Aerion smoothed his dark robes, utterly pleased with the flawless execution of his tactical intervention. The stage was perfectly set. He had the physical evidence, he had the eyewitness testimony, and he was walking directly into the Jarl's court as a savior rather than a stranger. "Lead the way to Highmoon Hall, Gorm," Aerion replied smoothly, offering a polite incline of his head. "We are entirely at the Jarl's disposal."
Gorm tightened his grip on his heavy steel battleaxe, turning his massive shoulders to lead the group out of the ruined house and into the foggy streets of Morthal.
He glanced sideways at the towering High Elf walking smoothly beside him. The Housecarl's initial hostility had faded, replaced by a gruff, pragmatic appreciation for the mage's terrifying efficiency.
"I appreciate your understanding, Aerion," Gorm muttered, his voice a low rumble. "And your cooperation. Most high elves who wander into this swamp act as if the very mud beneath their boots is a personal insult. They are utterly insufferable to work with. It is a rare relief to meet one who doesn't demand we bow every time he speaks."
Aerion offered a smooth, highly charming smile, perfectly utilizing the moment to further distance himself from the toxic political reputation of his race.
"You have absolutely nothing to thank me for, Gorm," Aerion replied, his melodic voice completely devoid of arrogance. "I understand entirely how difficult my Altmer counterparts can be, especially now that the Thalmor Justiciars are acting as the primary ambassadors of our people. I must confess, I find their fanatical supremacy vastly more insufferable than you do. I assure you, I have no desire to play the arrogant lord. I am merely a scholar seeking peace."
Gorm let out a harsh, appreciative snort of laughter. "Glad to hear it. But a word of warning, scholar."
The Housecarl lowered his voice slightly, leaning closer to the High Elf so the rest of the group wouldn't hear.
"Jarl Idgrod is... a complicated woman," Gorm warned him quietly. "She possesses the sight. She sees things in the mists that the rest of us cannot. But she is also a Nord of the old blood, and her memories of the Great War run deep. She does not harbor any love for High Elves, and the Thalmor patrols pushing into her hold have only hardened her heart. Do not expect a warm welcome in Highmoon Hall, even if you did save a life tonight."
Aerion nodded gracefully, his golden eyes remaining perfectly calm.
"Your warning is deeply appreciated, Gorm. I shall tread lightly and speak only the truth," Aerion promised. He knew exactly how to handle hostile Jarls. Logic, evidence, and absolute, undeniable utility were the universal languages of power.
They marched swiftly through the dark, damp streets. The commotion of the guards and the presence of the chained, bleeding woman drew the immediate attention of the late night denizens of Morthal.
Townspeople cracked their wooden shutters open, peering through the fog. Murmurs of shock and fear rippled through the shadows as they saw the High Elf and the heavily armed strangers being escorted by the Housecarl.
They reached the elevated, sturdy wooden structure of Highmoon Hall. The guards stationed at the heavy oak doors, seeing Gorm leading the procession, immediately stepped aside, pushing the doors open without a single question.
The interior of Highmoon Hall was modest compared to Dragonsreach, but it was warm and well lit by a roaring central fire.
Sitting at a heavy wooden table near the hearth, pouring over a stack of municipal ledgers, was Aslfur. The Jarl's husband and Steward looked up, startled by the sudden influx of armed men and strangers so late in the evening.
Aslfur's eyes immediately locked onto the woman being dragged between the two guards.
"Gorm? What in the name of the Eight is the meaning of this?!" Aslfur demanded, pushing his chair back and standing up quickly. He recognized the woman instantly. "Is that... is that Laelette? By the Gods, man, what happened to her? Why is she covered in blood and burns? Why haven't you summoned the healers?!"
Then, Aslfur's gaze shifted to the towering High Elf and the Dark Elf standing calmly behind the Housecarl. His confusion deepened into profound alarm. "And who in Oblivion are these strangers?"
Gorm stepped forward, raising a massive, calloused hand to halt the Steward's frantic questioning.
"My apologies for the late intrusion, Aslfur," Gorm rumbled respectfully. "But we have a situation of the absolute highest emergency. I was heading to the Moorside Inn for a pint when Ingrid came sprinting out of the fog, covered in blood and carrying little Helgi."
Aslfur gasped, looking at the terrified mother and child huddled near the doorway.
"Ingrid told me someone had broken into Hroggar's house and was trying to slaughter them," Gorm continued, his voice grim. "I rallied the night watch and charged the house. But when I kicked the door down... I didn't find bandits. I found Aerion and his associates here, holding the attacker at sword point."
Gorm turned slightly, pointing a thick finger directly at the crippled, sobbing woman held securely by his guards.
"And the attacker was Laelette," Gorm stated flatly. "She didn't run off to join the Stormcloak rebellion, Aslfur. She stayed in the swamps. And she has been turned. She is a vampire."
Aslfur physically recoiled, staggering backward until his hips hit the heavy wooden table. The blood completely drained from his face.
He stared at the woman he had known for years. As Laelette thrashed against the iron bindings, the firelight caught her face perfectly. He saw the unnatural, deathly pallor of her skin, the feral, glowing crimson light in her eyes, and the unmistakable, razor sharp elongation of her fangs.
"By the Divines," Aslfur breathed, pure horror washing over his features. He looked around the room, realizing the catastrophic danger his town was in. "A vampire... operating right under our noses. Hold everyone exactly where they are. Do not let anyone leave this hall. I must wake the Jarl immediately."
Aslfur turned and practically sprinted up the wooden stairs toward the Jarl's private quarters.
Down in the main hall, Laelette's feral instincts flared. Realizing she was about to be presented to the ruling authority, pure panic set in. She began thrashing violently against the heavy iron shackles binding her wrists, shrieking and kicking wildly, desperately trying to break the grip of the two burly guards holding her arms.
"Hold her steady!" Gorm barked, stepping forward to assist.
But Laelette possessed the supernatural strength of the undead, and despite her severed tendons and the agonizing burns from the holy magic, she was dangerously close to ripping her arm free from the guard's grasp.
Aerion did not draw his sword. He simply raised his left hand, his golden eyes locking onto the frantic vampire.
He completely bypassed his Destruction and Restoration matrices, tapping directly into the absolute, dominating power of his newly acquired Illusion mastery.
He didn't cast a standard, low level pacification spell. He channeled a highly concentrated, massively overpowered Calm spell, infused with the sheer, crushing mental authority he now possessed.
The spell shouldn't have worked. Vampires were inherently immune to basic mind altering magic due to their undead nature.
