gasping for breath as the wind was violently knocked from his lungs.
The crowd of Companions erupted into wild cheers and shouts of approval.
"Ha! She hit him harder than a giant!" Skjor barked a laugh from the sidelines.
Aerion watched with a quiet, analytical satisfaction. Her raw strength had increased exponentially since they first met.
Farkas caught his balance, holding up a hand and offering a breathless, highly respectful grin. "Alright, alright. I yield. You've got the strength of a troll, girl. I'll give you that."
Farkas stepped out of the ring, high fiving a few of his brothers as he went.
Vilkas stepped in to replace him. He drew a blunted iron longsword, his demeanor vastly different from his brother's. Vilkas was a tactician. He didn't rely purely on brute force, he relied on speed, technique, and exploiting mistakes.
"My brother is a blunt instrument," Vilkas said coldly, dropping into a flawless, perfectly balanced duelist's stance. "Let us see if you have any actual skill behind that raw power."
Vilkas moved like a wolf. He darted forward, feinting a high strike before instantly dropping his shoulder and thrusting the blunted sword in a rapid, stinging jab toward her thigh.
Aeloria read the feint. She parried the thrust with a sharp twist of her axe handle, stepping back to maintain her distance. Vilkas didn't let up. He unleashed a dizzying, relentless flurry of precise, lightning fast strikes, testing her footwork, her patience, and her guard.
For the first thirty seconds, Aeloria was entirely on the defensive, forced to backpedal across the dirt ring as she deflected the rapid fire blows.
"She's too slow on the back foot," Aela muttered critically from her place next to Aerion. "Vilkas is going to bleed her stamina dry."
"Watch her eyes, Huntress," Aerion countered smoothly, his golden gaze fixed on the fight. "She is not retreating out of panic. She is keeping up and learning his rhythm."
He was right. Aeloria wasn't swinging wildly; she was letting Vilkas expend his energy, watching the highly specific way he shifted his weight before he lunged.
Vilkas went for a sweeping, low strike to sweep her legs.
Aeloria didn't block it. She leaped entirely over the blade, a feat of shocking agility in heavy armor. As she landed, she used the downward momentum to bring the blunt head of her axe crashing down toward Vilkas's exposed shoulder.
Vilkas, forced to abandon his attack, desperately brought his sword up to block.
The axe slammed into his crossguard. The sheer, overwhelming downward force drove Vilkas to one knee in the dirt, his arm trembling violently as he struggled to keep the axe from crushing his collarbone.
Aeloria held the pressure for three seconds, letting him feel the absolute, inescapable weight of her leverage, before smoothly stepping back and lowering her weapon.
Vilkas remained on one knee for a moment, staring at the dirt, before letting out a sharp, genuine laugh of disbelief. He stood up, sheathing his training sword.
"Your footwork is sloppy in the retreat, but your counter timing is flawless," Vilkas critiqued, though the respect in his voice was undeniable. He offered her a firm nod. "You fight with honor and a sharp mind. You pass."
The courtyard erupted into a final, deafening roar of approval. The Companions surged forward, clapping Aeloria on the back and cheering for the newest, and undoubtedly most famous, whelp to join their ranks.
Aerion turned to Kodlak Whitemane. The old Harbinger was smiling, his wise eyes shining with deep satisfaction.
"She has the heart of a true warrior," Kodlak observed quietly to the High Elf. "And the strength of the ancients. She will do well here, Aerion."
"I have no doubt, Harbinger," Aerion replied, offering a polite bow. "I leave her in your capable hands. I have a long ride ahead of me."
The heavy, blunted iron of Aeloria's training axe dropped to her side as she took a deep, steadying breath. The roars of approval from the gathered Companions still echoed off the timber walls of Jorrvaskr, a deafening testament to the sheer physical prowess she had just displayed in the sparring ring.
She turned to Vilkas and Farkas, a bright, exhilarated smile cutting through the sweat and dirt on her face. She offered them both a deep, respectful nod, crossing her arm over her chest in a warrior's salute.
"Thank you," Aeloria said, her voice filled with genuine appreciation for the brutal, honest test they had provided. "Both of you. You honor me with your skill."
Farkas let out a booming laugh, clapping a massive hand on her shoulder that would have staggered a lesser woman. "You hit like a falling rock, Dragonborn! It's going to be a pleasure having you in the Companions as shield sister."
Vilkas offered a tighter, but equally respectful nod. "Your footwork needs polish, but your instincts are undeniable. You've earned your place."
With the trial concluded, Aeloria handed the training axe back to one of the younger whelps and walked across the packed dirt of the courtyard to where Kodlak Whitemane and Aerion were standing.
