If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
...
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
It was an incredibly isolated waypoint, famous for being a crucial rest stop for travelers braving the road between Dawnstar and Windhelm, and infamous for being the location of several highly sensitive, lethal missions for the Dark Brotherhood. With Lupin weaving through his boots, Aerion pushed open the heavy wooden door, leaving the freezing, howling wasteland of the Pale behind as they stepped into the warm, smelling sanctuary of the inn.
The heavy, iron banded wooden door of the Nightgate Inn groaned in protest as Aerion pushed it open, fighting against the relentless, freezing wind of the Pale.
The moment they stepped over the threshold and Jenassa shoved the door shut behind them, the howling of the blizzard was instantly muffled, replaced by the dense, suffocating warmth of a roaring hearth and the loud, overlapping din of dozens of conversations.
The Nightgate Inn was a crucial, isolated sanctuary on the treacherous road between Dawnstar and Windhelm. Because of its strategic location, the tavern was packed to the rafters. It was filled with a diverse, rugged assortment of weary travelers, heavily bundled merchants nursing spiced wine, and hardened mercenaries seeking refuge from the lethal mountain frost.
The moment Aerion stepped fully into the light, the jovial atmosphere in the room suffered a massive, palpable disruption.
Conversations closest to the door died out instantly, the silence rippling outward like a stone dropped in a pond. Dozens of eyes turned to lock onto the newcomers. Aerion, with his towering height, striking golden skin, and immaculate, aristocratic dark robes, stood out like a brilliant beacon among the sea of dirty furs, rusted iron armor, and coarse linen.
He was the only High Elf in the room. And worse, he was in the Pale, a hold firmly aligned with Ulfric Stormcloak's rebellion.
The racial tension in the air was so thick it could be cut with a sword. The Nords of the eastern holds harbored a deep, simmering hatred for the Aldmeri Dominion, and by extension, anyone who looked like they might be associated with the Thalmor. Low, aggressive grumbles began to echo from the tables.
"Look at the robes on that one," a scarred man muttered into his ale.
"Knife eared spy," a woman whispered harshly to her companion. "Think he's a Justiciar?"
Despite the palpable hostility, no one immediately drew a weapon. The fear of magic, and the terrifying reputation of the Thalmor, kept the Nords glued to their benches. They didn't know if this lone Altmer was a wandering scholar or a high ranking Thalmor agent who could turn their blood to ash with a flick of his wrist.
Aerion completely ignored the venomous whispers. He projected an aura of absolute, unbothered calm, keeping his chin high as he walked with fluid grace toward the main bar counter.
Jenassa shadowed him perfectly, her hand resting casually near the hilt of her sword, her crimson eyes sweeping the room and mentally calculating the fastest way to kill everyone present if the situation deteriorated. Lupin trotted faithfully between them, oblivious to the political tension, his nose twitching at the rich smell of roasting meat.
The owner of the inn, an old, grizzled Nord named Hadring, wiped down the wooden counter with a rag. He looked at Aerion with profound, undisguised caution, his eyes darting nervously toward the grumbling patrons before settling back on the High Elf.
"Welcome to the Nightgate," Hadring greeted, his voice tight but professional. "What is it you're looking for, traveler? Food, lodging, or just mead to warm your bones?"
Aerion offered a polite, completely disarming smile. "Good evening, innkeeper. We are seeking all three. I would like two rooms for the night, and some hot food, if your kitchens are still serving."
Hadring gave a slow nod of his head, relieved that the Elf was at least speaking courteously. "Rooms will run you ten septims a piece. Twenty total. As for the food, we've got a fresh pot of hot beef stew bubbling over the fire. Hearty enough to chase the frostbite away. I can dish out two bowls, and pour you two tankards of our finest mead."
"Make it three bowls of the stew, if you please," Aerion corrected gently. "One for the fox."
