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!)
...
He turned on his heel and sprinted away, abandoning the Keep doors and running toward a different, secondary entrance to the fortress further down the wall. With the obstacle cleared, Aerion seamlessly extinguished the magic in his hands. "Open the doors, Hadvar," Aerion ordered calmly, as if nothing had happened. "Before the World-Eater returns."
The heavy double doors of the keep groaned like some ancient beast awakening as Hadvar shoved them open, the iron hinges protesting with a deep, metallic screech. Torchlight from inside spilled out into the chaos of Helgen's fall, cutting through the swirling dust and smoke that hung thick in the air.
"Inside, quickly!"Hadvar barked, his voice steady despite the dragon's distant roar echoing overhead. The small group didn't need telling twice. Froki ushered little Haming through first, the boy's small hand clutched tight in his grandfather's calloused grip. Aeloria followed, still moving with that careful grace of someone testing injured limbs, and then Jenassa, her dark eyes scanning every shadow.
Aerion lingered a moment at the threshold, Black Prism still humming faintly in his hand, its ebony edge catching the firelight with an almost unnatural sheen. He glanced back once toward the shattered town square where Alduin's shadow had last passed, then stepped inside. Hadvar came last, breathing hard.
"Push! Bar the doors!" Hadvar shouted, his voice echoing sharply in the sudden, relative quiet of the stone corridor.
The young Imperial soldier threw his entire weight against the heavy wooden beams, his boots slipping slightly on the polished stone floor.
Jenassa didn't hesitate. The Dark Elf assassin dropped her shoulder and slammed her weight against the opposite door, her augmented mercenary strength perfectly matching the soldier's desperate effort. Together, they forced the massive double doors completely shut, hauling the thick, reinforced iron crossbar into its heavy iron brackets with a resounding, echoing CLACK.
The deafening, apocalyptic roar of the World-Eater was instantly muffled the moment the heavy, iron banded oak doors of Helgen Keep slammed shut.
They stood in the dim corridor, panting heavily. The air inside the keep was cool and smelled of damp stone, old iron, and stale bread, a jarring, violently sudden contrast to the suffocating heat, the blinding plasma, and the burning flesh they had just escaped in the courtyard.
The stone walls trembled slightly, shedding a fine layer of dust as Alduin landed on a nearby roof, but the thick masonry of the ancient fortress held firm.
Aerion took a slow, deep breath, allowing the ambient magicka of the environment to steady his racing heart. He smoothed his singed, ash covered robes, instantly reasserting his flawless, aristocratic composure.
He turned his golden eyes away from the barred doors and surveyed their immediate surroundings.
His transmigrator mind instantly mapped the environment, matching the physical reality to the digital memories of his past life. They were in the primary eastern barracks of the keep. To his left, lined neatly against the cold stone wall, was a row of simple, military issue beds, each with a sturdy wooden footlocker resting at the base.
To his right, the room opened up into a small staging area, featuring a long, sturdy wooden table surrounded by heavy oak chairs, and several tall, iron banded cupboards meant for storing rations and spare linens. Half eaten bowls of sups rested on the table, abandoned in a panic when the dragon attacked.
It was exactly as he remembered it.
Aerion shifted his gaze toward the survivors he had practically dragged into the shadows. Froki Whetted-Blade had collapsed against the wall, his frail chest heaving as he clutched his terrified grandson, Haming, tightly to his side.
But Aerion's primary focus remained entirely on the female Nord.
The woman who was, by all cosmic probability, the Last Dragonborn.
She was leaning heavily against a wooden support pillar, her eyes closed as she took deep, shuddering breaths to clear the black smoke from her lungs. Despite the ragged, dirty brown tunic she wore, and the soot smeared across her war painted cheeks, there was a profound, undeniable resilience radiating from her.
She had just survived an ambush, a carriage ride to her own execution, the cold realization of the headsman's block, and a literal dragon attack, yet she was not weeping or hysterical. She was simply adapting.
Aerion walked smoothly across the stone floor, stopping just a few feet away from her.
"Are you alright?" Aerion inquired, his melodic voice low and carefully modulated to project calm, reassuring authority.
The Nord woman opened her eyes, pushing a stray, ash covered lock of brown hair out of her face. She looked at the towering High Elf, her expression a complex mixture of lingering shock and profound gratitude.
