If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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He casually let his right hand drop to his side, his fingers lightly brushing the heavy leather satchel. Resting perfectly, safely, and entirely securely within his digital void was the exact, legendary artifact the Greybeard had just dramatically assigned them to retrieve. "Remain true to the Way of the Voice," Arngeir instructed solemnly, entirely unaware that the grand quest was already completely, hilariously compromised. "And you will return to us triumphant."
The howling, freezing wind of the mountain courtyard whipped fiercely around them, but Aeloria stood completely resolute. The absolute, mythical weight of the Greybeards' mandate had settled firmly upon her steel clad shoulders.
She did not know the ancient geography of Skyrim perfectly, and she had absolutely no idea where this crypt was located, but she knew her duty.
Aeloria offered a deep, solemn nod of her head, her bright blue eyes locking onto the ancient master.
"I will go, Master Arngeir," Aeloria swore, her voice carrying the unshakeable determination of a true Nord. "I will navigate the depths of this Ustengrav, and I will retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller for your order."
Master Arngeir smiled, a warm, deeply approving expression that crinkled the ancient, weathered skin around his eyes. He slowly bowed his head in return, acknowledging her commitment to the path.
"You have our deepest gratitude, Dragonborn," Arngeir spoke, his resonant voice vibrating with quiet power. "The retrieval of the Horn is not merely a test of your martial prowess, but a trial of your spirit. When you return to these halls with the artifact in hand, you will have proven your dedication to the Way of the Voice. Only then will we formally discuss the next, deeper stages of your training."
Aeloria nodded once more, fully accepting the terms of her continued education.
She then turned her heavy, horned helmet, looking directly at the towering High Elf standing near the heavy wooden doors.
"Aerion," Aeloria called out, her tone shifting from the formal reverence of a student to the absolute trust of a comrade-in-arms. "I cannot undertake this pilgrimage alone. I do not know where Ustengrav is, nor do I know the lethal secrets of the ancient Nordic crypts. Would you and the others accompany me on this journey? Your arcane mastery and your deep knowledge of my ancestors' crypts will make this expedition vastly safer."
Aerion did not hesitate for a fraction of a millisecond. He stepped forward, his dark robes fluttering in the blizzard, and offered a smooth, deeply reliable smile.
"Of course I will accompany you, Aeloria," Aerion agreed, his melodic voice radiating absolute support. "You do not even need to ask. As I have stated before, I am committed to this path. Furthermore, the Greybeards are the only individuals in this entire province who possess the ancient knowledge required to understand why the dragons have suddenly returned to the skies of Skyrim. If retrieving this Horn is the key to unlocking that critical intelligence, then we shall march into the dark and secure it."
Standing rigidly to Aeloria's left, Valdemar suddenly stepped forward, bringing his heavy steel gauntlet across his breastplate in a crisp, resounding salute.
"And you certainly do not need to ask me, Thane Aeloria," the veteran Housecarl announced fiercely, his deep voice cutting through the wind. "My life and my blade are sworn to your service by the Jarl himself. Wherever the Dragonborn marches, I follow. I will gladly carve a path through whatever horrors wait in this Ustengrav."
Aeloria's face broke into a massive, deeply grateful smile. The sheer loyalty of her newly formed strike team was incredibly humbling.
"Thank you," Aeloria said, looking at her companions. "All of you."
Master Arngeir watched the exchange, a look of profound, quiet wisdom in his eyes. He recognized the strength of mortal bonds, even if he himself had abandoned them for the silence of the mountain.
"Keep yourselves safe on the roads below, travelers," Arngeir advised them gently. He pulled his heavy gray robes slightly tighter against the freezing wind. "However, before you begin the long, treacherous descent... if you would like to remain here within the monastery to rest for a moment, you are more than welcome. The Seven Thousand Steps exact a heavy toll on the body."
Arngeir offered a modest, apologetic smile.
"I only ask that you understand our ascetic ways," the monk added humbly. "Our lodgings are incredibly minimal, consisting only of simple stone floors and thin bedding. And the meager food we sustain ourselves upon is certainly not as tasteful or rich as the roasted meats and spiced wines you are accustomed to in the valleys below."
Aeloria, whose Nordic muscles were currently burning with absolute, screaming exhaustion from hauling heavy steel up the highest peak in Tamriel, didn't care if the food was made of boiled bark. The prospect of sitting down out of the wind was a divine blessing.