But Aerion's magic was not bound by the standard rules of Skyrim. The sheer, overwhelming systemic power of his transmigrator engine forced the magic through the undead resistance.
A wave of pale, shimmering green light washed entirely over Laelette.
The effect was absolutely instantaneous. The thrashing stopped immediately. Laelette's feral shrieks died in her throat. The glowing crimson light in her eyes dimmed significantly, replaced by a glassy, completely docile stare. Her muscles went entirely slack, and she slumped heavily in the guards' arms, completely pacified.
Gorm looked at the suddenly limp vampire, and then up at the towering High Elf, profound gratitude mixing with a healthy dose of fear.
"Whatever magic you just used, Elf... you have my thanks," Gorm grunted, tightening the iron bindings securely around her wrists now that she wasn't fighting.
"It was merely a precaution to ensure order in the court," Aerion replied smoothly, lowering his hand.
A moment later, heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed from the top of the wooden stairs.
Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone descended into the Great Hall, accompanied closely by her pale, anxious husband. The Jarl of Morthal was an older woman, her gray hair pulled back, her face lined with the heavy burden of her mystic visions.
She wore a thick, fur lined cloak over her sleeping gown, and she did not look pleased to be awakened.
Idgrod marched directly to her carved wooden throne at the head of the hall and sat down heavily. Her sharp, piercing eyes immediately swept over the bizarre assembly in her court.
"What is this absolute madness in the middle of the night?" Idgrod demanded, her voice a sharp, commanding rasp that demanded instant obedience.
Her gaze locked onto the bloody, bound woman being held by her guards.
"Laelette?" Idgrod gasped, genuine shock breaking her stern facade. She leaned forward, squinting in the dim light. "By the Divines, look at her. Look at her eyes. It is true, then. The darkness in the swamp has claimed her."
Idgrod's gaze then snapped away from the vampire, landing squarely on the towering, immaculately dressed High Elf standing calmly in the center of the room. The Jarl's eyes narrowed into fierce, deeply suspicious slits.
"And you," Idgrod spat, her tone instantly hardening with decades of ingrained hostility toward his race. "Why is there a High Elf standing in my court in the dead of night? Who are you, Elf, and what business do you have bringing a vampire into my hall?"
Aerion did not flinch. He placed his right hand gracefully over his heart, offering a flawlessly executed, incredibly respectful bow of his head. He knew that the key to winning over a hostile, mystic Nord was absolute, calm honesty and undeniable utility.
"I offer you my deepest respect, Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone," Aerion spoke, his melodic voice ringing with absolute clarity and calm authority. "I am Aerion. An independent scholar and traveler. These are my associates, Jenassa and Aeloria. We are merely passing through your beautiful, albeit foggy, town, seeking rest at the Moorside Inn."
He straightened his posture, meeting the Jarl's piercing gaze without a trace of arrogance.
"As to how I became involved in this tragedy," Aerion continued smoothly, weaving his fabricated entrance perfectly into the truth of the combat. "I was attempting to navigate toward the lumber mill this evening, but the thick fog disoriented me. I approached the nearest home, which happened to belong to Madam Ingrid here, merely to knock on the door and ask for simple directions."
He paused, gesturing respectfully toward the traumatized mother and the Housecarl.
"But when the door opened, I was not greeted with directions. I was greeted with a mother screaming for her life, and the sound of shattering glass as that vampire broke into the home to murder her child," Aerion explained calmly. "I intervened immediately to secure their safety. As for the precise details of the battle and the creature's capture... I respectfully defer to Ingrid and your Housecarl, Gorm. I am well aware of the... difficult political climate regarding my race. I fear that if I recount the tale myself, my words may be misconstrued as self serving lies or elven exaggeration. I prefer the truth to come from the mouths of your own people."
Idgrod's eyes widened a fraction of an inch. She had fully expected the High Elf to launch into an arrogant, boastful monologue demanding gold and a title for his heroism. His absolute humility, and his sharp, pragmatic understanding of her own prejudices, completely disarmed her initial hostility.
"You are a remarkably astute man, Aerion," Idgrod noted, her tone softening significantly, though her eyes remained sharp. "Very well. I appreciate your deference."
Idgrod turned her full, commanding attention to the traumatized mother.
"Ingrid," Idgrod commanded gently but firmly. "Step forward. Tell me exactly what happened in your home."
Ingrid, still trembling violently and clutching Helgi to her side, stepped forward into the center of the hall. She took a deep, shuddering breath, recounting the absolute horror of the evening. She detailed how she had been preparing for bed when the window violently shattered. She described the terrifying, feral strength of the vampire, and how Laelette had lunged for the child.
And then, with tears streaming down her face, she pointed directly at Aerion.
"If the Elf hadn't kicked the door open when he did... we would be dead, my Jarl," Ingrid cried out, her voice echoing with absolute, undeniable truth. "He fought the monster off. He shielded us with his own body so we could run. He is a true hero."
Gorm immediately stepped forward, verifying the physical evidence of the scene.
"Her words are true, my Jarl," Gorm rumbled. "When I breached the house, the High Elf and his companions had already completely neutralized the vampire without taking a single scratch themselves. They incapacitated the creature and immediately surrendered their weapons to my authority when asked. They acted with perfect honor."
Idgrod sat back in her throne, processing the overwhelming, undeniable testimony. She looked at the towering High Elf, completely reevaluating her judgment of the man. He was not a Thalmor spy. He was a savior.
"I see," Idgrod murmured, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.
She then turned her gaze back to the crippled vampire slumping in the guards' arms. The Jarl's face hardened into a mask of absolute, unforgiving Nordic justice.
"Laelette," Idgrod condemned her, her voice echoing with profound disappointment and fierce anger. "You were a daughter of Morthal. When you were afflicted by this dark curse, you could have come to me. We could have sought the healers, or found a way to end your suffering with honor. But instead... you embraced the darkness. You hid in the swamps, and you returned in the dead of night to butcher a mother and an innocent child in their beds. You are no longer one of us. You are a monster."
Laelette, still heavily under the influence of Aerion's Calm spell, offered absolutely no defense. She simply stared blankly at the floorboards.
Before Idgrod could formally pronounce a sentence upon the vampire, the heavy wooden doors of Highmoon Hall violently burst open again.
Two Morthal guards marched into the hall, dragging two struggling, highly confused men between them.
The first man was Hroggar. The rugged lumberjack looked exhausted, his clothes covered in sawdust, his eyes still carrying that strange, glazed, sleepwalking quality.
The second man was Thonnir. Laelette's husband.
