If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Once the network blanketed the city, Aerion issued a single, simple, directive to several of the critters to be spread across the entire web. "Observe the Jarl's longhouse. Listen for the word 'Stormcloak'. Watch the roads. Do not attack. Do not interfere. Simply watch, and report." With his silent, invisible intelligence agency perfectly deployed, Aerion turned and walked back to the College. He returned to his quarters, finally removed the heavy Nordic Carved plates, and allowed himself to sleep.
The following morning, the cold, pale light of the northern sun filtered through the small, frosted window of his room.
Aerion opened his eyes.
Sitting on the stone floor, arranged in a neat, semi circle around the foot of his bed, were six mice.
A normal person would have seen a severe pest problem. Aerion saw his morning intelligence briefing.
He sat up, crossing his legs on the bed, and focused his mind.
The mice began to communicate. To a layman, it was just a series of random, high pitched squeaks, twitching whiskers, and rapid, darting movements. But through the filter of Animal Affinity, the sounds and behaviors translated into clear, conceptual data in Aerion's transmigrator mind.
It was a slightly absurd, almost comical scene—a towering High Elf sitting in absolute, serious silence while a group of rodents delivered a military report. But the information they were providing was invaluable.
The first mouse, communicating the observations from the Jarl's longhouse, painted a grim picture of the local politics.
Winterhold was bleeding out.
Jarl Korir was desperate. Ulfric Stormcloak clearly did not place any significant strategic or economic value on the ruined city, especially compared to powerhouses like Riften or Dawnstar. To compensate for this perceived slight, and to prove his loyalty to the rebellion cause, Korir was aggressively encouraging, and in some cases, silently coercing, the able bodied men and women of Winterhold to travel east and join the Stormcloak army.
But this blind loyalty was crippling his own city.
The mice reported the heavy, frustrated whispers of the townsfolk in the inn and the general store. Winterhold already had a microscopic population and a shattered economy. By sending away the hunters, the craftsmen, and the strong laborers to die in Ulfric's war, everyday survival was becoming exponentially more difficult. There were fewer people to hunt for food, repair the freezing homes, or maintain what little trade existed.
The resentment was growing. The people were angry at their Jarl for sacrificing their livelihood for a war that ignored them, though they were too terrified of the guards to voice their complaints loudly.
Aerion absorbed the data, his strategic mind immediately identifying the fracture.
'A dissatisfied, starving population is a massive political vulnerability,' Aerion calculated coldly. 'If the Empire could guarantee them food and security... Winterhold would turn on Ulfric in a heartbeat. But it must be handled delicately, without exposing Imperial involvement.'
The second part of the intelligence, delivered by the ravens that had scouted the southern borders, was significantly more alarming.
A large military force had made camp just outside Winterhold's official territory, near the snowy borders of the Pale and Whiterun hold.
The birds couldn't provide exact logistical numbers, but the size of the camp, the number of fires, and the volume of movement suggested a force numbering in the thousands. It was a massive Stormcloak army.
Crucially, they were not marching. They were in stationary mode, digging in and waiting. Their positioning was highly aggressive, they were perfectly situated to surge south toward Whiterun, or cut west toward the center of Skyrim at a moment's notice.
Aerion dismissed the mice with a mental wave, allowing them to scurry back into the walls.
He stood up, walking over to the small washbasin. He splashed freezing water on his face, his mind rapidly assembling the disparate pieces of the puzzle.
Winterhold was economically hollow and politically fragile. Its Jarl was actively sabotaging his own workforce. A massive, idle Stormcloak army was parked ominously on the southern border.
And Aerion had only been in the city for a single night.
He dried his face with a towel, looking at his own golden eyes in the cracked mirror. He realized that General Tullius's assignment was vastly more critical than simply counting tents in the snow. Winterhold was not a dead city, it was a highly volatile pressure point in the civil war.
He had a rare, unprecedented opportunity to understand the exact mechanics of the Stormcloak strategy before the Legion even realized the board was set.
But he could not act yet.