"I... yes. I am alright," she replied, her voice slightly raspy but remarkably steady. She straightened her posture. "My head is ringing like a bell, and I smell like a burned slaughterfish, but I am breathing. Thank you, Elf. For asking. And for what you did out there. If you hadn't pulled me away from that rebel..."
She didn't finish the sentence, the implication of the flaming courtyard hanging heavily in the air.
As she tried to brush the ash from her tunic, she winced slightly, suddenly reminded of her physical constraints. She looked down at her wrists, which were still bound tightly behind her back with thick, chafing hemp rope.
"Ah," Aerion murmured, offering a polite, slightly apologetic smile. "My apologies. I had completely forgotten about the bindings in the heat of the moment. Allow me."
Aerion reached to his hip. With a slick, metallic schwing that echoed sharply in the quiet barracks, he drew the Black Prism.
The Nord woman's eyes widened significantly as the blade cleared the scabbard. Even to an untrained eye, the weapon was a terrifying masterpiece. The blade was forged from pitch black metal, absorbing the dim light of the wall torches rather than reflecting it, and it pulsed with a faint, malevolent, blood red aura that hummed with magical lethality.
"By the Gods," she breathed, instinctively taking a half step back, though her eyes were glued to the weapon in sheer awe. "Is that... is that sword forged from solid Ebony?"
"It is," Aerion confirmed with a graceful nod, highly pleased by her observant nature. "A rather unique piece I acquired during my travels. Hold still, please. The edge is supernaturally sharp."
He stepped behind her. He didn't hack or saw at the ropes. With a mere flick of his wrist, applying only a fraction of an ounce of pressure, the razor sharp ebony edge sliced cleanly through the thick hemp as if it were warm butter.
The ropes fell uselessly to the stone floor.
The woman let out a long sigh of relief, bringing her arms forward and rubbing her chafed, red wrists to restore the blood flow.
"Much better," she muttered, rolling her shoulders. She turned back to fully face him, her posture shifting from a bound prisoner to a free woman. She extended her hand. "My name is Aeloria. Aeloria Frostveil."
Aerion reached out, his large, golden hand grasping hers in a firm, respectful warrior's grip.
"It is a genuine pleasure to meet you, Aeloria Frostveil," Aerion replied, offering a flawless, aristocratic bow of his head. "I am Aerion. An independent scholar and wandering mage. And the exceptionally lethal woman standing by the door is my sworn associate, Jenassa."
Jenassa, who was currently inspecting the heavy iron hinges of the barricaded door, merely offered a brief, silent nod in Aeloria's direction before returning her sharp gaze to the corridor ahead.
Before the conversation could naturally progress, the heavy, clanking sound of Imperial armor interrupted them.
Hadvar, having finished ensuring the main doors were completely secure, marched over to the group. The young soldier looked thoroughly exhausted, his face covered in soot and his Imperial tabard scorched.
He knelt briefly beside Froki and Haming, checking the old man's pulse and ruffling the terrified boy's hair, ensuring the civilians were uninjured.
Satisfied that the non combatants were stable, Hadvar stood up. His training as a legionnaire finally overrode his panic, and his eyes narrowed with intense, professional suspicion as he turned to face Aerion and Jenassa.
"Alright," Hadvar demanded, his hand resting cautiously on the pommel of his iron sword. "The immediate danger is blocked, but we are still trapped in a collapsing fortress. Before we go any deeper into these tunnels, I need some answers. Who exactly are you people? What are a heavily armed High Elf and a Dark Elf doing in Helgen?"
Hadvar's brow furrowed deeper, a sudden realization hitting him. "And more importantly... back in the courtyard, when you confronted Ralof... how did you know my name? I have never seen you before in my life."
Aerion's expression did not change. He had anticipated the interrogation. He engaged his Persuasion matrix effortlessly, slipping into his fabricated persona.
"A fair question, soldier," Aerion replied calmly, stowing the Black Prism back into its scabbard. "As I just told Lady Aeloria, my name is Aerion, and my companion is Jenassa. We hail from the Whiterun Hold. We were traveling south toward the Cyrodiilic border to attend to private mercantile business. We merely stopped in Helgen late last night to secure a warm bed at the local inn. We certainly did not anticipate waking up to an ancient myth burning the town to cinders."
Aerion offered a smooth, highly plausible explanation for the name.