She stopped before the old Harbinger, bowing her head deeply.
Kodlak reached out, resting a weathered, heavy hand on her shoulder. His wise eyes crinkled at the corners with a warm, approving smile.
"You fought with the heart of a wolf and the strength of a bear," Kodlak proclaimed, his deep voice carrying effortlessly over the lingering chatter of the mercenaries. "I welcome you, Aeloria. You are the newest member of the Companions. From this day forward, your brothers and sisters will stand beside you, and you beside them."
Aeloria's chest swelled with a profound sense of belonging. The title of Dragonborn was a destiny forced upon her by the gods, but this, this she had earned with her own two hands and the sweat of her brow.
"Thank you, Harbinger," she answered softly. "I will not disgrace the hall."
"I know you won't," Kodlak replied. He gestured back toward the massive inverted ship that was their home. "As a whelp of the Companions, you are now permitted to take bounties and contracts directly from any of the four members of the Circle. Furthermore, you will find an empty bed in the shared quarters down below. Whenever you are in Whiterun and need a hearth to rest by, you have a place here."
Aeloria nodded gratefully. "That is generous. I will put my blade to good use."
Standing to the side, his imposing, armored presence casting a long shadow in the late afternoon sun, Aerion decided it was the correct moment to sever his ties to the celebration. The political architecture in Whiterun was now completely secure, Aeloria was entrenched in the highest martial authority in the city, providing an impenetrable shield around Jarl Balgruuf while he was gone.
"As much as I would love to stay and celebrate this momentous occasion," Aerion spoke up, the deep, metallic resonance of Krosis's mask turning every head in his immediate vicinity, "I am afraid my business here is concluded. I have highly pressing matters to attend to in the north."
Aeloria turned to him, the thrill of her initiation momentarily fading into quiet concern. She knew exactly what he was marching into.
"Be careful, Aerion," Aeloria told him earnestly, stepping closer. "The east is not like the central plains. Keep your sword sharp."
"I always do," Aerion replied softly, placing a heavy, steel clad hand on her shoulder.
Kodlak stepped forward, offering the towering, masked High Elf a deep, formal nod of respect. "We wish you safe travels on the roads, Aerion. It has been an honor to meet the most famous Thane of Whiterun, other than the Dragonborn herself. If you ever require the steel of the Companions, you need only ask."
"The honor is entirely mine, Harbinger," Aerion bowed gracefully, the heavy Nordic Carved plates shifting silently with the motion. "May your hunts be prosperous."
With his farewells concluded, Aerion turned and signaled to Lydia and Jenassa. The two lethal retainers immediately fell into step behind him as he marched out of the courtyard, leaving the warmth and celebration of Jorrvaskr behind.
They walked back down through the tiered districts of Whiterun, passing the busy market stalls and the wary, respectful glances of the city guards. By the time they reached the stables beyond the main gates, the sun was beginning to dip low over the western mountains.
Aerion swung himself up into Revan's saddle. The massive black warhorse let out a sharp snort, feeling the added weight of the heavy steel and ebony weaponry, but easily accommodating the burden.
"We ride north," Aerion commanded, pulling the reins.
They left the golden, rolling tundra of Whiterun behind, setting a grueling, relentless pace. They took the familiar, winding cobblestone road that cut through the jagged foothills of the Pale, the exact same route Aerion had used during his first expedition to the College of Winterhold weeks prior.
As they rode higher into the mountains, the environment began to shift drastically. The warm, golden hues of autumn faded, replaced by stark gray rock, clinging frost, and the sharp, biting scent of pine needles and snow.
They were several hours into the ride, navigating a particularly narrow, rocky pass framed by sheer cliffs on either side, when the quiet rhythm of the journey was violently interrupted.
The sound carried easily on the cold mountain air: the panicked, high-pitched scream of a woman, followed immediately by the harsh, guttural shouting of rough men and the unmistakable sound of splintering wood.
Aerion raised a fist, instantly halting the convoy.
He peered through the transparent magical lenses of the bronze mask. Roughly a hundred yards ahead, the road widened slightly into a small clearing. A heavy wooden carriage lay tipped on its side, the front axle completely shattered. A terrified draft horse was rearing and kicking in its traces.
Surrounding the ruined carriage were six ragged, heavily armed bandits. They had a Nord family completely cornered against the cliff wall, a husband desperately holding a simple iron dagger, his wife shielding two crying children behind her skirts.
"Drop the coin purse and step away from the woman, or I gut you and take them both!" the bandit leader, a massive Orc in mismatched steel armor, roared at the father.