Aerion reached for his heavy steel armor. He needed more evidence. He needed to personally confirm the whispers, and he needed to solidify his cover as a loyal, heavily armored scholar of the College. His promotion ceremony was in a few hours. The Eye of Magnus was safely locked in his soul.
Aerion secured the straps of the Nordic Carved cuirass, the heavy steel plates locking into place with a satisfying, familiar thud. He chose not to wear the bronze mask of Krosis today. Within the walls of the College, he needed to be the aristocratic, approachable scholar, not the terrifying warlord of the crypts.
He stepped out of his small, circular room in the Hall of Attainment, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.
As he turned down the stone corridor, he immediately spotted J'zargo, Onmund, and Brelyna standing in a tight group near the stairwell. They were speaking in hushed, hurried tones, but the moment they heard the heavy footfalls of his steel boots, they all instantly straightened their posture and turned toward him.
Brelyna Maryon, usually the most hesitant of the three, took a determined step forward. Onmund and J'zargo quickly flanked her. They offered him deep, formal bows, completely abandoning the casual camaraderie they usually shared with their peers.
"Good morning, Adept Aerion," Brelyna greeted him respectfully.
Aerion paused, a slight, amused smile touching his lips. He returned the greeting with a graceful nod, but his golden eyes swept over the trio. They were too stiff, too coordinated.
"Good morning to you all," Aerion replied smoothly. "Though, given your rigid posture and the fact that you are standing exactly in my path to the courtyard, I suspect you have been waiting for me. Is there something you require?"
Brelyna let out a small, nervous chuckle, her dark elven features flushing slightly.
"You are rather perceptive, Aerion," Brelyna remarked, adjusting her robes. "Perhaps that same quality is part of the reason you have advanced through the College's curriculum so quickly."
Aerion dismissed the compliment with a casual wave of his gauntleted hand.
"I appreciate the sentiment, Brelyna, but there is no great mystery to my advancement," Aerion answered modestly. "I simply possess significantly more practical experience than the three of you. I have spent vastly more time outside the safety of these walls, applying theory to reality. That friction accelerates learning."
J'zargo's ears perked up, his tufted tail swishing behind him. The Khajiit stepped forward, clearly deciding it was time to get to the point.
"Yes, exactly! Practical experience!" J'zargo exclaimed, his eyes gleaming with ambition. "That is precisely why J'zargo and his friends are here. We wish to ask you to teach us. But more importantly... we wish to know if you would allow us to accompany you on some of your adventures outside the College. We need to gain practical experience, just as you have."
Aerion raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by the bold request.
"Have you considered your scheduled classes?" Aerion asked, crossing his arms. "The Arcaneum contains some of the most complete, comprehensively documented magical texts in all of Skyrim. Master Urag can provide you with decades of theoretical knowledge."
"Books and lectures are no longer enough," Onmund argued, his Nord stubbornness bleeding through his usual skepticism. He frowned, gesturing vaguely toward the walls of the College. "We need practical experience, Aerion. We need to know what it feels like to cast spells under actual pressure. We want to travel beyond the bridge, face real, breathing dangers, and learn how our magic behaves when the environment isn't perfectly controlled by a Master."
"The College has become incredibly cautious over the years," Brelyna added quietly, her voice laced with frustration. "Our instructors naturally want to protect us from dangerous experiments. The history of the Great Collapse still hangs over Winterhold, and they are terrified of another catastrophe. That caution is entirely understandable... but for young mages hungry to truly learn, it feels like we are suffocating."
Aerion stood silently in the corridor, studying the three apprentices.
Internally, his strategic mind began to rapidly calculate the variables.
'An opportunity,' Aerion realized, a cold, calculating thrill running through his transmigrator mind.
With the Eye of Magnus now permanently synchronized to his soul, granting him infinite Magicka and absolute control over external arcane forces, he possessed capabilities vastly beyond what any ordinary College instructor could ever hope to provide. He could train these three novices with terrifying efficiency. He could push them to their absolute limits, knowing he could instantly shield or heal them with a single thought if a lesson went wrong.