"We found Hroggar working late at the mill, my Jarl, just as you requested," the guard reported sharply. "And Thonnir was drinking at the Moorside Inn. We thought he needed to be present."
Ingrid immediately broke from the center of the room, sprinting desperately toward her husband. She threw her arms around Hroggar's thick neck, burying her face in his chest, sobbing violently.
"Hroggar! Oh, by the Divines, Hroggar!" Ingrid cried, clutching him tightly. "We were almost killed! A monster broke into the house! If it wasn't for the Elf, Helgi and I would be dead!"
Hroggar's reaction was terrifyingly, unnaturally subdued.
The burly lumberjack didn't wrap his arms tightly around his wife. He didn't check his daughter for injuries. He simply stood perfectly still, his face completely blank.
"Is that so?" Hroggar muttered, his voice flat, completely devoid of any genuine emotional concern or panic. "Well... as long as you're okay now. The guards said there was a accident. I need to get back to the mill to finish the quota."
Aerion's golden eyes narrowed sharply. The absolute, undeniable proof of Alva's deep, psychological vampiric thralling was on full display. The man's free will had been entirely overwritten, he didn't even care that his family had nearly been slaughtered.
While Hroggar remained emotionally dead, Thonnir's reaction was entirely different.
The grieving husband had immediately spotted the bloody, bound woman being held by the guards.
"Laelette?!" Thonnir gasped, his voice cracking with pure, profound shock
He rushed forward, falling to his knees before his captured wife. He reached out with trembling hands, desperate to touch her, but the guards quickly shoved him back.
"Laelette, my love, what... what has happened to you?" Thonnir sobbed, staring in absolute horror at her pale skin and glowing eyes. "We thought you ran off to join the rebellion! We thought you left us! Why... why do you look like this?"
Laelette, under the powerful influence of the Calm spell, did not snarl or attack him. She simply slowly turned her head, looking at her husband with blank, dead eyes, and completely ignored his desperate pleading.
The sheer, heartbreaking tragedy of the scene began to quickly devolve into chaotic, emotional shouting. Thonnir was weeping, begging for answers, while Ingrid continued to scream at Hroggar's unnerving apathy.
"Silence!"
Jarl Idgrod roared, slamming her fist down upon the armrest of her throne. The booming, absolute authority of the mystic Jarl instantly cut through the chaos, commanding absolute quiet in her court. "There will be order in my hall," Idgrod commanded, her eyes sweeping over the grieving families. "A tragedy has been averted tonight, but a deep darkness still festers in my town. We will unravel this mystery, and we will do it with clear minds."
_____________________________
Jarl Idgrod roared, slamming her fist down upon the armrest of her throne. The booming, absolute authority of the mystic Jarl instantly cut through the chaos, commanding absolute quiet in her court. "There will be order in my hall," Idgrod commanded, her eyes sweeping over the grieving families. "A tragedy has been averted tonight, but a deep darkness still festers in my town. We will unravel this mystery, and we will do it with clear minds."
The chaotic, emotional shouting instantly died. Thonnir, who had been weeping over his captured, crippled wife, clamped his jaw shut, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Ingrid, her face flushed with fury and terror, pulled little Helgi closer to her side and respectfully lowered her gaze. They were citizens of Morthal, they knew better than to openly defy the mystic Jarl in her own court.
Idgrod's sharp, piercing eyes swept over the grieving families, her expression softening marginally.
"I understand the profound agony you are all enduring this night," Idgrod spoke, her voice losing its harsh edge, replaced by a weary, heavy sympathy. "A wife lost to darkness. A child nearly murdered in her bed. I care deeply for the suffering of my people. But as I just commanded, we must handle this tragedy with absolute clarity and a clear mind. Hysterics will not root out the evil that has infiltrated our swamps."
The Jarl turned her piercing gaze directly onto the rugged lumberjack standing rigidly between the guards.
"Hroggar," Idgrod demanded, her tone sharpening into an interrogation. "Your wife and child were nearly slaughtered in your own home. Yet, my guards found you casually cutting timber at the mill in the dead of night. Why were you working at such an ungodly hour? Even if the lumber quota hasn't been met for the week, the wood is not going to rot before sunrise. There is always tomorrow."
Every eye in the Great Hall turned to the burly Nord, waiting for the frantic, guilt ridden explanation of a father who had almost lost everything.
Hroggar blinked slowly. His eyes possessed a terrifying, glazed, utterly vacant quality, completely devoid of the horror the situation demanded.
"I was working because I had the time, my Jarl," Hroggar answered. His voice was flat, monotone, and chillingly apathetic. "Ingrid and the girl would understand. A man must work. I certainly didn't expect for such thing to happen while I was out, but... well, they are safe now. So, no real harm done. If there is nothing else, I would like to return to the mill. The saw needs sharpening."
A profound, sickening silence descended upon Highmoon Hall.
The sheer, unnatural coldness of his response was completely incomprehensible. It wasn't the shock of a traumatized man, it was the absolute, hollow apathy of a stranger.
Jenassa, standing near the shadows of the entrance, simply crossed her arms, her crimson eyes entirely indifferent to the domestic melodrama.
But Aeloria, who possessed a fiercely jovial, deeply emotional, and passionately protective Nord heart, looked absolutely disgusted.
Her knuckles turned white as her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, struggling to comprehend how a father could speak of his child's near death with the same emotion one might use to discuss the weather.
Ingrid stared at her husband, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and absolute, unadulterated fury.
SMACK!
The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed sharply across the room.
Ingrid had marched across the floorboards and slapped Hroggar across the face with every ounce of strength she possessed. The blow was hard enough to snap the burly lumberjack's head to the side, leaving a bright red handprint stark against his pale cheek.
"How dare you?!" Ingrid screamed, tears of absolute rage streaming down her face. "How dare you speak of us that way! I know we have been estranged lately! I know you have grown suddenly, terribly cold to me over these past few weeks, and I never understood why! But this... this is our daughter, Hroggar! She was almost killed! And you stand there and say 'no harm done' as if she were a piece of misplaced firewood?!"
Behind her mother's skirts, little Helgi, who was old enough to understand the terrifying indifference in her father's voice, began to whimper loudly, her small hands clutching the fabric as she let out broken, quiet sobs.
Hroggar slowly turned his head back. He rubbed his stinging cheek, but his eyes remained completely, horrifyingly blank. He didn't apologize. He didn't reach out to comfort his weeping child. He just stood there, waiting for permission to leave.
"Ingrid, hold your hand!" Idgrod commanded sharply, standing up from her throne.
The Jarl descended the first two wooden steps of the dais, her brow furrowed in deep, mystical concentration as she stared at the lumberjack.
