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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.
He had won. Unscathed, save for a minor dagger graze. He barely had to move. Just point and incinerate. The Fast Magic Mastery was beyond broken. He was already feeling stronger, and more confident in his magical abilities.
He surveyed the scene, three bodies, rapidly cooling, a faint smell of ozone and burnt cloth in the air. Their possessions. Loot.
Aerion, the casual gamer who hated grinding but loved exploits, felt a familiar part of his brain click into gear. He approached the fallen Nord. He knelt, searching his pockets, grimacing slightly at the stiffness of the body. A few septims, a worn lockpick, and a small, dirty pouch. He repeated the process with the Khajiit and the Orc.
More septims, a couple of potions, and some unremarkable trinkets. He also took their weapons. The Nord's axe, the Khajiit's dagger, and the Orc's mace. He checked his inventory: Weight: 25 KG / 300 KG. These were heavy, but nowhere near his large capacity. He'd still need to sell them soon, but the increased limit was a massive relief.
Now, to spend those attribute points. He considered his options. Health was important, but his magic made him a glass cannon. Stamina was useful for running and carrying. Magicka was his bread and butter. He tapped the interface.
[Attribute Point Allocation]
Health: [ + ] Stamina: [ + ] Magicka: [ + ]
He knew exactly what to do. Two points into Magicka, one into Stamina.
[Magicka increased by 10! Current Magicka: 110/110] [Magicka increased by 10! Current Magicka: 120/120] [Stamina increased by 10! Current Stamina: 110/110] [Your maximum carry weight has increased by 5 KG! Current Weight Limit: 305 KG]
Aerion felt a subtle surge of energy and capacity within him. His Magicka felt deeper, his body a touch more robust. The additional carry weight was a welcome bonus.
As he collected the meager loot, he felt a strange detachment. The initial revulsion had been replaced by a pragmatic indifference. They were hostile NPCs. They had attacked him. He had eliminated the threat. This was Skyrim. This was the way it worked.
His High Elf sensibilities, the ingrained arrogance and the cold logic that came with the body, were definitely helping.
The fox let out a contented yip, rubbing against his leg. Aerion scratched its head. "Alright, buddy. Lesson one learned, that is to never bring a sword to a fire stream and lightning bolt fight."
He looked towards the distant hills. Whiterun was still a good walk away. He needed to keep moving. He needed to reach the Imperials at Solitude. He needed to get his plan in motion. The Dragonborn would be here soon. And Aerion would be waiting. Not to save them, but to use them.
The path ahead stretched into the setting sun, carrying the scent of pine and, faintly, the lingering tang of burnt flesh. Aerion walked, the dead bandits behind him, the friendly fox at his side, and the ruthless ambition of an exiled High Elf settling deeper into his core.
This wasn't just a game anymore. This was his world to seize. And he wouldn't let a little thing like mass murder stand in his way.
The sun, now a tired orange, began its slow descent towards the distant peaks, casting long, distorted shadows across the path. Aerion walked, the rhythmic crunch of his boots on the packed earth a stark contrast to the thumping of his own heart.
He glanced down at the fox trotting faithfully beside him. The little furball had been remarkably calm during the fight, a small, furry bastion of non judgmental companionship. "You know," Aerion mused aloud, "it's probably time I gave you a proper name. 'Little furball' isn't going to cut it, especially when I'm trying to project an aura of sophisticated influence."
The fox pricked its ears, head cocked.
Aerion thought for a moment, a faint smile touching his lips. "How about Lupin? Sounds suitably roguish, yet also... foxy. Plus, it's not like you're going to complain, are you?"
Lupin let out a soft yip, almost as if in agreement, and wagged his tail. Aerion chuckled, the sound feeling strange and new in his throat. It was the first genuine moment of levity since his transmigration, a small, mundane comfort in a world suddenly overflowing with danger and political intrigue.