Hadring paused, leaning over the counter to look down at the cinnamon fox sitting patiently beside Jenassa's boots. The innkeeper blinked in surprise, but a coin was a coin. "Right. Three stews will be twenty four coins. Two meads will be six. That's fifty septims in total."
Aerion reached into the small leather satchel on his hip, seamlessly accessing his spatial void, and withdrew exactly fifty golden septims. He placed the neat stack onto the counter. Hadring quickly counted the coins, sweeping them into his apron before handing over two heavy iron keys.
"I'll have the serving girl bring the food out shortly," Hadring said, pointing to the open floor. "You and your... friend... can take any of the free tables by the fire."
Aerion took the keys with a nod of thanks. He and Jenassa claimed a sturdy, round table near the edge of the hearth's warmth. Shortly after they sat down, a nervous looking serving girl hurried over, placing three steaming wooden bowls of thick, rich beef stew and two sloshing tankards of mead on the table before practically sprinting away.
They ate in relative silence. The stew was excellent, thick with carrots, potatoes, and tender chunks of beef, and Lupin happily devoured his portion directly from the wooden bowl placed on the floor.
As they ate, the ambient noise of the tavern slowly returned, but the tension never truly dissipated. Several patrons sitting at the adjacent tables continued to shoot dirty looks in Aerion's direction, loudly muttering slurs and trying to incite a reaction. Aerion simply focused on his meal, his immense willpower allowing him to entirely tune out the ignorant provocations.
Once they had finished their food and the warmth of the mead had settled into their bones, Aerion wiped his mouth with a cloth and gestured to Jenassa. It was time to retire.
Just as Aerion pushed his chair back to stand up, the simmering tension in the room finally boiled over.
Four Nords, three men and one heavily scarred woman, shoved their way away from a nearby table. From the mismatched array of iron armor, fur cloaks, and heavy battleaxes slung across their backs, they were clearly a band of wandering adventurers. They were also incredibly, aggressively intoxicated.
The largest of the men, his beard stained with ale, slammed his heavy hands down onto Aerion's table, making the empty wooden bowls rattle loudly.
"We don't want your kind in the Pale, Elf," the drunk Nord snarled, his breath foul. He leaned aggressively into Aerion's personal space. "You Thalmor bastards think you can just march into our lands, outlaw our gods, and drink in our taverns? Get out. Before we drag you out by your pointy ears."
The tavern fell dead silent once more. The other patrons stopped drinking, all eyes fixed on the confrontation. The non Nordic travelers, a Khajiit merchant and a pair of Breton spellswords, kept their heads firmly down, pointedly ignoring the situation out of sheer fear of becoming the next targets of the mob's racial fury.
Several of the local Nords, however, let out cruel barks of laughter, highly amused by the confrontation. A few others simply sighed and shook their heads, exasperated by the drunken ruckus.
Hadring rushed out from behind the bar, waving his hands frantically. "Now hold on, Torvald! Back off! They paid their coin just like you! I don't want any trouble in my inn!"
The innkeeper was terrified. A tavern brawl was bad enough for business, but if this High Elf actually was a Thalmor agent, and he was injured under Hadring's roof, an entire squad of elven executioners would be knocking down his door by the end of the week to burn the inn to the ground.
"Shut it, Hadring!" the scarred female adventurer snapped, resting her hand on the hilt of her iron mace. "This is Stormcloak land! We don't drink with Elven supremacists!"
Aerion did not reach for the Frost Sword at his hip. He simply let out a slow, measured breath, standing up from his chair. Because he was a High Elf, his physical stature was incredibly imposing. He towered over the drunk Nords, looking down at them with a gaze of terrifying, unblinking calm.
He didn't speak. Instead, he raised both of his hands, his palms facing upward.
FWOOSH.
Two roaring, intensely hot spheres of magical fire erupted into existence above his palms. The sudden, violent heat washed over the adventurers' faces, instantly singing the edges of the lead Nord's beard. The bright, flickering orange light cast demonic shadows across Aerion's golden features.