Aerion did not issue a verbal command. He simply acted.
In a single, fluid motion that defied the heavy steel plates he wore, Aerion slipped the massive Ebony Bow from his shoulder.
He drew a black fletched ebony arrow from the quiver at his waist, nocked it to the string, and pulled back. The draw weight of the ebony bow was staggering, requiring the raw strength of a troll to pull, but Aerion's augmented transmigrator muscles held the tension effortlessly.
Jenassa, recognizing the immediate tactical shift, mirrored his actions flawlessly, dropping from her horse and raising her own hunting bow.
THWACK.
The ebony arrow left Aerion's string with a sound like a cracking whip. It crossed the hundred yard distance in a fraction of a second. It struck the bandit leader directly in the side of the head, the razor sharp volcanic glass punching clean through the Orc's iron helmet and dropping his massive, lifeless body instantly into the dirt.
Before the bandit's corpse had even hit the ground, Jenassa released her string. Her arrow caught a second bandit directly in the throat, sending the man tumbling backward with a choked gurgle.
"Ambush!" one of the surviving bandits screamed, wildly looking up the road.
Lydia didn't bother with archery. She spurred her horse forward a few paces before leaping cleanly from the saddle while it was still moving. She hit the rocky ground running, drawing her new ebony sword and raising her ebony shield, charging directly into the remaining four bandits with a terrifying, primal roar.
Aerion swung his leg over Revan's saddle and dropped to the ground. He slung the bow back over his shoulder and reached over his back. His steel clad fingers wrapped around the long wrapped hilt of the Ebony Greatsword.
With a metallic shhhk, the massive blade cleared the scabbard.
Aerion didn't sprint; he moved with the terrifying, inevitable speed of a flowing river. He closed the distance just as Lydia slammed her heavy shield into the face of a charging bandit, shattering the man's nose and sending him sprawling.
A bandit wielding a heavy iron warhammer turned his attention to the masked giant approaching him. He let out a desperate yell and swung the hammer in a wide, crushing arc aimed at Aerion's ribs.
Aerion didn't dodge. He brought the heavy flat of the ebony greatsword up, catching the iron hammer in a dead block. The sheer, immovable physical strength radiating from the High Elf stopped the hammer cold, the iron haft groaning under the kinetic stress.
Before the bandit could recoil, Aerion violently twisted his wrists, sliding the razor sharp edge of the greatsword down the handle of the hammer and cleanly severing three of the bandit's fingers. As the man dropped his weapon with a shriek of agony, Aerion reversed the momentum, bringing the heavy ebony blade around in a brutal, horizontal cleave.
The sword cut effortlessly through the bandit's boiled leather armor, biting deep into his chest cavity and dropping him instantly.
Within fifteen seconds, the ambush was entirely broken. The six bandits lay dead in the dirt, their blood staining the light dusting of snow on the road.
Lydia flicked the blood from her ebony blade, her breathing barely elevated, while Jenassa emerged from the rocks, calmly retrieving her arrows.
The Nord family was frozen in absolute terror, staring at the towering, terrifying, faceless warlord standing over the bodies of their attackers. The father, his hands trembling violently, slowly lowered his rusted iron dagger.
"By... by the Gods..." the father stammered, his eyes wide. He hastily reached into his tunic, pulling out a small, meager leather pouch that jingled faintly with coins. He took a hesitant step forward, holding it out with shaking hands. "Thank you. Thank you, traveler. Please... it isn't much, but it's all the septims we have. Take it as our thanks."
Aerion looked down at the terrified man, the bronze mask entirely unreadable.
Slowly, Aerion raised a heavy, steel clad hand and gently pushed the man's arm back toward his chest.
"Keep your coin, traveler," Aerion spoke, his metallic, resonant voice surprisingly gentle. "You will need it to repair your carriage and secure passage to the next settlement. See to your family. The road is clear."
The man stared at him in shock, tears of sheer relief welling in his eyes as he clutched his family's meager life savings back to his chest. "Bless you. Bless you and your companions."
Aerion didn't linger for praise. He turned away from the family, walking over to the corpse of the Orc leader. With a sharp, practiced tug, he pulled the pristine ebony arrow free from the iron helmet. He wiped the blood off on the Orc's tunic and slid the valuable projectile back into the quiver at his waist. Volcanic glass was too precious to leave buried in the skull of a highwayman.
"Mount up," Aerion ordered his retainers. "We are losing daylight."
They left the family to right their carriage, resuming their march north.