"As for how I knew your name," Aerion continued, his golden eyes meeting Hadvar's without a single flinch. "I possess highly sensitive hearing. When we were hiding behind the well, the blond Stormcloak rebel who challenged you, Ralof, I believe you called him, was screaming your name at the top of his lungs in a blind rage. It was not a difficult deduction to make."
Hadvar stared at the High Elf for a long, tense moment. He replayed the chaotic, adrenaline fueled memory of the confrontation at the door. Ralof had indeed yelled his name. The explanation was perfectly logical, and the Altmer's calm, commanding demeanor was incredibly disarming.
Hadvar let out a long, heavy sigh, his tense shoulders dropping. He pulled his hand away from his sword.
"Right. Yes. He did," Hadvar muttered, shaking his head apologetically. "My apologies, Aerion. The smoke and the fire... my mind is playing tricks on me. I'm seeing Thalmor spies and Stormcloak assassins in every shadow."
Hadvar looked at Aerion, his expression shifting from suspicion to profound, genuine respect. "Regardless of who you are, I owe you my life. You keeping Ralof off my back, and the way you managed to shield this prisoner from that beast's fire... it was incredible. You have the reflexes of a seasoned blademaster, and your command of magic is staggering. The Legion could use a man with your talents."
"You are overly generous with your praise, Hadvar," Aerion deflected smoothly, having absolutely no intention of joining the crumbling Imperial army. "But flattery will not extinguish the dragon currently dismantling the roof above us. I strongly suggest we focus our entire attention on navigating these tunnels and escaping this valley. We can discuss my magical proficiency when we are standing under an open sky."
"You're right. We need to keep moving," Hadvar agreed firmly, his military focus returning.
He gestured toward a heavy iron portcullis blocking the far end of the barracks. "Follow me. If we can reach the lower torture chambers, there should be a natural cave system that connects to a stream. It leads outside the town walls."
Hadvar began to march toward the gate, but Aerion reached out, placing a firm hand on the soldier's armored shoulder, physically stopping him.
"Wait," Aerion commanded.
He turned his gaze toward Aeloria. The Dragonborn was rubbing her arms against the chill of the stone keep. Her ragged, dirty brown tunic was torn in several places, offering absolutely zero physical protection against blades, arrows, or the freezing dampness of the subterranean tunnels.
"Before we delve into a dark, highly compromised fortress, we must address a glaring tactical vulnerability," Aerion stated, looking back at Hadvar. "Aeloria cannot proceed into combat wearing a prisoner's burlap sack. It is an unacceptable liability. We must secure her a proper set of armor and a viable weapon."
Hadvar halted, looking from Aerion to the shivering Nord woman. He glanced nervously at the surrounding cupboards and the footlockers scattered at the base of the beds.
"We can quickly search the chests," Hadvar conceded hesitantly, his bureaucratic Imperial conditioning fighting against his pragmatic survival instincts. "But... Aerion, I must strongly advise against her donning any Imperial uniforms. If we encounter General Tullius or another Legion squad later, and they catch a civilian, let alone a documented prisoner, disguised in stolen Legion armor, it is a severe offense. She could be arrested for espionage or impersonating an officer."
Aerion stared at the young soldier, a deep, profound wave of sheer exasperation washing over him.
His transmigrator mind flared with acute annoyance. This is the problem with dealing with strictly programmed NPCs, Aerion thought coldly. The world is literally burning to ash around them, an ancient god is eating their friends, and this man is worried about uniform code violations and bureaucratic paperwork.
Aerion let out a heavy, highly condescending sigh.
"Hadvar," Aerion began, his voice dripping with icy, uncompromising logic. "There is a dragon actively incinerating your commanding officers. The fortress is collapsing. The chain of command is entirely, utterly shattered. I absolutely assure you, no one is going to ask Aeloria for her official Legion requisition forms in the dark. She requires physical protection immediately. If it offends your Imperial sensibilities, she can politely return the armor when we reach the forest."
He didn't wait for the soldier to argue further. Aerion turned to Aeloria, gesturing broadly toward the scattered footlockers.
"Search the chests, Aeloria. Take whatever you need," Aerion instructed.
Aeloria didn't need to be told twice. She flashed Aerion a highly appreciative, slightly wicked smirk, entirely agreeing with his dismissal of the Imperial rules.