The drunks immediately stumbled backward, throwing their arms up to shield their faces from the intense heat, their liquid courage evaporating in the face of raw, elemental destruction.
"I do not want any trouble with you," Aerion stated, his melodic voice carrying an undeniable, chilling authority that resonated through the silent room. "And contrary to the narrow scope of your worldview, there are many High Elves in this world who do not share the vision of the Thalmor, nor do they care for their politics. I am one of them."
He took a single, deliberate step forward, the flames in his hands dancing wildly. "My friend and I simply wish to have a peaceful night of rest, as we have a very long journey ahead of us tomorrow."
Aerion allowed his golden eyes to sweep across the terrified faces of the adventurers, and then pointedly looked up at the ceiling. "Look around you. Every single wall, pillar, and floorboard in this building is made of dry, aged wood. One stray spark... one misplaced spell... and this entire inn will burn to the ground with everyone trapped inside. Are you truly prepared to die in a fire over a misplaced political grievance?"
As Aerion delivered his chillingly logical ultimatum, Jenassa smoothly drew her steel sword. The lethal schwing of metal scraping against leather echoed loudly in the tense silence. She stepped out from behind the table, her crimson eyes locked entirely onto the throat of the man who had slammed the table.
The tension in the room spiked to a suffocating level.
But Aerion's words, laced heavily with the overwhelming, supernatural weight of his maximized Persuasion skill, penetrated the alcohol fogged brains of the adventurers. They looked at the fire, they looked at the wood, and they looked at the deeply terrifying Dark Elf ready to sever their arteries.
[Persuasion Leveled Up to 78... 79... 80... 81... 82!]
The lead Nord swallowed hard, the color completely draining from his face. He lowered his hands, taking another step back. "Right... right. We... we were just leaving anyway."
"Aye," the scarred woman muttered nervously, pulling her hand away from her mace. "Not worth burning to death over."
"Out!" Hadring suddenly bellowed, finding his courage now that the crisis had been de escalated. The innkeeper marched around the counter, pointing a furious finger at the heavy front doors. "All four of you, get out of my inn! You almost burned my livelihood to the ground with your drunken stupidity! Take your gold and sleep in the snow!"
The band of adventurers didn't argue. Thoroughly humbled and terrified of the magical threat, they quickly gathered their cloaks and practically sprinted out the front doors, disappearing into the howling blizzard outside.
Aerion calmly closed his hands into fists, extinguishing the flames instantly. The sudden absence of the heat left the room feeling noticeably colder. He offered Hadring a polite nod of apology for the display, before gesturing for Jenassa to follow him.
They walked in complete silence down the narrow wooden hallway leading to the guest rooms, the remaining patrons of the Nightgate Inn watching them go with absolute, fearful respect. No one else dared to utter a single word of protest.
Aerion unlocked the heavy wooden door of his rented room, stepping into the small, spartan space. A simple straw bed, a washbasin, and a small writing desk were the only furnishings.
He locked the door behind him and took off his heavy travel cloak. Lupin immediately jumped onto the center of the bed, curling up into a tight, cinnamon colored ball of fur.
Aerion sat down on the edge of the mattress. His mind was racing, entirely focused on the magical display he had just performed in the common room. While holding the flames, he had felt a strange, pulsating fullness in his Magicka pathways, as if his capability to wield the element of fire had hit an absolute, physical ceiling.
He closed his eyes and summoned his mental system interface, navigating directly to his Skills panel.
He focused his attention on the Destruction (Fire) entry. It was currently sitting at [MAX LEVEL - 100].
In his past life, when playing the game, reaching level 100 in a skill allowed the player to make the skill "Legendary." Doing so would reset the skill back to its absolute baseline of 15, refunding all invested perk points and allowing the player to continue leveling up indefinitely to increase their overall character level.
But this wasn't a game. This was his reality. If he reset his skill to zero, would he completely lose the ability to cast fire magic? Would he forget everything he had learned about the elemental weave?