As they climbed higher into the mountain passes, the environment completely surrendered to the harsh reality of the northern climate. The light dusting of snow turned into heavy, knee deep drifts. The biting wind howled through the crags, carrying blinding flurries of ice. The transition from the warm summer like plains of Whiterun to the brutal, unforgiving winter of the northern coast was absolute.
By the time the ancient, crumbling stone ruins of Winterhold finally appeared through the driving snow, the afternoon was already bleeding into the dark, shadowy hues of early evening.
The city was a desolate, freezing ghost town. Half the buildings were collapsed shells, destroyed by the Great Collapse nearly a century prior. The few surviving structures huddled together against the relentless wind, their windows glowing with meager candlelight.
Aerion guided Revan toward the only sign of life in the ruined city, The Frozen Hearth inn.
They dismounted, tying their exhausted, shivering horses to the sturdy wooden posts beneath the partial shelter of the inn's overhanging roof.
Aerion turned to his retainers, the freezing wind whipping at the heavy bear fur lining his armor.
"Lydia, Jenassa," Aerion commanded, his voice cutting clearly through the howling gale. He reached into his system inventory, withdrawing a small pouch of coins. He handed it directly to Jenassa.
"Here are one hundred septims," Aerion instructed. "Go inside. Rent two rooms for the next several days. Get a hot meal, warm yourselves by the fire, and rest. But more importantly... keep your ears open. This inn is the only gathering place for travelers, merchants, and disgruntled locals for miles. Listen to the drunks, listen to the innkeeper. I want to know everything that is happening in this hold."
"Consider it done, Patron," Jenassa nodded, her sharp eyes gleaming with professional focus as she pocketed the coin. "We will gather the whispers."
"I shall return for you shortly," Aerion promised.
He left the two women to the warmth of the tavern and turned his back on the ruined city. He walked alone toward the sheer, terrifying precipice of the cliffs, where the massive, ancient stone bridge stretched out over the roaring, ice-m choked Sea of Ghosts, leading to the towering spires of the College of Winterhold.
The bridge was a treacherous crossing. The stone was cracked and broken, slick with black ice, and the freezing wind threatened to hurl anyone careless enough to lose their footing directly into the abyss below.
Aerion marched across the span, the heavy steel of his Nordic boots gripping the ice with flawless, augmented stability.
As he approached the massive iron gates of the College courtyard, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the flanking stone braziers.
Faralda, the High Elf master of Destruction magic, stood barring the path. She wore heavy, fur lined College robes, her hands already glowing with the crackling, lethal energy of a dual cast lightning spell. The appearance of a towering, heavily armed warlord wearing the mask of a dead god marching up to her gates had instantly triggered her combat instincts.
"Halt right there!" Faralda ordered sharply, the lightning illuminating her tense, beautiful features. "State your business with the College, warrior, or you will find the bridge back vastly more difficult to cross."
Aerion stopped a few paces away. He didn't reach for his greatsword. Instead, he reached up and pulled the heavy bronze mask from his face, allowing the freezing wind to catch his golden hair.
"Peace, Faralda," Aerion smiled warmly, the metallic distortion gone from his voice. "It is only I."
Faralda's eyes went wide, the crackling lightning instantly winking out of existence as she dropped her hands in pure shock.
"Aerion?" Faralda gasped, stepping forward and looking him up and down with utter bewilderment. "By the Eight... I didn't recognize you. What in the name of Magnus are you wearing? The last time you walked through these gates, you were clad in the finest silk in the province. Now you look like a raider from Atmora."
"A man must expand his horizons, Faralda," Aerion chuckled, walking toward the gates. "My recent travels have required a more... robust approach to conflict resolution. I have spent the last few weeks heavily training my martial disciplines and melee combat skills."
Faralda shook her head, a bemused, slightly impressed smile touching her lips as she pulled the heavy iron gates open for him.
"Well, you certainly look the part of a warlord," Faralda noted, stepping aside. "Welcome back to the College, Aerion. You have been gone for quite some time. The Arch-Mage has asked after your return more than once."
"I shall have much to report to him," Aerion nodded gracefully. "My thanks, Faralda. Keep warm."
He stepped past her, entering the sprawling, circular courtyard of the College.
The courtyard was bustling with unusual activity despite the freezing weather. Standing near the central statue of Shalidor was Tolfdir, the elderly, absent minded master of Alteration magic. Gathered around him, shivering in their standard College robes and clutching staves, were the three newest apprentices, Brelyna Maryon, the nervous Dark Elf. Onmund, the skeptical Nord. And J'zargo, the supremely arrogant Khajiit.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 710/710 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