"Hroggar, look at me," Idgrod demanded. "Why are you acting this way? This is not the man I have known for years. You have always been a fiercely devoted father and husband. What has clouded your mind?"
Aerion, observing the entire scene with his calculating transmigrator mind, recognized the absolute, perfect moment to insert himself into the narrative. He needed to firmly establish his expertise and guide the Jarl toward his primary target.
Aerion took a smooth, deliberate step forward, gracefully entering the center of the court.
"If I may, Jarl Idgrod," Aerion spoke, his melodic voice ringing with calm, scholarly authority. "I believe I can provide the answers you seek regarding his deeply unnatural behavior."
Idgrod's head snapped toward the High Elf. A flash of sharp, genuine irritation crossed her lined face. She was a traditional Nord ruler, she did not appreciate outlanders, especially Altmer, interrupting her interrogations uninvited.
She forced the irritation down, her pragmatic desire for answers overriding her prejudice.
"What do you mean by that, Elf?" Idgrod asked, her tone heavily skeptical but willing to listen. "You claim to know why a man would act so callously toward his own blood?"
"I do, my Jarl," Aerion nodded respectfully, slipping flawlessly into the persona of a master arcane academic. "What you are witnessing is not natural apathy, nor is it marital estrangement. It is a highly specific, extremely potent form of magical subjugation. It is highly probable that Hroggar is currently operating under the direct, mind altering seduction magic of a vampire."
"Impossible!"
The frantic shout came from Thonnir. The grieving husband surged forward, straining against the guards holding him back, his face twisted in desperate denial.
"My Laelette would never do such a thing!" Thonnir wept, gesturing toward his bound, crippled wife. "She loved Hroggar and Ingrid! She wouldn't mind control him! She wouldn't!"
Aerion turned his golden eyes slowly toward the weeping man. His expression was completely devoid of mockery, radiating only cold, clinical logic.
"I did not say your wife was the one who cast the spell, Thonnir," Aerion corrected him smoothly. "In fact, even if she possessed the intent, the time completely exonerates her of the thralling."
Aerion turned back to the Jarl, delivering a masterclass in fabricated, yet perfectly accurate, vampiric lore.
"The mechanics of the Sanguinare Vampiris curse are highly rigid, my Jarl," Aerion lectured, his voice echoing in the silent hall. "According to the testimony provided, Laelette only disappeared into the swamps very recently. She is a fledgling. A newly turned vampire possesses raw physical strength and base bloodlust, but they entirely lack the deep, arcane sophistication required to permanently rewrite a mortal's free will."
He gestured elegantly toward Hroggar's blank face.
"To establish a mental thrall this deep, to entirely erase a man's love for his child and replace it with absolute apathy, requires an older, vastly more powerful vampire," Aerion explained. "A predator who has fed extensively and mastered the arts of illusion and seduction for quite some time. Laelette is merely a pawn. She was ordered to burn the house to eliminate the family, thus removing the last lingering tethers of Hroggar's old life."
Idgrod Ravencrone frowned deeply, her mystic mind weighing the logic of the High Elf's words against her inherent distrust of his kind. She was caught precisely between belief and skepticism.
Before the Jarl could dismiss the theory, her husband stepped forward.
Aslfur, the Steward of Morthal, adjusted his tunic nervously, his eyes wide with terrible realization.
"My Jarl... I believe the High Elf speaks the truth," Aslfur interjected, his voice trembling slightly. "When I was studying in Solitude, I read a highly restricted tome regarding the creatures of the night. Immortal Blood, I believe it was called. I cannot recall every detail, but the descriptions of vampiric thralling align perfectly with what the scholar has just described. An older vampire can indeed enslave a mortal mind completely through seduction, turning them into a willing daytime protector."
Idgrod looked at her husband, trusting his academic memory implicitly. She slowly nodded her head, her gaze returning to Aerion.
"If Aslfur corroborates your lore, then I will trust it," Idgrod stated, her voice heavy with dark confirmation. "Furthermore... your words align with the mists. I have been suffering from dark visions for weeks. I saw a shadow creeping over Morthal, a rot spreading from house to house, turning neighbor against neighbor. I could not see the face of the shadow... but if a master vampire is nesting in my hold and turning my people into thralls, the vision is fulfilled."
Idgrod took a step closer to Aerion, her piercing eyes locking onto his.
"You speak with the confidence of a mer who already holds the answers, Aerion," Idgrod challenged softly. "You deduced the thralling instantly. Do you already possess a suspicion of who in my town wields this dark power? Do you know who turned Laelette?"
Aerion did not hesitate. He delivered the killing blow to the vampire's plot.
"I do, Jarl Idgrod," Aerion confirmed, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. "It is a local woman. Her name is Alva."
The entire court gasped collectively.
Alva was a well known figure in Morthal. She was beautiful, reclusive, and a frequent patron of the Moorside Inn. To accuse a recognized citizen of being a master vampire was a massive, scandalous leap.
But the most damning reaction came from the thrall himself.
The moment Alva's name was spoken, the complete, hollow apathy in Hroggar's eyes vanished, violently replaced by a sudden, intense, robotic devotion.
"No! That is a lie!" Hroggar shouted, his voice completely devoid of the passionate anger a normal man would feel, yet entirely fixated on defending the woman. "Alva is not a vampire! She is a good woman! She would never hurt anyone! I know her! I know her very well! She is innocent!"
It was a terrifying, unnatural defense. He hadn't raised his voice when his wife slapped him. He hadn't shed a tear for his crying daughter. But the moment his master was threatened, his mind violently compelled him to protect her.
Aerion extended a hand toward the lumberjack, looking directly at the Jarl.
"Behold the evidence of my claim," Aerion stated coldly. "He feels nothing for his family that almost got killed, yet he violently defends the honor of a woman he is supposedly only 'acquainted' with. The thrall is absolute."
Aerion stepped closer to the throne, lowering his voice slightly to convey serious, firsthand intelligence.
"Furthermore, my suspicion is not merely theoretical," Aerion revealed. "When my associates and I first arrived in Morthal this evening, we encountered Alva and Hroggar standing on the porch of the Moorside Inn. We overheard a highly suspicious conversation. She was actively assuring him that his wife would soon be 'dealt with' so they could be together."
A collective shudder of horror rippled through the guards in the hall.
"When I requested they clear the doorway," Aerion continued smoothly, weaving the truth into his narrative, "Alva recognized that I was an outlander. Fearing I would interfere, she actively attempted to cast a highly potent vampiric seduction spell upon my mind to pacify me."