She dropped to her knees beside the nearest heavy wooden footlocker, throwing the iron latch open. She rummaged rapidly through the folded linens and spare boots. Within moments, she pulled out a complete set of Imperial Light Armor, a thick, boiled leather cuirass reinforced with iron studs, sturdy leather bracers, and heavy hide boots.
She stripped off the filthy, ash-covered prisoner rags without a second thought, rapidly strapping the boiled leather armor over her tunic. The fit wasn't perfect, but the thick leather instantly provided a vital layer of defense against slashing blades.
She moved to the central table, where several weapons had been left behind by panicked guards. She bypassed a heavy iron mace and confidently picked up a standard issue Imperial Steel Sword. She gave the blade a few experimental, whistling swings through the air, her muscles instantly remembering the balance and weight of the steel.
She slid the sword into an empty leather scabbard at her hip, turning back to the group. She was no longer a helpless, bound prisoner. She looked like a seasoned, lethal warrior.
"I am ready," Aeloria announced, her eyes hard and focused.
"Excellent," Aerion nodded approvingly. "Lead the way, Hadvar."
Hadvar, deciding it was best not to argue with the terrifyingly competent mage, simply nodded and marched toward the heavy iron portcullis. He threw his weight against a heavy iron lever mounted on the stone wall. With a loud, grinding screech of gears, the heavy iron gate slowly retracted upward into the ceiling.
The group passed through the threshold, stepping into a long, dimly lit stone hallway. Aerion took the point position alongside Hadvar, while Jenassa guarded their rear. Lupin trotted silently beside Aerion's boots, his large ears twitching at every echo. Aeloria walked in the center, keeping close to Froki and Haming.
They followed the winding corridor, turning sharply to the right.
Suddenly, the hallway opened up into a wider antechamber, blocked by another heavy wooden cell gate.
But it was not silent.
Echoing from the darkness on the other side of the wooden bars were the harsh, frantic voices of men and women.
"The dragon is tearing the upper courtyard apart! The Imperials are scattered!" a rough, Nordic voice barked from the shadows. "We need to find the armory, grab whatever steel we can, and push through the lower tunnels! It's our only chance!"
Hadvar froze, recognizing the thick, regional accents instantly. He raised a hand, signaling the group to halt.
"Stormcloaks," Hadvar whispered, his grip tightening on his iron sword. "They must have survived the blast and found their way down here."
He looked at the heavy wooden gate, his inherent decency warring with his military duty. "Maybe... maybe I can reason with them. If we tell them about the cave system, we can call a temporary truce. Nobody wants to burn today."
Aerion's heightened elven hearing picked up a subtle, metallic sound from the darkness beyond the gate. It was the unmistakable, synchronized schwing of swords being drawn from scabbards and the heavy clack of crossbows being loaded.
"They are not interested in a truce, Hadvar. They are preparing an ambush," Aerion warned softly, his golden eyes narrowing. He turned his head slightly. "Froki. Keep the boy behind the stone pillar. Do not let him watch."
The old man nodded grimly, pulling Haming back into the shadows of the corridor and covering the boy's eyes with a trembling hand.
Hadvar, still clinging to the hope of diplomacy, stepped up to the wooden gate. He grasped the iron lever on the wall and hauled it downward.
The wooden gate clattered open, revealing a large, torch lit storage room.
Aerion's Gamer mind instantly recognized the massive, highly dangerous divergence from the vanilla timeline.
In his past life, pulling this lever revealed exactly two low level Stormcloak rebels looting a chest. It was designed to be an easy, introductory combat tutorial.
But reality was vastly more lethal.
Standing in the storage room were not two, but six heavily armed, battle-hardened Stormcloak soldiers, four massive men and two fierce women. They wore full rebel armor and wielded heavy iron warhammers, steel battleaxes, and heavy Nordic bows. They had clearly raided an armory upstairs.
"Imperials! Cut them down!" the lead rebel roared, raising a massive iron battleaxe and charging the doorway the instant the gate opened.
Hadvar barely had time to raise his shield as the heavy axe crashed against the steel, driving the young soldier to his knees.
Diplomacy had failed in less than a second.
Aerion did not hesitate. He did not cast a spell, wanting to conserve his Magicka for the unknown depths ahead. He drew the Black Prism with terrifying, blinding speed.
He stepped smoothly past the struggling Hadvar, his movements dictated entirely by the flawless, internalized expertise he had absorbed from the Warrior Stone. He didn't just swing the blade, he executed a perfect, mathematically precise riposte.