She looked over her shoulder at Aerion, seeking the tactical consensus of the expedition leader.
Aerion offered a brief, confirming nod. The team needed a localized respite to stabilize their stamina before navigating the treacherous, icy descent.
Aeloria turned back to the Greybeard.
"We accept your hospitality, Master Arngeir. Thank you for your profound kindness," Aeloria replied graciously. She gestured to the frost clinging to the armor of her Housecarls. "My friends and I are incredibly tired after the climb. It was a brutal ascent, especially since we were forced to draw steel and fight off an ambush of Ice Wraiths, followed immediately by three massive Frost Trolls holding the upper pass."
Master Arngeir's expression did not change to one of shock, he merely nodded slowly, completely unsurprised by the lethal wildlife.
"Yes, the climb up the Seven Thousand Steps is not merely arduous, it is intentionally filled with the raw, untamed dangers of the wild," Arngeir explained, his resonant voice completely serene. "We do not allow the Jarl's guards to clear the path, nor do we attempt to change the natural order of the mountain. The freezing winds, the treacherous ice, and the beasts that prowl the crags... think of them as a physical trial. A necessary crucible for those whose faith and determination drive them to seek out High Hrothgar."
Arngeir turned away from the freezing courtyard, gesturing toward the heavy wooden doors leading back into the monastery.
"But you have passed the crucible," Arngeir noted warmly. "Come. Let us return inside. The weather on the peak is unforgiving to those not accustomed to the Voice."
In Arngeir's mind, the blizzard was indeed a lethal threat to mortals, though he and the other Masters, sustained by the ancient fire of the Thu'um burning within their souls, barely registered the sub zero temperatures.
They gladly followed the monk back through the heavy oak doors, stepping out of the roaring wind and back into the thick, silent, ancient warmth of the massive central hall. The dragon relief braziers flickered softly, casting long, dancing shadows across the gray stone.
Arngeir led the heavily armed group past the central meeting area, guiding them down a long, narrow, vaulted stone corridor situated in the eastern wing of the monastery.
"You may use this alcove as your resting area," Arngeir offered softly, gesturing to a wide, recessed section of the stone hall that was slightly warmed by a nearby brazier. "I will leave you for a moment to retrieve some heavy woolen bedrolls from our stores so that you do not have to sleep directly upon the freezing stone."
"Thank you, Master," Aerion bowed politely as the ancient monk turned and glided silently down the corridor.
The absolute moment Arngeir rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, the strike team finally, fully relaxed. Aeloria immediately dropped her heavy battleaxe against the wall with a loud clatter and began unbuckling the thick steel plates of her armor, desperate to shed the suffocating weight. Valdemar and Lydia followed suit, dropping their massive supply packs to the floorboards.
As Aeloria pulled her heavy gauntlets off, she looked up at the High Elf.
"Aerion," Aeloria asked, her voice hushed so as not to disturb the profound silence of the monastery. "Do you actually know the specific location of this Ustengrav? I have never even heard the name mentioned in the taverns."
Aerion froze.
It was a microscopic, entirely imperceptible pause, but within the hyper accelerated confines of his transmigrator mind, an absolute, chaotic maelstrom of emergency tactical recalculation was actively exploding.
Ustengrav, Aerion thought, a sudden, cold sweat pricking the back of his neck despite the warmth of the brazier.
He had completely, arrogantly forgotten the physical, logistical implications of his own sequence breaking genius.
He had indeed stolen the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from the depths of Ustengrav days ago to completely subvert Delphine's manipulative narrative control. The artifact was currently resting comfortably inside his digital void.
But that brilliant manipulation presented a massive, immediate problem.
He could not possibly take Aeloria to Ustengrav now. The crypt was already completely cleared wit her help. The puzzles were solved, the traps were triggered, the massive Frostbite Spider matriarch was a headless corpse, and the Draugr Scourges guarding the sanctum were piles of ash.
More importantly, the pedestal where the Horn was supposed to rest was completely, undeniably empty.
If he led her into an empty, pre cleared tomb and magically produced the Horn out of thin air, his entire cover as a 'humble scholar' would be instantly, permanently shattered.
The Dragonborn would know he was actively manipulating her.
