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The fox wagged its tail, apparently in full agreement. Aerion stood, dusted off his peasant clothes, and began the walk toward Whiterun, his mind already spinning intricate webs of future influence. The Dragonborn wouldn't know what hit them.
The Riverwood main street was little more than a dirt path winding between the scattering of wooden homes and businesses. Aerion, now acutely aware of his unnaturally slender frame and the faint glow in his eyes, walked with what he hoped was casual confidence.
It was a lie. Every fiber of his being screamed for the anonymity of his old life, where the biggest public scrutiny he faced was from his cat judging his snack choices. Here, he was a High Elf, and judging by the subtle shifts in conversation and the narrowed eyes, that wasn't exactly a golden ticket in Skyrim.
A burly Nord woman, wiping down a rough-hewn table outside the Sleeping Giant Inn, paused to watch him with a suspicious glare. Two grizzled hunters outside the general store muttered to each other, their gazes lingering on his pointed ears.
Even a scrawny dog, usually drawn to his inexplicable Animal Affinity, gave a tentative sniff before retreating to cower behind a barrel. Except for the fox, he thought, glancing down. His new furry companion trotted diligently beside him, its tail giving a happy, rhythmic swish.
"Well, this is going to be fun," Aerion muttered under his breath, forcing a placid expression. He was used to being invisible, a digital phantom. Now, every step felt like a performance.
He could practically hear the collective sigh of suspicion. Welcome to Tamriel, where everyone assumes you're either a Thalmor agent or planning to steal their sweet rolls.
He passed the mill, the faint scent of fresh cut lumber a mundane comfort in this bewildering new reality. Then, the stone bridge spanning the rushing river came into view. It was a simple, sturdy arch, well worn by countless footsteps.
As he stepped onto the ancient stones, a sudden, searing pain lanced through his skull. It wasn't physical, it was a deluge of fractured images, like static ridden memories trying to coalesce.
A sterile, clinical room. Whispers. A face, severe and unyielding. The sting of magic. A cold, echoing chamber. Chains. The faint, metallic tang of his own blood.
A voice, haughty and dismissive, "Insurbodinate and lazy. A waste of your potential. You shame the Dominion, Aerion. Consider yourself fortunate we merely cripple you of your skills and banish you. Let Skyrim humble you, to death, if it can." A shimmering portal, and the sickening lurch of forced displacement.
The headache intensified, pressing behind his eyes. He stumbled, gripping the stone railing, his knuckles white. The memories weren't clear, not yet, but the feeling was undeniable, cold, humiliation, a deep seated resentment, and the bitter taste of betrayal.
This wasn't just his transmigration, it was the forced exile of the original Aerion, a High Elf who had clearly ruffled the wrong feathers in the Aldmeri Dominion.
The fox at his side, sensing his distress, let out a small, worried "Yip!" It nudged his leg, its soft fur a grounding presence.
Aerion took a shaky breath, forcing the images back into the murky depths of his mind. "I'm fine, little furball," he managed, shaking his head. "Just a... headache. Too much sun." He pushed off the railing, resuming his walk.
The pain slowly receded, leaving behind a dull throb and a chilling understanding. He wasn't just Alex in a High Elf body, he was Aerion, a banished Altmer, with a history he barely understood but could clearly feel. This added a new layer to his ambition.
This wasn't just about controlling the Dragonborn for convenience anymore, it was about asserting himself, showing the world and, perhaps the ghosts of his former Thalmor superiors, that he would rise.
He crossed the bridge, the Riverwood sign now behind him, and the path to Whiterun stretched out ahead. It was a well trodden route, carved through hills dotted with pine forests and rocky outcrops.
The air grew crisper, the sounds of Riverwood fading into the background. His newfound determination was a shield against the unsettling flashes of memory. He needed to get to Whiterun, then get on a carriage, head to Solitude to the Imperials.
The sooner he started his infiltration, the better.