He ducked under a wild spear thrust from a female rebel, stepping elegantly into her guard. The Black Prism flashed in the dim light. He drove the ebony blade cleanly, brutally up through the weak point in her leather armor, piercing her heart.
The quadruple enchantment matrix of the weapon triggered instantly. The rebel didn't even have time to scream as a violent burst of absolute zero frost shattered her ribcage from the inside, while purple lightning fried her nervous system. She collapsed instantly, her soul violently ripped from her body and absorbed into the void.
The golden text cascaded in his vision.
[One Handed Leveled Up 8 Times! Current Level: 93]
Jenassa flowed into the room like a dark, lethal shadow. The assassin bypassed the heavy fighters entirely, sprinting along the wall to close the distance on a rebel attempting to nock an arrow. With a synchronized flash of malachite and steel, she severed the bowstring with her dagger and drove her longsword through the archer's throat.
Hadvar, recovering his footing, let out a fierce battle cry, engaging a rebel swordsman in a brutal, clashing duel of Imperial steel against Nordic iron.
But it was Aeloria who truly commanded the room.
The Dragonborn did not cower or hesitate. She drew her stolen Imperial sword and charged directly toward the largest man in the room, a towering, bearded Nord wielding a massive, two handed iron warhammer.
The rebel swung the heavy hammer in a devastating, horizontal arc designed to shatter her ribs.
Aeloria didn't try to block it, her light sword would have snapped instantly. Instead, operating on pure, dormant, predatory instinct, she dropped into a perfectly timed, incredibly low slide across the stone floor, the massive hammer whistling mere inches over her head.
Before the rebel could recover his momentum and pull the heavy weapon back, Aeloria sprang upward from her slide. She drove the pommel of her steel sword violently into the man's jaw, staggering him backward, before spinning gracefully and burying the blade deep into his exposed flank.
Aerion watched from the periphery as he casually parried a sword strike and beheaded the final rebel. He noted Aeloria's combat prowess with profound, analytical interest.
She had no formal training, yet she moved with the innate, terrifying lethality of a born killer. The blood of the dragon was already guiding her blade.
The skirmish lasted less than thirty seconds. The six Stormcloaks lay dead upon the stone floor, their blood pooling around the scattered crates of food and barrels of ale.
"Clear," Jenassa announced, coldly wiping her malachite dagger on a dead rebel's tunic before sheathing it.
Hadvar stood panting, staring at the carnage. He looked at Aerion, then at the fierce, blood splattered female prisoner he had been leading to the execution block just minutes ago.
"By the Gods," Hadvar breathed, thoroughly intimidated by the sheer, overwhelming lethality of his temporary companions. "Remind me never to make an enemy of Whiterun."
"A wise policy, soldier," Aerion agreed smoothly, flicking the blood from the Black Prism before sheathing it.
He turned his head toward the corridor. "Froki. It is safe. Keep the boy's eyes covered."
The old man shuffled rapidly through the bloody room, his hand clamped firmly over Haming's face to shield the child from the gruesome reality of war.
They pressed forward, leaving the storage room behind. They passed through another heavy cell door, entering a narrow, descending spiral staircase made of rough hewn stone.
The descent was claustrophobic and tense. The higher they went down into the earth, the louder the muffled, echoing roars of Alduin became above them, vibrating the stone beneath their boots.
They reached the bottom of the spiral stairs, stepping out into a wide, dark subterranean hallway.
"The torture chambers should be just down this hall," Hadvar pointed, taking the lead once more. "From there, it's a straight shot to the—"
BOOOOOOOM.
The entire keep violently shuddered. It felt as though a massive earthquake had struck the mountain. A deafening, grinding roar of collapsing masonry echoed through the tunnels.
Directly ahead of them, the heavy stone ceiling of the hallway violently buckled and gave way. Massive, multi ton blocks of granite and thick wooden support beams crashed down into the corridor, completely blocking the path forward with an impenetrable wall of rubble and choking dust.
Hadvar coughed violently, waving his hand to clear the air.
"Shor's bones!" Hadvar cursed, kicking a fallen stone in frustration. "The ceiling collapsed! The main path to the lower chambers is entirely blocked!"
Aerion maintained his calm, his Gamer mind instantly pivoting to alternative routes. He looked to his left.