He focused his intent on the skill, silently asking the system for clarification. A unique, glowing golden prompt appeared in his mind's eye.
[Skill Mastery Reached: Destruction (Fire)]
[Would you like to prestige this skill to the Legendary tier? YES / NO]
Notice: By selecting YES, the raw power level of this skill will reset to 0. However, you will retain ALL fundamental knowledge, casting techniques, and magical matrix understanding. Prestiging a skill permanently deepens your soul's attunement to that element, exponentially increasing the base damage and efficiency of all future spells within this school. You will not become weaker, you will simply reset the ceiling of your potential, making your magic vastly stronger overall.
Aerion read the description twice, his heart hammering in his chest. It was a flawless mechanic. He wouldn't suffer a sudden bout of amnesia; he was essentially taking the vast, rigid architecture of his fire magic and compressing it into a single, foundational cornerstone, upon which he could build an even more terrifyingly powerful structure.
He didn't hesitate. He mentally selected YES.
A sudden, intense wave of heat rushed through his veins, centering in his chest. It felt as though a star had briefly ignited within his soul before instantly collapsing into a dense, infinitely hot singularity.
The overwhelming pressure in his Magicka pathways vanished, leaving behind a profound sense of emptiness, but an emptiness that felt incredibly potent and ready to be filled.
He looked at his system panel.
[Destruction (Fire (+1)) Level: 0]
The small (+1) next to the Fire was a badge of absolute mastery. He let out a long, satisfied breath, the sheer possibilities of his newly expanded potential settling over him. Exhausted from the long day of travel and the psychological tension, Aerion laid back on the simple straw mattress and fell into a deep, restful sleep.
The next morning, Aerion awoke before dawn. The small window of his room was thick with frost, the wind outside still howling with relentless fury.
He washed his face with the freezing water from the basin, ensuring his robes were perfectly arranged, before stepping out into the hallway with Lupin. He met Jenassa at the end of the corridor. The Dark Elf looked perfectly rested, her crimson eyes sharp and alert.
They walked into the taproom. The inn was much quieter than the night before, filled only with the quiet murmurs of merchants preparing for the road. Hadring was already awake, tending to the fire.
Aerion approached the bar and ordered their morning provisions, another three bowls of the thick beef stew and two tankards of warm mead, paying the innkeeper thirty septims. They ate quickly and efficiently, fueling their bodies for the brutal ride ahead.
After returning their iron room keys to Hadring, they stepped out of the Nightgate Inn and into the blinding, freezing white expanse of the Pale.
They mounted their rested horses, Aerion securing Lupin into the saddlebag, and kicked their steeds into a steady trot, following the snow covered road down toward the east.
The journey to Winterhold was arguably the most treacherous, unforgiving ride in all of Skyrim. The landscape was a desolate, jagged nightmare of sheer cliffs and bottomless ravines, completely buried under feet of perpetual snow.
Aerion relied heavily on his system map to guide them through the blinding flurries. They passed the ominous, skull marked entrance of the Forsaken Cave, the ancient Nordic architecture barely visible through the snowdrifts. They rode in silence beneath the towering, jagged precipice of Yorgrim Overlook, keeping a wary eye out for diving snow bears or frost trolls.
The road began to curve sharply to the north. They rode past the massive, ruined stone battlements of Fort Kastav, the fortress currently occupied by a heavily armed contingent of hostile warlocks. Aerion chose to bypass the fort entirely, taking a narrow, perilous goat path to avoid drawing their fire.
They pressed further north, the temperature dropping to levels that made Aerion's lungs burn with every breath. They passed Stillborn Cave, a horrific frozen cavern notorious for its Falmer infestations, and finally rode through the small, shivering mining camp known as Whistling Mine, the few hardy workers huddled around their meager fires watching the riders pass with hollow eyes.
Following the final stretch of the road as it crested a massive, towering mountain pass, they finally reached their destination.
Winterhold.