More importantly, if J'zargo, Onmund, and Brelyna became highly powerful, combat hardened mages under his direct guidance, they would inevitably become fiercely loyal to him. They would evolve from simple classmates into deeply reliable allies, forming the foundational magical core of his growing, province wide circle of influence.
'Having a dedicated squad of heavily trained battlemages at my disposal can only be useful,' Aerion thought pragmatically.
However, he knew better than to simply hand them what they wanted without establishing authority and legitimacy. If he just dragged three novices out into the tundra and one of them broke an ankle, the senior faculty would have his head.
"I am willing to consider taking you into the field," Aerion finally spoke, his voice carrying a heavy, uncompromising authority. "But only under one absolute condition."
The three apprentices leaned forward eagerly.
"You must obtain written, explicit permission for an independent study excursion," Aerion dictated, holding up three fingers. "I require a signed authorization from Master Tolfdir, a signed authorization from Headmistress Mirabelle Ervine, and a final, authorizing signature from Arch-Mage Savos Aren himself."
The eager expressions instantly vanished.
"All three?" J'zargo groaned loudly, his ears drooping in profound misery. "J'zargo must ask the Arch-Mage for a permission slip? The bureaucracy of this College is a heavier burden than the snow!"
"It is an immense amount of parchment to chase down," Onmund grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.
"But it may be our only realistic chance to receive the sort of practical instruction we actually need," Brelyna reasoned, her determination hardening. She looked at Aerion and nodded firmly. "We will obtain the signatures. You have our word."
"You have exactly two days to acquire them," Aerion challenged smoothly. "If you succeed, pack your travel gear. I will leave you to your bureaucracy."
Aerion stepped past the groaning apprentices, making his way down to the courtyard.
As he moved through the various halls of the College throughout the morning, Aerion made a highly deliberate, calculated effort to socialize.
He didn't sequester himself in the Arcaneum or hide in his quarters. He walked through the Hall of Countenance, stopping to speak casually with the novices practicing their basic wards. He patiently answered questions about magicka flow and offered subtle, highly useful bits of advice on optimizing their casting stances. He smiled, he listened, and he made himself entirely approachable.
He wanted to leave a lasting, deeply positive impression on the student body. More specifically, he wanted them to view him as the absolute antithesis of Ancano.
He was subtly establishing himself as a powerful mage who genuinely cared about the students and their academic development, rather than a political operative who viewed the College merely as a throne to exert superiority. He wanted his growing reputation to feel entirely organic, built on respect rather than fear.
It was during one of these casual conversations, while Aerion was helping a young Breton correct her grip on a frost spell in the courtyard, that the Thalmor finally made his move.
"Adept Aerion."
The voice was cold, clipped, and dripping with inherent, racial superiority.
Aerion turned slowly. Ancano was standing a few paces away, his hands clasped behind the back of his pristine Thalmor robes. His sharp, angular features were set in a mask of haughty disdain.
"I require a private word with you," Ancano demanded, not asking.
Aerion offered the Breton novice a polite nod, excusing himself, and turned back to the Thalmor agent. He did not look intimidated.
"Lead the way, Ancano," Aerion accepted without a moment's hesitation.
Ancano scowled slightly at the lack of deference but turned on his heel. He led Aerion out of the bustling courtyard and into the quiet, shadowed alcoves beneath the bridge leading to the Arcaneum, far from prying eyes and listening ears.
The moment they were alone, Ancano dropped the thin veneer of diplomatic politeness.
"I do not understand what elaborate fiction you have spun to make so many people in this College respect you," Ancano hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "But you are a fool if you think I have not been paying attention to your movements."
Ancano took a step closer, attempting to use his height to intimidate the armored High Elf.
"Do not assume that your sudden, inexplicable rise in status protects you from my scrutiny," Ancano warned, jabbing a finger toward Aerion's chest plate. "I know exactly where you were last night. I know you went into the deep crypts of Saarthal with Tolfdir."
Aerion remained perfectly still, his golden eyes cold and unblinking.
"As the official representative of the Aldmeri Dominion, and the primary consultant to the Arch-Mage," Ancano continued, his irritation bleeding through his arrogance, "I should have been immediately informed of any expedition into a sealed Nordic ruin. Your little secret excursions are undermining my position here."