Situated adjacent to the collapsed hallway was a sturdy, slightly ajar wooden door. The faint smell of stale flour, dried herbs, and salted meat drifted from the crack.
"We detour," Aerion commanded, pointing to the door. "That appears to be the garrison kitchen and supply room. There will be secondary access doors leading deeper into the keep."
Hadvar nodded, gripping his sword. "Stay sharp. If those rebels found the armory, they might have found the pantries as well."
Aerion pushed the heavy wooden door open, stepping into a large, sprawling kitchen area. Massive stone hearths dominated the walls, and long wooden preparation tables were covered in scattered sacks of flour, hanging dried meats, and spilled barrels of apples.
And huddled among the scattered supplies, desperately packing stolen food into burlap sacks, were eight more Stormcloak rebels.
The moment the door opened, the rebels dropped the food and drew their weapons with a collective, furious roar.
"More Imperial dogs!" the leader screamed, drawing a heavy steel greatsword. "Kill them all!"
Hadvar raised his shield, preparing for a brutal, drawn out brawl among the tables.
Aerion, however, had absolutely zero patience remaining.
He did not want to engage in a messy, prolonged melee combat in a room filled with flammable flour dust and tripping hazards. He did not want to waste time trying to use his Persuasion matrix on fanatical, racist rebels who would likely just attack him anyway for being an elf.
The World-Eater was literally tearing the roof off the fortress above them. Time was an incredibly precious, rapidly vanishing resource. Violence was vastly more efficient.
Aerion stepped fully into the room, raising his left hand.
He completely bypassed the Black Prism. He tapped into the absolute, highly destructive core of his Destruction matrix, drawing upon the massive, limitless well of his 600 point Magicka pool.
He didn't cast a single bolt. He summoned the storm.
"Burn," Aerion commanded coldly.
CRACK BOOM!
A massive, blindingly bright, violently chaotic torrent of pure, unadulterated purple lightning erupted from his extended palm. The Chain Lightning spell tore across the kitchen with deafening, explosive force.
The lightning struck the lead rebel directly in the chest, the sheer voltage violently lifting him off his feet. But the spell didn't stop. It arced instantly, leaping wildly from the first man to the rebel beside him, then bouncing to the archer hiding behind the flour sacks, and then chaining across the wet stone floor to strike three more rebels attempting to flank them.
The kitchen was instantly illuminated in a strobing, blinding purple light. The air filled with the horrific smell of ozone and searing flesh.
Jenassa and Aeloria didn't even need to swing their swords. Aerion simply became a stationary, walking thunderstorm, pumping massive, relentless waves of chain lightning into the room until every single rebel was reduced to a twitching, smoking, charred husk upon the stone floor.
The entire brutal engagement lasted less than five seconds.
Aerion lowered his hand, the last sparks of purple electricity dancing across his fingertips before fading into the gloom. The room was perfectly, eerily silent, save for the crackling of a small fire that had started in a flour sack. Aerion turned back to the group waiting in the doorway, his golden eyes completely cold and pragmatic. "The kitchen is clear," Aerion announced smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. "Bring the boy inside. We continue downward."
_____________________________
[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 430/430 Stamina: 430/430 Magicka: 600/600
Level: 107
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+2)/Lightning(+1)/Frost) (Level 62/41/98), Restoration (Healing/Purify(+1)) (Level 91/56), Alteration (Level 35), Alteration (Level 20), Illusion (Level 42), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/10), Persuasion(+1) (Level 47), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak (Level 41), One Handed (Level 93), Two Handed (Level 65), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 72), Enchanting (Level 66), Light Armor (Level 53), Block (Level 70), & Pickpocket (Level 8)
Shouts: Fus (Force), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim (Fade), & Su (Air)
[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, Dragonstone, Golden Staff of Flames, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, Orcish Dagger, Jagged Crown, The Mirror, Glass Sword, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Reanimate Corpse Tome, Staff of Lightning, Deed to Tundra Homestead, Garnet, Sapphire, Ruby, & Dawnbreaker
2x Potion Of Ultimate Magicka, Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), & Elven Sword
3x Glowing Mushrooms, Potions of Minor Stamina, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
4x Potions of Minor Magicka, Spider Eggs, & Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
5x Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
8x Iron Arrows, Ancient Nord Arrows, & Black Soul Gems (Filled)
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
Weight: 74.92 KG / 515 KG
Septims: 77,555