'I need a substitute,' Aerion calculated frantically.' I need a completely fresh, highly dangerous ancient Nordic crypt that possesses the exact architectural aesthetics of a founder's tomb. I will simply lead her there, let her fight the boss, and seamlessly slip the Horn into the final treasure chest amidst the chaos of the battle. She won't know the difference.'
He engaged his digital system, projecting the massive, highly detailed, semi translucent map of Skyrim directly over his physical vision, completely invisible to the others in the room.
He rapidly scanned the holds, filtering the locations for ancient ruins. Bleak Falls Barrow was done. Saarthal was locked by the College. Labyrinthian was inaccessible.
His golden eyes snapped onto a specific, highly prominent icon located in the snowy, central tundras of the Pale, just north of Whiterun.
'Volunruud,' Aerion identified with a surge of dark, triumphant satisfaction.
It was absolutely perfect. Volunruud was a massive, incredibly dangerous ancient crypt. It housed the powerful Aura Whisper shout, and it was guarded by Kvenel the Tongue, a dual wielding, ethereal Draugr Death Overlord who guarded two legendary ancient Nord weapons, Eduj and Okin. The boss fight would be epic, distracting, and perfectly suited to mask his sleight of hand.
He would simply lead them to Volunruud, explicitly refer to the ruins as 'Ustengrav' throughout the entire expedition, and Aeloria, possessing zero cartographical knowledge of ancient tombs, would completely believe him.
To buy himself the necessary seconds to finalize the deception, Aerion raised a long, elegant finger to his chin, his golden eyes narrowing as if deep in scholarly thought. He put on an absolute masterclass of acting.
"Ustengrav... Ustengrav," Aerion murmured softly, his brow furrowing in perfectly simulated concentration. "I have certainly come across the name numerous times during my extensive research into the Merethic Era, Aeloria. It is a highly significant site. But... the exact, precise geographical coordinates are slightly eluding my immediate recall. The ancient maps in my mind are vast."
He closed his eyes, pretending to search his memory, while actively locking the coordinates for Volunruud into his internal compass.
"Ah. Yes," Aerion announced a moment later, his eyes snapping open with a brilliant, relieved smile. "I remember the location now."
He lowered his hand, turning to face the Dragonborn with absolute, unwavering confidence.
"The fane is located deep within the snowy, central tundras of the Pale, nestled in a frozen valley just north of the Whiterun border," Aerion lied flawlessly, perfectly describing the location of Volunruud. "It is a treacherous, multi layered crypt. But the path is clear to me."
He gestured toward the heavy supply packs resting on the floor.
"After we have rested here and recovered our strength, we will immediately begin the descent back down to Ivarstead," Aerion laid out the tactical itinerary. "We will sleep in the warm beds of the Vilemyr Inn tonight. Tomorrow morning, Bjorlam will drive the carriage back toward the central plains, and from there, we will march directly north into the Pale to breach the crypt. We will not keep the Greybeards waiting."
Aeloria let out a heavy, deeply relieved sigh, a bright smile returning to her tired face.
"You are an absolute lifesaver, Aerion," Aeloria thanked him genuinely, completely oblivious to the massive geopolitical deception occurring right in front of her. "I would have spent weeks wandering the swamps looking for this place if it weren't for your mind."
"My knowledge is entirely at your disposal, Dragonborn," Aerion replied smoothly, offering a polite bow.
A moment later, the soft, whispering footsteps of Master Arngeir echoed down the corridor. The ancient monk rounded the corner, carrying a large, heavy bundle of thick, woven gray wool.
"Here are your bedrolls, everyone," Arngeir offered gently, setting the heavy bundle down on the stone floor. "I pray you find some measure of peace within these walls. The mountain is quiet today."
"They are perfectly adequate, Master Arngeir. We thank you," Aerion nodded respectfully.
With the bedding provided, Arngeir turned and glided back toward the main hall to resume his silent meditation with the other Masters, leaving the strike team to their rest.
Lydia and Valdemar immediately took charge of the logistics. They unrolled the heavy woolen mats across the cold stone floor, placing them as close to the radiating heat of the dragon relief brazier as possible. They then opened the heavy supply packs they had hauled up the mountain, retrieving the remaining preserved rations.
There was no grand feasting in the halls of High Hrothgar. They sat in a tight, quiet circle on the floorboards, tearing into the tough, heavily salted venison and passing around the leather waterskins. The food was cold and entirely lacking in spice, but the sheer caloric intake felt like absolute luxury to their burning muscles.