Aerion did not flinch. He did not offer excuses.
"I recognize the authority of Arch-Mage Savos Aren," Aerion stated calmly, his voice smooth as glass but hard as diamond. "I recognize the authority of Headmistress Mirabelle Ervine, and the Master Professors of this institution."
Aerion tilted his head slightly, looking down his nose at the Thalmor agent.
"I do not, however, recognize the authority of the Thalmor within these walls simply because you happen to wear their robes," Aerion continued, his tone turning razor sharp. "You are a guest here, Ancano. And you have done absolutely nothing to earn my respect, nor my reports."
The blatant, unapologetic defiance struck Ancano like a physical blow. The Thalmor's face flushed with sudden, furious anger. His hands twitched at his sides, his pride utterly shattered by the realization that this 'Adept' did not fear him in the slightest.
Ancano took a sudden, aggressive step forward, his hands beginning to glow with a threatening spark of magicka, fully intending to physically intimidate Aerion into submission.
Aerion moved first.
He didn't draw his greatsword. He simply reached out with blinding speed and clamped his heavy steel gauntlet around Ancano's wrist, arresting the Thalmor's movement instantly.
The moment physical contact was established, Aerion did not cast a conventional spell. He engaged the Eye of Magnus.
He wanted to test the terrifying limits of his new, powerful authority over magical energy.
Instead of pushing magicka outward, Aerion pulled. He extended his vast, newly acquired perceptual control directly into Ancano's body. He located the Thalmor's internal magicka reservoir, the very core of his magical identity, and simply clamped down on the flow.
"Unhand me, you insolent—!" Ancano snarled, trying to rip his arm away.
And then, the Thalmor's voice abruptly cut off.
Ancano gasped, his eyes going wide with sudden, absolute terror.
The magicka within his body suddenly behaved entirely incorrectly. He felt the familiar, comforting flow of energy in his veins weaken, twist violently, and then simply... vanish. It wasn't drained; it was completely severed. The pathway between his mind and his magic was blocked by an immovable, invisible wall.
A deep, sickening wave of phantom pain spread through Ancano's chest as his highly attuned Altmer biology struggled to comprehend the sudden, violent absence of something that had been a fundamental part of his existence since birth. He was entirely, completely magically castrated.
Aerion felt the result instantly through the physical connection.
'It worked,' Aerion realized, a jolt of genuine surprise flashing through his mind, though his face remained perfectly composed. 'I completely severed his connection to his own pool.'
He recognized immediately how profoundly dangerous this ability was. Permanently disabling another master mage with a simple touch, without uttering a single incantation or casting a visible spell, was a power that would terrify even the most arrogant warlords of Tamriel.
Ancano began to hyperventilate, his face pale and sweating. He looked at his own hand, trying desperately to summon even a spark of light, but there was nothing. Just cold, empty silence.
"What... what did you do?!" Ancano demanded, his voice cracking with sheer, frantic panic. "What have you done to me?!"
Aerion simply released the Thalmor's wrist.
He didn't boast. He didn't offer a villainous monologue. He didn't even smile.
Aerion simply turned his back on the terrified, powerless Thalmor and walked away, his heavy steel boots echoing calmly on the stone. He left Ancano standing alone in the shadows, choking on his own sudden, inexplicable vulnerability.
Several hours later, the tension in the College had shifted from the shadows to the grand stage.
The Hall of the Elements was packed. The massive circular chamber, usually reserved for quiet study or Arch-Mage addresses, was filled with novices, apprentices, and senior scholars. They stood in hushed anticipation around the perimeter of the central magical well.
At the front of the hall, standing in a semi circle of authority, were the Master Professors, Tolfdir, Faralda, Phinis Gestor, Colette Marence, and Drevis Neloren. Standing in the absolute center, wearing his formal Arch-Mage robes, was Savos Aren.
Aerion stood before them, having removed his Nordic Carved armor, dressed once again in the elegant, albeit slightly battered, robes of a scholar.
This was his promotion ceremony.