He'd been walking for what felt like an hour, the rhythmic crunch of his boots on the dirt path almost meditative, when he heard them. Voices, rough and guttural, carried on the wind.
"See anything yet, you lazy Nord?"
"Nah, just rocks. And more rocks. Why do we always get stuck on this road?"
"Quiet, both of you! I thought I saw somethin' shiny over that ridge."
Bandits. Three of them, judging by the distinct voices. Aerion's stomach did a nervous flip. He'd killed thousands of them in Skyrim, but always with a keyboard and mouse, always with the option to reload. This was different. This was real.
He quickly assessed his options. Running was possible, but he was new to this body, unfamiliar with its true stamina limits, and they might have bows. Stealth was out, the path was too open. Combat it was.
He gripped the rusty iron dagger in his hand that he take out from his inventory, a flimsy comfort. His eyes darted to his system interface.
[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 100/100 Stamina: 100/100 Magicka: 100/100 Level: 1 Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL) Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL) Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL) Destruction (Fire) (Level 1) & (Lightning) (Level 1)
His magic. That was his best bet. He had the power. He just had to use it. The problem wasn't the theory of fighting, it was the practice. And the small, unexpected mental hurdle of actively trying to kill another human or well humanoids being since its not just human. He'd never even been in a fistfight before in his former life.
Three figures emerged from behind a cluster of boulders, a hulking Nord wielding a two handed iron battleaxe, a lithe Khajiit with a steel dagger glinting in its paw, and a scowling Orc clutching a heavy iron mace. Classic bandit diversity.
"Well, well, what have we here?" the Nord sneered, his voice booming. "A fancy pants elf, all alone. Did you get lost on your way back to your Thalmor buddies?"
Aerion took a deep breath. His heart hammered against his ribs. He forced himself to remember his game strategy, crowd control and then focus fire.
"I'm not looking for trouble," Aerion said, his voice surprisingly steady, though his hand trembled slightly on the dagger hilt. He needed to buy a second.
"Too bad, elf," the Khajiit hissed, "trouble found you. Hand over your coin, and maybe we'll let you keep your fancy ears."
The Orc grunted, already moving to flank him. Aerion's eyes flickered to the side. The Khajiit was fast, the Nord was strong, and the Orc was a tank.
"Alright," Aerion muttered, dropping the dagger. He needed both hands free. "Let's do this."
He thrust his left hand forward, palm open [Destruction (Fire) (Level 1)]. A small spurt of flame shot out, pathetic against the approaching Nord. But he remembered his Fast Magic Mastery Skill.
He poured Magicka into it, pushing the limits. The flame wavered, then surged. In a second, it intensified, becoming a more robust, flickering stream. He adjusted his aim, sweeping the flame across the Nord's face.
The Nord roared, clutching his face, the smell of singed hair filling the air. He stumbled back, momentarily blinded. [Destruction (Fire) skill increased to Level 3!] a notification flashed. Already? This is ridiculous!
Before the Orc or Khajiit could react, Aerion pivoted, thrusting his right hand out. [Destruction (Lightning) (Level 1)]. A thin, blue bolt of electricity crackled from his fingertips, striking the Khajiit square in the chest.
The Khajiit yelped, stiffening for a fraction of a second, the current dancing across its fur. It wasn't enough to drop it, but it disrupted its charge. [Destruction (Lightning) skill increased to Level 3!] Another notification.
He was barely holding them off, but the rapid leveling was incredible. He needed to keep moving, keep striking.
The Nord, shaking off the fire, lunged with his axe. Aerion sidestepped, a move born more from instinct than conscious thought, barely avoiding the sweeping blade.
The air hummed with latent magic. He didn't have time to aim. He flung another burst of fire, this time a wider cone, trying to catch both the Orc and the Khajiit who were converging.
The Orc grunted as fire licked his crude armor, his heavy mace still coming. The Khajiit, surprisingly resilient, shook off the lightning and lunged with its dagger, aiming for his midsection.