Idgrod's eyes widened. "She used magic against you? In the open?"
Aerion nodded gracefully. "She did. However, as an Altmer traversing the highly volatile landscape of Tamriel, I maintain permanent, deeply ingrained illusion wards upon my consciousness. The seduction magic, which is fundamentally a branch of the Illusion school, shattered harmlessly against my mental protections. When her spell failed, she panicked and fled aside. I did not realize she was a vampire until we encountered her fledgling trying to kille Hroggar's family."
The sheer, terrifying weight of the evidence was undeniable. The lore, the visions, the unnatural behavior of the husband, and the direct magical assault on a witness all pointed to one horrific conclusion.
Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone did not hesitate. She was a ruler who acted decisively to protect her hold.
Idgrod violently surged to her feet, her presence dominating the Great Hall.
"Are you absolutely certain of this, Aerion?" Idgrod demanded, her voice thundering with the wrath of a Nordic queen. "To accuse a citizen of vampirism is a sentence of death. You swear upon your honor that Alva is the master?"
"I am absolutely certain, my Jarl," Aerion nodded firmly, his golden eyes unwavering. "She is the rot in your swamps."
"Then the rot shall be burned out tonight!" Idgrod roared.
She turned to her Housecarl, pointing a commanding finger. "Gorm! Rally your best men! You are to march on Alva's house immediately! Aerion, Jenassa, Aeloria, you have proven your immense capability in battle against the undead tonight. I officially deputize you in this hunt. You will assist my Housecarl in capturing this monster and bringing her before my throne to face justice!"
"We accept the duty, my Jarl," Aerion bowed.
Idgrod then turned her furious gaze upon the thrall and the fledgling.
"Guards!" Idgrod commanded. "Throw Hroggar into the deepest cell in the dungeon! Keep him heavily chained until the master is dealt with, we will see if the thrall breaks when she dies. As for Laelette, throw her in the cell adjacent. Keep her bound in iron and silver!"
The moment the order was given, the vampiric compulsion in Hroggar's mind flared violently.
"No! I have to protect her! I have to warn Alva!" Hroggar screamed, his voice finally breaking into manic desperation.
The burly lumberjack violently shoved his wife aside and lunged toward the heavy oak doors of the hall, attempting to break for the streets.
But the Morthal guards were ready. Three heavily armored men tackled Hroggar to the floorboards, wrestling him into heavy iron manacles. Despite his thrall induced frenzy, he was just a mortal lumberjack, and he was quickly subdued and dragged kicking and screaming down into the subterranean dungeons beneath Highmoon Hall.
Laelette, still blanketed completely by the overwhelming power of Aerion's Calm spell, offered absolutely zero resistance. The crippled vampire simply stared blankly at the ceiling as the guards hoisted her up by the armpits and dragged her away into the dark.
With the immediate threats contained, Aerion turned his attention back to the Jarl, a look of cold, tactical pragmatism settling over his features.
"Jarl Idgrod, a point of tactical clarification," Aerion requested smoothly. "You ordered us to capture Alva and bring her before your throne. However, a master vampire cornered in her own lair is incredibly lethal. If she refuses to surrender peacefully and actively attempts to slaughter your guards... what are our parameters of engagement?"
Idgrod's eyes darkened into chips of frozen flint. She possessed absolutely no mercy for monsters.
"If she resists, she has signed her own execution warrant," Idgrod stated coldly. "Do not risk the lives of my men or yourselves to take her alive. If she bares her fangs, eliminate her. Turn her to ash. She is a profound danger to every soul in Morthal."
"Understood perfectly," Aerion nodded, highly pleased with the lethal authorization.
"Move out!" Gorm barked, hefting his massive steel battleaxe.
Four heavily armored Morthal guards fell in line behind the Housecarl. Aerion, Jenassa, and Aeloria drew their weapons, their faces set in grim determination. They marched swiftly out of Highmoon Hall, plunging back into the freezing, fog choked streets of the swamp town.
The hunt for the master had begun.
Gorm took the lead, navigating the wooden boardwalks with the practiced ease of a man who had walked them for decades.
He led the heavily armed squad away from the central inn, heading toward a large, sturdy wooden house situated near the northern edge of the town perimeter, isolated from the neighbors by a patch of murky bog.
As they approached the dark, silent house, Aerion raised his hand, signaling the Housecarl to halt.
"Gorm, a moment," Aerion whispered, his tactical transmigrator mind taking complete control of the operation. He had zero intention of letting Alva escape into the swamps to warn Movarth.
"What is it, Elf?" Gorm whispered back, gripping his axe tightly.
"A master vampire possesses supernatural speed and the ability to seamlessly melt into the fog," Aerion explained coldly, gesturing toward the layout of the property. "If we all simply charge through the front door, she will likely shatter a back window and vanish into the marsh before we can corner her. We must establish a containment."
Gorm nodded slowly, recognizing the flawless military logic. "Agreed. What is the play?"
"Take your four guards and immediately surround the absolute perimeter of the house," Aerion commanded, smoothly stepping into the role of a seasoned combat commander. "Cover the back windows, the side alleys, and the cellar doors. Form an impenetrable net of steel. If she attempts to break out, you cut her down."
Aerion patted the heavy, dark hilt of the Black Prism at his hip.
"Myself, Jenassa, and Aeloria will execute the internal breach," Aerion stated, his golden eyes gleaming with dark anticipation. "We possess the specific, high level magical and martial capabilities required to neutralize a master vampire in extremely close quarters. We will flush the rat from her nest."
Gorm looked at the towering mage, then at the fiercely scarred Dark Elf and the resolute Imperial clad Nord. He remembered the absolute, terrifying efficiency with which they had dismantled Laelette.
"You have the breach, Aerion," Gorm agreed grimly.
The Housecarl turned to his men, using rapid hand signals to deploy them into the thick fog. The guards moved silently, spreading out to form a tight, inescapable perimeter around the dark house.
Aerion turned to his inner circle.
"Jenassa. Aeloria," Aerion whispered, drawing the Black Prism. The ebony blade pulsed with a faint, blood red, lethal aura in the mist. "No quarter. No hesitation. We breach, we locate, and we capture of eliminate this vampire."
Jenassa drew her Frost Steel Sword, a dark, thrilled smile touching her scarred lips. Aeloria gripped her Imperial sword and the silver plate, her blue eyes hardened into chips of ice.
Aerion stepped up onto the wooden porch. He did not bother testing the handle to see if the door was locked. He didn't want to give Alva a single fraction of a second of warning.