They continued their walk. The path gradually widened, leading them out of the denser pine forest and into an open, windswept plain. To their right, a river flowed steadily, its surface shimmering with the last vestiges of daylight. The air here was cooler, carrying the damp scent of the water and the earthy tang of the plains.
Just as the light of the sun began to fade slowly, they reached a crossroads. To the front and right, a stone bridge spanned the river, leading to unknown paths beyond.
To their left, the same worn dirt path continued, and nestled just off to the left, its chimney smoking invitingly, was the familiar sight of Honningbrew Meadery.
Aerion knew his landmarks. To reach Whiterun, they needed to take the left fork. "Alright, Lupin," he announced, turning, "left it is. Time to find a cozy bed and some real food that isn't bandit rations."
Lupin trotted eagerly, a bright orange streak against the darkening landscape. As they passed the Honningbrew Meadery, the faint scent of fermenting honey and sweet mead wafted tantalizingly through the air. Aerion resisted the urge to stop.
He needed to get to Whiterun, establish himself, and then he could indulge in all the fine mead and cheese wheels when he have accumulated enough septims to last him a lifetime. His stomach, accustomed to the immediate gratification of a microwave, rumbled in protest.
Soon after the meadery, the modest fields of Pelagia Farm stretched out to their left, rows of crops just visible in the twilight. To their right, the river continued its journey, now reflecting the first faint stars.
And directly ahead, massive and imposing, silhouetted against the deepening indigo sky, was the grand silhouette of Whiterun. Its distinctive layered walls and the soaring heights of Dragonsreach were unmistakable.
They pressed on, the journey feeling longer now that their destination was in sight. Finally, the path diverged once more. One fork continued straight ahead, towards the vast, open plains beyond the city. The other, the one Aerion sought, curved sharply to the right, leading directly to Whiterun's outer walls.
As he turned right, the scene resolved itself. A carriage stood parked near the path, its driver slumped on the seat, seemingly asleep or lost in thought. Behind it, the sturdy wooden fences and stone structures of the Whiterun Stables sprawled, housing several horses and a weary stablehand. The inviting warmth of the stable lights seemed to beckon.
"Almost there, Lupin," Aerion murmured, his new stomach giving another, more insistent growl. "First, a quick rest. Then, begin planning for phase one of Project: Accumulate Septims and Influence."
His immediate goal was The Bannered Mare, the city's inn. He walked past the stables, heading directly for the city's main entrance. The outer stone wall loomed large, expertly crafted.
He followed its curve, turning right, then right again, following the well worn path that led to the city's main wooden gate. Torches cast flickering light, illuminating the guards standing sentinel.
As he approached, one of the Whiterun guards, a burly Nord with a severe face and a scarred brow, stepped forward, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. The other guard, younger and less imposing, watched him with an equally wary expression.
The burly guard's eyes, dark and suspicious, swept over Aerion's slender frame, lingered pointedly on his ears, then dropped to Lupin, who was trotting calmly beside him.
The guard's voice was a low growl, thick with prejudice. "Hold there, elf. State your name and business in Whiterun. And what's that mangy beast doing at your heels? We don't take kindly to wild animals wandering our streets."
Aerion internally sighed. Here we go. Racial profiling. Classic Skyrim. He knew the drill. Keep it simple, keep it believable.
"My name is Aerion," he stated calmly, attempting an air of weary traveler. "I am simply a traveler seeking rest for the night at the Bannered Mare. As for my companion," he glanced down at Lupin, who sat patiently, observing the guard with intelligent, unblinking eyes, "he's hardly 'wild.' He's my pet. Very well behaved, I assure you. He's quite compliant and won't cause any mischief."
The guard's gaze hardened, skepticism etched into every line of his face. "A pet, you say? An elf with a tamed fox. That's a new one. They usually prefer... more refined company." The last word was laced with disdain. "And 'compliant,' eh? Just like the rest of your kind, I suppose. Always so agreeable when it suits you."
Aerion's jaw tightened imperceptibly. The casual insult, the thinly veiled contempt, stoked a flicker of the bitterness that had accompanied his earlier memory flashes.