This is it. This is where I die. Again. The thought flashed through his mind, but it wasn't debilitating. He was too busy fighting.
He needed space. His eyes darted to the fox, which had wisely retreated a safe distance but was still watching intently.
Aerion spun, dropping low, and unleashed another lightning bolt, a slightly thicker stream now, catching the Orc in the knee. The Orc roared, his leg buckling.
[Destruction (Lightning) skill increased to Level 6!]
The Khajiit was on him. Aerion felt a sharp pain as its dagger grazed his arm. Health: 95/100. He recoiled, shouting, "Get away from me, you overgrown housecat!"
He thrust both hands forward, pouring his rapidly regenerating Magicka into a concentrated burst of fire and lightning. The spells, now several levels higher than when he started, were noticeably more potent.
The combined force slammed into the Khajiit, throwing it back. It hit the ground with a sickening thud, its limbs twitching once before going still.
Aerion stared. He had done it. He had killed someone. Not a nameless NPC with a health bar, but a living being. A wave of nausea washed over him, a cold, heavy sensation in his chest. His breath hitched. This was brutal. This was… real.
But then, the Nord roared, clutching his axe, fury in his eyes. The Orc was slowly picking himself up, limping, but still a threat.
There was no time for existential crises. This wasn't a game where he could pause. This was life or death. The mental hurdle, the brief moment of humanity, was swiftly overridden by the primal need to survive.
He suppressed the nausea. Kill or be killed, Aerion. The Altmer part of him, the cold, pragmatic logic of his original inhabitant, seemed to whisper in his mind. These are threats. Eliminate them.
He focused. His Magicka, boosted by his racial passive and the Fast Magic Mastery, was already recovering rapidly. He targeted the Nord. The big lug was still reeling from the initial fire. Aerion channeled a continuous stream of flames, directing it at the Nord's chest.
The Nord roared, dropping his axe, his coarse tunic catching fire. He screamed, thrashing, then fell, rolling on the ground trying to put out the flames. Aerion didn't stop. He held the stream, cold resolve hardening his face. The Nord's screams slowly faded. He wasn't moving.
Two down. Only the Orc remained. The Orc, clutching his mace, looked at his fallen comrades, then at the unnaturally calm High Elf. A flicker of fear, or perhaps confusion, crossed his brutish face. He charged, a desperate, guttural cry.
Aerion met the charge with a concentrated blast of lightning from both hands. The bolts were thick now, crackling with raw power. They slammed into the Orc, lifting him off his feet, his body convulsing violently as the electricity coursed through him.
He screamed, a high pitched, inhuman sound, before falling to the ground, twitching. The mace clattered away. [Destruction (Fire) skill increased to Level 15!] [Destruction (Lightning) skill increased to Level 17!]
As the Orc's body went still, a barrage of notifications popped up, confirming his rapid progression.
[LEVEL UP! You are now Level 2!]
[LEVEL UP! You are now Level 3!]
[LEVEL UP! You are now Level 4!]
[You have 3 Attribute Points to spend!]
Aerion stood over the twitching Orc, panting. His chest heaved. He barely had a scratch, thanks to the sheer offensive power, but the adrenaline crashed, leaving him weak. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. He had killed three people. They were bandits, yes, but they were still people.
The fox trotted up, nudging his hand. Aerion slowly opened his eyes, looking at his shaking hands. The momentary revulsion faded, replaced by something colder. This was a brutal world. Sentimentality would get him killed. He had to adapt. And he had adapted, quickly. The mental hurdle of killing had been there, for a fleeting moment, but survival had stomped it down. It was a good thing. A necessary thing.
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[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 95/100 Stamina: 100/100 Magicka: 150/150 Level: 1 ➝ 4
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), & Destruction (Fire/Lightning) (Level 15/17)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Small Pouch = 300 Septims
1x Iron Dagger
Weight: 1 KG / 300 KG