He raised his heavy leather boot, channeled a massive surge of his 430 point Stamina pool into his leg, and kicked the heavy oak door directly next to the iron lock.
CRACK-BOOM!
The iron deadbolt violently sheared completely off the wood. The heavy oak door exploded inward, crashing loudly against the interior wall as Aerion, Jenassa, and Aeloria surged violently into the dark lair of the vampire.
_____________________________
The iron deadbolt violently sheared completely off the wood. The heavy oak door exploded inward, crashing loudly against the interior wall as Aerion, Jenassa, and Aeloria surged violently into the dark lair of the vampire.
Aerion surged through the threshold, the Black Prism drawn and radiating a faint, lethal, blood red aura in the gloom. Jenassa flowed in instantly behind his right shoulder, her Frost Steel Sword drawn, while Aeloria breached from the left, her Imperial blade held in a tight, defensive guard, the heavy silver platter strapped securely to her forearm.
They fanned out flawlessly, securing the perimeter of the room in less than a second.
Aerion's golden eyes swept the interior, his transmigrator mind instantly processing the environmental layout. At first glance, the ground floor of the house was deceptively, aggressively mundane. It was a standard, slightly messy Nordic dwelling.
There was a stone hearth with the embers of a dying fire, a woven rug resting on the floorboards, and a sturdy wooden dining table covered in a few scattered clay plates and a half empty bottle of cheap wine.
But the architectural flow of the room was entirely wrong.
In the absolute, dead center of the main floor, in a position that made absolutely zero structural sense for a standard swamp house, was a heavy wooden trapdoor. It was propped open, revealing a steep, descending stairway hall that led down into a subterranean cellar.
The lighting spilling up from the cellar was not the warm, flickering orange of a standard torch or a hearth fire. It was a cold, eerie, sickly pale luminescence that seemed to absorb the shadows rather than banish them.
Suddenly, the soft, rhythmic sound of footsteps echoed from the wooden stairs.
Someone was coming up from the cellar.
Aerion raised his left hand, signaling Jenassa and Aeloria to hold their positions. The three warriors stood perfectly still in the dim lighting of the living room, their blades ready, forming an inescapable semi circle around the top of the stairs.
A moment later, a head of perfectly styled, raven black hair breached the threshold of the floorboards.
Alva stepped fully out of the cellar stairway, casually adjusting the plunging neckline of her highly revealing tavern dress. She had clearly heard the massive crash of the front door, but in her arrogance, she likely assumed it was simply Hroggar returning home in a drunken, clumsy stupor.
"Hroggar, you clumsy oaf, I told you to be quiet when you—" Alva began, an annoyed, sultry purr in her voice.
She stopped dead.
The vampire looked up, entirely expecting to see her thick-skulled lumberjack thrall. Instead, she found herself staring directly into the glowing, predatory golden eyes of the towering High Elf who had shattered her seduction magic an hour ago.
And flanking him were two heavily armed women with their blades drawn and leveled directly at her throat.
Alva's pale face froze in genuine, profound surprise. The sheer audacity of the intrusion temporarily short circuited her predatory instincts.
"What... what is the meaning of this?!" Alva demanded, her voice rising in pitch, desperately trying to maintain the facade of an outraged, innocent civilian. She took a cautious step back toward the open trapdoor. "Who do you think you are, breaking into my home in the middle of the night? What business do you have here?!"
Aerion did not respond with righteous anger or bureaucratic authority.
Instead, a slow, dark, utterly sinister smile spread across his flawless, aristocratic features. It was not a smile of amusement; it was the predatory, terrifying grin of a man who held all the cards and was thoroughly enjoying the absolute destruction of his enemy's reality.
"Our business, Alva," Aerion replied, his melodic voice dripping with dark, mocking theatricality, "is the business of Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone. We have come under her direct, explicit orders to bring you before her throne in Highmoon Hall."
Alva's eyes darted frantically between the three drawn weapons. "The Jarl? Why would the Jarl send armed thugs to my house?!"
"Because," Aerion stated smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate step forward, "you are currently under formal suspicion of being a vampire. And the mastermind behind the attempted slaughter of Hroggar's family tonight."
The blood seemed to completely drain from Alva's already deathly pale face, leaving her looking like a porcelain doll. The perfect, seductive facade she had meticulously maintained for months was violently crumbling.
"That... that is preposterous!" Alva stammered, her voice trembling with manufactured, desperate fear. "I am no vampire! I am just a woman! What... what possible evidence could you or the Jarl have to make such an insane accusation?!"
Aerion's sinister smile widened slightly.
"Oh, we currently possess no concrete, physical evidence connecting you to the arson," Aerion admitted, his tone entirely casual. "Your thrall was frustratingly tight lipped. But I am absolutely certain we will find the necessary proof once we conduct a thorough, invasive investigation of this house. An investigation we shall conduct while you are securely bound in heavy iron."
The word bound triggered the absolute, undeniable survival instinct of the predator.
Alva realized the conversation was a trap. The High Elf wasn't here to arrest her; he was here to execute her. The sheer, overwhelming panic of a cornered beast erased her human disguise.
With a vicious, inhuman hiss that echoed wetly in the room, Alva dropped the act. Her eyes flared into glowing, predatory pools of blood red light. Her jaw unhinged slightly, revealing the elongated, razor sharp fangs of a master vampire.
"You will die here, Elf!" Alva shrieked.
Moving with the explosive, terrifying speed of the undead, Alva didn't attempt to cast a spell. She violently drew a heavy, serrated steel dagger from a concealed sheath beneath the folds of her dress and lunged forward, desperately trying to carve a path through the blockade and escape into the foggy swamps.
She targeted Aerion first, assuming the unarmored mage would be the most physically fragile link in the chain.
She swung the steel dagger in a blinding, desperate, upward arc, aiming directly to gut the High Elf from his navel to his sternum.
Aerion did not cast a ward. He simply flicked his wrist, bringing the heavy ebony blade of the Black Prism down in a flawless, diagonal parry.
CLANG!
The collision of the steel dagger against the ebony sword sent a jarring, kinetic shockwave violently up Aerion's right arm.
Aerion's golden eyes widened in genuine, profound surprise.
What incredible force, Aerion thought, his transmigrator mind instantly analyzing the physical data of the parry.
Laelette had been a newly turned fledgling, her strength was slightly above a normal human's, but easily manageable. Alva, however, was a vastly older, fully saturated vampire who had fed regularly. The sheer, raw physical power she had packed into that single dagger strike was completely staggering. It felt as though he had just parried a full force swing from a massive Orc berserker wielding a warhammer.