This was the world he was in. A world that was filled with much higher level of racism for a race, regardless of theur intentions. Good. This would fuel his ambition. Rule would be so much sweeter when he was ruling over those who openly despised him.
"He's been with me since Riverwood," Aerion continued, ignoring the barb. "He's harmless. A good companion on the road. I can assure you he'll stay out of trouble inside the city. I'm merely looking for a room and a meal."
The guard eyed Lupin again, then Aerion, a long, searching look. Aerion met his gaze, projecting an aura of polite, albeit weary, honesty. Lupin, perhaps sensing the tension, let out another small, reassuring yip, looking up at Aerion with an expression of pure devotion. It was a perfect, innocent performance.
Finally, the guard grunted, a sound of reluctant concession. "Fine. But if that fox causes any trouble, or if you cause any trouble, you'll be out of this city faster than you can say 'Thalmor Embassy.' Understood?"
"Perfectly," Aerion replied, a small, polite smile playing on his lips. "Thank you, guard."
The guard stepped aside, allowing him passage. Aerion walked through the massive wooden gate, where the usual bustle of the city had long since settled into a muted hum. This suited Aerion just fine, less attention was exactly what he needed.
He passed the Warmaiden's blacksmith on his left, the forge fires have been extinguished, leaving only the lingering smell of hot metal and charcoal.
Further on his left, the wooden sign for The Drunken Huntsman creaked softly in the breeze, its windows glowing with a warm, inviting light. To his right, was the familiar, modest abode of Breezehome, its front door closed tight against the evening chill.
These landmarks, once just pixels and graphics on a screen, now felt solid and real, almost comforting in their familiarity.
Finally, the path opened into the main square, the heart of Whiterun. It was a wide, open space that served as the marketplace during the day, now dotted with the dark, empty frames of market stalls. In the very center stood a stone well, its ancient coping worn smooth by countless hands.
To his right, he recognized the Belethor's General Goods store, its shutters drawn, and next to it, Arcadia's Cauldron, the alchemist's shop. And directly in front of him, a beacon of warmth and activity, was the Bannered Mare, its sturdy wooden doors emitting a welcoming glow.
"Alright, Lupin," Aerion murmured, his stomach rumbling a more urgent and dire complaint now that the smells of cooked food were so near. "Time for some strategic re fueling."
He pushed open the heavy wooden door of the Bannered Mare, and the warm, boisterous chaos of the inn washed over him.
It was far from empty. The place was full of people, a lively tapestry of Whiterun's inhabitants. Some guards, off duty, their armor gleaming in the firelight, mingled with rough spun farmers and jovial merchants. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, stale mead, and sweat. Laughter erupted from a corner table, accompanied by the clink of tankards.
At the common room's hearth, a fire roared, casting dancing shadows on the walls. In the far corner, on a small raised platform, Mikael the bard was in full swing, his lute strumming a lively tune as he belted out a boisterous tavern song, his voice echoing off the wooden rafters. He was undoubtedly the source of the distant drumming Aerion had heard earlier.
The moment Aerion and Lupin stepped through the doorway, however, the atmosphere shifted. The laughter died down, the conversations faltered, and even Mikael's enthusiastic strumming seemed to lose a beat.
All eyes, Nord, Imperial, and even a few of the more neutral races, turned to them. A High Elf was a rare sight in Whiterun, and a High Elf accompanied by a fox, a very compliant fox at that, was apparently a spectacle. Murmurs rippled through the room, whispers of "Thalmor" and "strange folk." The warmth of the inn suddenly felt laced with a tangible chill of suspicion and dislike.
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[Main Panel] Name: Aerion Race: High Elf (Altmer) Health: 100/100 Stamina: 110/110 Magicka: 170/170 Level: 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 = 356 Septims
1x Iron Dagger, Iron Mace, Steel Dagger, & Iron Battleaxe
Weight: 25 KG / 305 KG