As Aerion pulled Revan to a halt at the crest of the hill, overlooking the city, his breath caught in his throat. The video game had done this place an absolute, criminal injustice.
In the game, Winterhold was nothing more than a pathetic, four house hamlet clinging to a rock. But in this reality, Winterhold was a true, sprawling metropolis, a testament to the stubborn, unyielding will of the Nordic people.
Even though the Great Collapse had tragically torn the vast majority of the city away, plunging it into the freezing depths of the Sea of Ghosts nearly eighty years ago, the portion of the city that remained was staggering.
Tens of thousands of people lived here. Massive, multi story buildings constructed of thick, dark stone and heavy timber were stacked tightly together, built directly into the sheer, jagged cliff faces to shield them from the relentless, screaming gales off the ocean.
The sheer scale of the geological scar was terrifying. A massive, jagged precipice sheared cleanly through the center of the city, a sheer drop of hundreds of feet down into the churning, ice choked black waters below.
And spanning that terrifying abyss, anchored to a lone, towering pillar of stone, was the massive stone bridge leading to the College of Winterhold. The magical academy itself looked like an imposing, impenetrable fortress of ancient, sweeping architecture, completely defying the laws of gravity and erosion.
"By the ancestors..." Jenassa breathed, her eyes wide as she took in the sheer, terrifying scale of the ruined city and the roaring ocean below. "It looks as though the gods simply took a massive bite out of the earth."
"It is a city of ghosts and survivors, Jenassa," Aerion murmured, his eyes fixed on the distant spires of the College. "Come. Let us find warmth."
They rode slowly down the winding, snow-packed streets of the city proper. The architecture was utilitarian and incredibly sturdy, designed purely to survive the brutal winters.
They finally brought their horses to a halt in front of a massive, heavily reinforced wooden building built partially into the cliffside, The Frozen Hearth inn.
As Aerion and Jenassa dismounted, securing their exhausted horses to the freezing hitching posts, the familiar, uncomfortable weight of dozens of eyes settled upon them. The local populace, wrapped in thick furs, stopped their shoveling to stare openly at the towering High Elf.
But more concerning were the Winterhold Hold guards. Clad in their heavy, pale blue gambesons and chainmail, a patrol of four guards stopped dead in their tracks, their hands resting aggressively on the pommels of their swords. They glared at Aerion with a level of intense, unadulterated suspicion that bordered on outright hostility, their eyes silently demanding to know why a wealthy Altmer had braved the frozen wastes to enter their ruined city.
_____________________________
[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 320/320 Stamina: 310/310 Magicka: 450/450 Level: 65
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+1)/Lightning) (Level 0/62), Persuasion (Level 82), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak (Level 26), One Handed (Level 67), Restoration (Healing) (Level 37), Two Handed (Level 65), Lockpicking (Level 23), Archery (Level 72), Alteration (Level 4), Enchanting (Level 19), Light Armor (Level 53), Block (Level 60), Illusion (Level 6), Pickpocket (Level 8)
Shouts: Fus (Force)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Steel Dagger, Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, Mammoth Tusk, Iron Shield, Steel Mace, Steel Warhammer, the Golden Claw, Calm Spellbook, Arvel's Journal, Inkwell & Quill, Thief Book, Scroll Of Summoning (Wolf), Scroll Of Healing, Steel Dagger of Minor Souls, Weak Potion of Paralysis, Ancient Nord Bow, Dragonstone, Ancient Nord Battleaxe Of Blaze, & Potion of Minor Pickpocketing
2x Iron Mace, Steel Axe, Steel Greatsword, & Lockpicks
3x Iron Greatsword, Steel Sword, Scroll Of Fireball, Glowing Mushrooms, & Potions of Minor Stamina
4x Potions of Minor Magicka & Spider Eggs
5x Lesser Soul Gem
8x Iron Arrows & Ancient Nord Arrows
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
Weight: 109.07 KG / 455 KG
Septims = 54,922