'If I did not possess a 430 point Stamina pool and the integrated physical mastery of the Warrior Stone, that single dagger strike would have shattered my wrist and gutted me,' Aerion realized with a cold, sobering clarity.
The realization triggered a massive, cascading wave of strategic calculation regarding the future threats of the timeline.
'If a common, mid level master vampire like Alva possesses this kind of terrifying physical prowess... what in Oblivion is going to happen when I face the true monsters?' Aerion's mind raced. 'What happens when I am forced to cross blades with Lord Harkon in his Vampire Lord form? Or when I encounter the pureblood Werewolves of the Companions? Their physical scaling in this real, un modded universe is going to be absolutely apocalyptic. I cannot rely solely on my magic. I must continuously, aggressively farm my physical attributes. I need to be stronger.'
Aerion didn't allow the shock to slow his reflexes. Utilizing his superior leverage and heavy physical density, he violently pushed back against the deadlock, shoving Alva's dagger away and driving his heavy leather boot squarely into her midsection.
Alva staggered backward, hissing in pain, but her supernatural agility kept her from falling.
Realizing the towering High Elf was an immovable object of heavy steel, she violently pivoted, redirecting her desperate escape attempt toward the flanks.
She lunged directly at Aeloria and Jenassa.
Alva became a blur of pale skin and flashing steel, her dagger moving in a chaotic, blindingly fast flurry of lethal strikes.
Jenassa, an apex predator in her own right, met the assault with cold, terrifying perfection. The Dark Elf assassin did not try to match the vampire's supernatural strength. She relied entirely on decades of honed agility.
Jenassa flowed around the dagger strikes like water around a stone, parrying the heavy blows with the freezing flat of her Frost Steel Sword, her crimson eyes completely unbothered by the vampire's speed.
Aeloria, however, was the true revelation.
The Imperial clad Nord had absolutely no formal training against supernatural entities. By all logical metrics, the blinding speed of the master vampire should have instantly overwhelmed her mortal reflexes, resulting in a slashed throat.
But as Alva lunged, thrusting the steel dagger directly toward Aeloria's face, something ancient and divine woke within the Dragonborn's blood.
Aeloria didn't even consciously think. Her body moved with an impossible, instinctual precognition. It was as if time itself had slowed by a fraction of a second. The subtle, invisible favor of Akatosh, the inherent blessing of the Dragon Blood, guided her muscles.
Aeloria smoothly brought the heavy silver plate up, perfectly intercepting the dagger thrust. The steel blade sparked violently against the silver. Without missing a beat, Aeloria spun gracefully, using the momentum of the block to launch a heavy, devastating counter slash with her Imperial sword that forced Alva to frantically leap backward to avoid being decapitated.
Alva let out a shrill, completely frustrated shriek.
She was trapped. The High Elf was a physical wall, the Dark Elf was a lethal ghost, and the human woman was fighting with the impossible, terrifying reflexes of a seasoned blademaster. She could not break the perimeter with steel.
She needed distance.
Alva hissed, her form suddenly blurring. She tapped into the deepest reserves of her dark bloodline, attempting to utilize her enhanced vampiric agility to simply leap entirely over the trio and phase through the broken doorway.
But Aerion, his Gamer mind operating at maximum processing speed, anticipated the maneuver perfectly.
"You are going absolutely nowhere," Aerion commanded coldly.
He didn't swing his sword. He stepped quickly backward, opening the distance, and thrust his left hand violently toward the floorboards directly in front of the vampire's path.
He tapped into his Destruction magic, entirely bypassing fire and lightning. He required absolute, instantaneous crowd control.
Ice Spike.
A jagged, freezing lance of pure, condensed frost erupted from his palm. It didn't strike Alva in the chest; Aerion intentionally aimed low. The massive spike of ice slammed violently into the wooden floorboards directly between Alva's rushing leather boots.
The spell instantly detonated, unleashing a localized, absolute-zero shockwave of freezing magic.
The moisture in the damp swamp air flash froze instantly. A thick, heavy layer of jagged, unbreakable glacial ice rapidly expanded across the floorboards, completely engulfing Alva's boots and freezing them solid to the wood.
Alva, moving at supernatural speed, suddenly found her feet violently anchored to the floor.
The physical laws of momentum were unforgiving. With her feet frozen solid, her upper body continued forward. Alva let out a sharp cry of shock as she pitched violently forward, slamming face first into the hard wooden floorboards with a heavy, bone rattling CRACK.
The steel dagger skittered harmlessly away from her grasp, sliding under the dining table.
Aerion stood over the fallen vampire, letting out a dark, deeply satisfied chuckle that sent a chill down Aeloria's spine.
Instantly, Aerion, Jenassa, and Aeloria stepped forward, closing the circle. Three razor sharp blades were immediately pointed down at the struggling vampire, resting mere inches from her neck and spine.
Alva hissed, desperately trying to pry her frozen boots from the ice, her glowing red eyes glaring up at the High Elf with pure, unadulterated hatred. She raised her pale hands, dark, necrotic energy beginning to swirl violently around her fingertips as she prepared to unleash a point blank Vampiric Drain in a final, suicidal attempt to take one of them with her.
"I strongly advise against that," Aerion warned softly.
He lowered his left hand, aiming his palm directly at her glowing fingertips.
Grand Purification.
A concentrated, blinding beam of pure, holy sunlight erupted from his hand, striking Alva directly on her forearms.
The effect was instantaneous and brutal. The holy light violently burned away the dark magic pooling in her hands. The flesh on her arms began to sizzle and blacken, emitting the horrific smell of roasting meat.
Alva shrieked in absolute agony, her magical reserves completely fried, her arms spasming uselessly against the floorboards. The fight was entirely, utterly beaten out of her.
Aerion maintained the purification beam for three agonizing seconds before cutting the magic, ensuring her magicka pool was entirely depleted.
"The target is fully neutralized," Aerion announced, stepping back and sheathing the Black Prism.
He turned his head toward the shattered front doorway, raising his voice so it echoed into the foggy street.
"Housecarl Gorm! The perimeter is secure! The master is contained!"
Heavy, armored footsteps immediately thundered up the wooden porch. Gorm burst through the broken doorway, followed closely by his four Morthal guards, their swords drawn and ready for a bloodbath.
But they arrived to find a perfectly controlled scene.
Gorm lowered his battleaxe, his eyes wide as he stared at the pale, fanged woman sobbing and thrashing against the ice on the floorboards, her arms smoking from the holy magic.