"Adept Aerion," Savos Aren's voice echoed clearly through the vast hall. "You stand before the faculty of the College of Winterhold to prove that your mastery of the arcane arts has transcended the boundaries of a student. You are required to demonstrate Expert level proficiency."
Savos gestured to the open space in the center of the hall. "The floor is yours."
Aerion stepped forward. He did not intend to simply throw a fireball and call it a day. He intended to put on a flawless, undeniable display of absolute mastery.
He began with Destruction, the school that demanded raw power.
Aerion raised his hand and unleashed an Incinerate spell. He didn't just fire it into the wall, he conjured the massive, superheated spear of pure fire and held it suspended perfectly in the air above the magical well, demonstrating terrifying raw offensive power and absolute, unwavering precision before harmlessly dissipating it into smoke.
He transitioned seamlessly to Illusion.
With a subtle wave of his hand, he cast Invisibility upon himself, vanishing completely from the naked eye and magical detection, before instantly reappearing across the room and casting a localized Pacify aura that washed over the front row of students, demonstrating incredible finesse and emotional control over the environment.
For Alteration, he did not use a simple flesh spell. He cast Paralyze on a wooden practice dummy that Tolfdir had provided, instantly freezing the target in time and space, proving his absolute command over physical manipulation and defense.
He then raised both hands toward the ceiling for Conjuration.
The air tore open with a violent purple flash. A towering, heavily armored Dremora Lord stepped out of the void, raising its flaming greatsword with a terrifying roar. The novices in the crowd gasped and stepped back, but Aerion simply snapped his fingers.
The Dremora instantly dropped to one knee, bowing its head in absolute, unquestioning submission to its summoner, revealing his flawless ability to bind and control lethal magical entities. He banished it with a thought.
Finally, he demonstrated Restoration.
He walked over to a small, potted mountain flower that Colette Marence had deliberately crushed. He hovered his hand over the broken stem and cast Close Wounds. The powerful, radiant golden light washed over the plant, not only repairing the broken stem but instantly forcing the flower into full, vibrant bloom, demonstrating incredible precision, discipline, and practical healing power.
The demonstration was flawless. The Master Professors exchanged deeply impressed glances, recognizing immediately that Aerion was not merely capable of using powerful spells, his control, his casting speed, and his efficiency were unusually refined.
Savos Aren stepped forward, a proud smile on his face.
"Aerion," Savos proclaimed, his voice ringing with finality. "By the unanimous consent of the Master Professors, I formally promote you to the rank of Expert Mage. You have officially graduated from the student hierarchy. You are now a peer of the College."
The hall erupted into genuine, enthusiastic applause.
Headmistress Mirabelle Ervine stepped forward, carrying a neatly folded bundle of heavy, intricately woven fabric. She presented Aerion with a pristine set of Expert Destruction Robes and a matching Expert Mage Hood, the official, highly respected symbols of his advancement.
As the formal ceremony broke into a casual reception, the students flocked to him. They offered enthusiastic congratulations. Some looked at him with genuine, deep admiration, viewing the charismatic, powerful High Elf as the absolute pinnacle of what they might eventually become if they studied hard enough.
Once the crowd thinned, Savos Aren approached him quietly.
"A moment, Expert Aerion," Savos requested, gesturing for Aerion to walk with him toward the side of the hall.
"Of course, Arch-Mage," Aerion replied, holding his new robes.
"You are becoming increasingly accomplished outside these walls, as well as within them," Savos began, his tone turning pragmatic. "With the political situation in Skyrim becoming increasingly unstable, the factual news of dragons returning to the skies, the civil war worsening, and magical threats emerging from unexpected ruins... the College requires perspective."
Savos stopped, looking at Aerion seriously.
"I wish to offer you a special advisory position, Aerion," Savos proposed. "A role not dissimilar to the one Ancano currently occupies, but one grounded in actual loyalty to Skyrim. You would effectively serve as a trusted consultant to me, alongside Mirabelle and the senior professors. Your outside perspective, your political connections in Whiterun, and your combat experience would be extremely valuable to us."
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 710/710
Stamina: 740/740
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
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), EYE OF MAGNUS (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