"By the Eight... it is her," Gorm breathed, his voice thick with a mixture of horror and profound betrayal. "Alva. She's lived in this town for years. To think a monster was sleeping in our midst, drinking at our tavern..."
Gorm turned his gaze to Aerion. The initial, grudging respect he had felt for the High Elf solidified into absolute, unshakeable trust. The mage hadn't just saved a family, he had flawlessly extracted a master vampire from the heart of the tiwn without a single guard taking a scratch.
"You have done Morthal an immeasurable service tonight, Aerion," Gorm stated, his voice ringing with formal, heavy respect. He gestured to his guards. "Secure her. Use the heavy silver chains. Drag her to the deepest cell in Highmoon Hall, right next to her fledgling."
The guards rushed forward, roughly hauling the weakened, burned vampire up from the ice, binding her wrists in heavy silver manacles that caused her to hiss in pain.
As they prepared to drag her out, Aerion raised a hand, stopping the Housecarl.
"Gorm, a moment of your time, if you please," Aerion requested smoothly.
"Name it, Elf," Gorm replied instantly, entirely willing to accommodate the man who had just saved his town.
"While capturing the master is a massive victory, the Jarl requires absolute, irrefutable evidence of her treason to justify a formal execution," Aerion reasoned logically. "Furthermore, a vampire of this age rarely operates in complete isolation. She likely kept records, correspondence, or a ledger of her victims and her thralls. I formally request a brief window of time to thoroughly investigate this house, top to bottom, to secure any hard evidence before we return to the court."
Gorm nodded his head firmly, completely agreeing with the investigative logic.
"Of course you may," Gorm granted the permission without hesitation. "Take all the time you need, Aerion. Tear the floorboards up if you have to. If she has a ledger of who she has bitten, the Jarl needs those names tonight. We will hold her in the dungeons and await your return."
"Thank you, Gorm. I shall be thorough," Aerion promised.
The Housecarl and the guards dragged the screaming, cursing Alva out of the house, disappearing into the foggy streets of Morthal.
The moment the door was clear, Aerion immediately shifted into high speed investigative mode.
"Jenassa, secure the front door. Ensure no curious townsfolk wander in," Aerion commanded. "Aeloria, search the main floor. Look for hidden compartments in the desk or loose floorboards near the hearth."
They went to work. Aeloria systematically tore through the living room, opening cupboards and overturning the small writing desk, but she found nothing but mundane ledgers detailing the purchase of lumber and wine.
Aerion did not bother searching the upstairs bedroom. He knew exactly where the prize was hidden.
He walked deliberately toward the eerie, centrally located trapdoor. He descended the steep wooden stairs, his heavy boots echoing in the confined space.
The cellar of Alva's house was a macabre, terrifying nightmare.
The air was freezing, and the thick, metallic stench of old, dried blood was overpowering. The cellar was not used for storing potatoes or mead.
In the center of the dark room, resting on a raised stone dais, was a massive, ornate wooden coffin, its interior lined with plush, dark red velvet. Blood stained rags and shattered bones were piled carelessly in the corners of the room.
It was a true vampire's lair.
Aerion ignored the coffin. His golden eyes scanned the perimeter of the room, instantly locking onto a small, elevated wooden pedestal situated near the back wall, illuminated by a single, flickering black candle.
Resting on the pedestal was a thick, heavy leather bound book.
Alva's Journal.
Aerion walked over and picked up the heavy tome. He didn't just stow it, he flipped it open, his Gamer mind rapidly scanning the sprawling, frantic handwriting scrawled across the parchment.
The journal was a goldmine of geopolitical intelligence and dark conspiracies. Alva had documented everything in meticulous, arrogant detail. She wrote about her seduction of Hroggar, laughing at how easily the mortal mind broke. She detailed her order to Laelette to burn the house down to tie up loose ends.
But the most critical, absolutely vital piece of intelligence was located in the final pages.
Alva wrote extensively, and with absolute reverence, about her sire. She documented the grand, terrifying plan engineered by the ancient Master Vampire, Movarth Piquine. Movarth was currently residing in a massive, subterranean cave system just a few miles north of Morthal.
Alva's mission was merely phase one: she was to systematically thrall the guards, subvert the Jarl, and prepare the citizens of the town to be herded like cattle.
Once the town was primed, Movarth and his massive coven of pureblood vampires would descend from the cave, sealing the gates and turning Morthal into an isolated, endless blood farm.
Aerion closed the heavy journal, a massive, predatory smile stretching across his face in the dim light of the cellar.
'This is it,' Aerion thought, his transmigrator heart pounding with pure, unadulterated strategic excitement.
He wasn't feeling fear at the prospect of facing an ancient vampire and his army of thralls. He was feeling the intense, overwhelming thrill of a player who had just uncovered a massive, highyield quest marker.
'Movarth's Lair is heavily populated with high level vampires, death hounds, and thralls,' Aerion calculated rapidly. 'If I take this journal to Jarl Idgrod, she will undoubtedly beg me to lead an expedition to wipe out the coven before they can launch their invasion. I will have full political authorization to slaughter an entire cave of high level entities.'
He tapped the leather cover of the journal against his palm.
'This is not just a rescue mission anymore,' Aerion smiled coldly. 'This is an absolute, unparalleled opportunity to farm massive amounts of experience. I will level my Destruction, my Restoration, and my physical weapon skills to the absolute maximum. I will strip that cave of every ounce of gold, enchanted jewelry, and vampire dust it holds. I will grind Movarth into dust, and I will use his ashes to elevate myself to the Thane of Morthal.'
With his master plan flawlessly formulated, Aerion slipped the heavy journal into the deep pockets of his dark robes.
He turned away from the macabre coffin and ascended the wooden stairs, returning to the ground floor.
Jenassa and Aeloria looked up as he emerged from the eerie light of the cellar.
"Did you find anything, Aerion?" Aeloria asked, stepping away from the ruined desk.
"I found everything," Aerion announced smoothly, his golden eyes gleaming with dark anticipation.
"I possess the absolute, undeniable proof of Alva's treason. Furthermore, I have uncovered the location of her master, and the true, terrifying scope of the threat facing this town." He gestured toward the broken front door, the foggy streets of Morthal waiting beyond. "Come," Aerion commanded. "Let us return to Highmoon Hall. We have a Jarl to convince, and a war to start."
_____________________________
[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 440/440 Stamina: 430/430 Magicka: 620/620
Level: 109
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 85/41/98), 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 60), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak (Level 48), One Handed (Level 93), Two Handed (Level 81), 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, & Traveling Backpack (Supplies)
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: 75.32 KG / 515 KG
Septims: 77,128