Lupin the fox happily accepted a strip of dried meat from Jenassa, curling up into a tight ball beside the warm brazier.
Once the rations were consumed, the sheer, crushing exhaustion of the Seven Thousand Steps finally overtook them completely.
Aeloria lay back on her woolen bedroll, wrapping her heavy fur cloak tightly around her shoulders. Within sixty seconds, the Dragonborn was deeply, profoundly asleep, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady, restorative rhythm.
Lydia and Valdemar assumed resting positions near the edge of the alcove, their hands resting lightly on the hilts of their weapons even in sleep, their Housecarl conditioning never truly deactivating. Jenassa pulled her dark hood over her eyes, melding seamlessly into the shadows of the corner.
Aerion did not sleep.
He sat cross-legged on his bedroll, his back perfectly straight, his breathing slow and measured. His transmigrator biology, heavily augmented by his newly allocated Stamina attributes, required vastly less rest than his mortal companions.
He spent the quiet hours actively organizing his digital inventory, ensuring his potions were hot keyed, his soul gems were charged, and the stolen Horn of Jurgen Windcaller was positioned precisely for the impending sleight of hand maneuver in Volunruud.
Three hours later, Aerion quietly stood up.
"Rise," Aerion commanded softly, his melodic voice cutting through the silence of the alcove. "Our respite is concluded. We must begin the descent before the evening blizzards make the stairs entirely impassable."
The team stirred immediately. The brief nap had worked miracles; their muscles had cooled, the lactic acid had flushed from their systems, and the profound, crushing fatigue had been replaced by a quiet, determined energy.
Aeloria buckled her heavy steel breastplate back into place, securing the Axe of Morthal across her back. Valdemar and Lydia quickly rolled up the woolen mats, stacking them neatly against the wall for the monks, before shouldering their significantly lighter supply packs.
They walked quietly back through the vaulted corridors, stepping into the massive main hall.
The four Greybeards were standing in the exact same positions they had been in hours prior, their eyes closed, deeply entranced in silent, standing meditation. They looked more like ancient statues carved from the mountain stone than living men.
As Aerion and Aeloria approached the center of the hall, Master Arngeir slowly opened his eyes, sensing their departure.
"You leave us so soon, Dragonborn?" Arngeir asked softly, his resonant voice barely a whisper.
"We do, Master Arngeir," Aeloria nodded respectfully. "The road to the crypt is long, and I wish to retrieve the Horn and return to my training as swiftly as possible."
Arngeir offered a slow, deeply approving smile. "Your dedication honors the Way of the Voice. May the wind be at your back, and may your Thu'um strike true in the dark."
"Thank you, Masters," Aeloria bowed deeply to the four monks.
Aerion mirrored the gesture, placing a hand over his heart. "Farewell, Master Arngeir."
With their formal goodbyes concluded, the strike team turned and marched toward the heavy wooden double doors at the front of the monastery.
Valdemar stepped forward, grabbing the heavy iron handle, and pushed the doors open.
The transition was violent. They stepped out of the profound, ancient silence of High Hrothgar and directly back into the screaming, howling, freezing apocalypse of the Throat of the World. The blizzard whipped fiercely across the massive stone courtyard, stinging their exposed skin with sharp, driving ice crystals.
Aeloria immediately pulled her heavy fur cloak tightly around her steel armor, shivering as the sudden drop in temperature hit her core.
"Keep a low center of gravity!" Aerion roared over the wind, taking the lead as they approached the edge of the courtyard where the stairs began. "The descent is vastly faster, but the kinetic momentum makes the black ice infinitely more lethal! Step carefully!"
They began the long, treacherous climb down the Seven Thousand Steps.
Going down was indeed physically less exhausting on their lungs, but it required an agonizing amount of focus and localized muscle tension to prevent themselves from simply slipping on the frozen stone and tumbling hundreds of feet down the sheer cliffs into the ravines below.
They navigated the steep, winding spiral sections with painstaking caution. The heavy, iron rimmed boots of the Housecarls found purchase in the cracks of the stone, while Jenassa practically glided over the slick surfaces with the supernatural balance of her profession.
As they descended past the fifth thousandth step, they encountered the grim, frozen remnants of their upward journey.
Resting heavily in the narrow pass were the massive, charred carcasses of the three Frost Trolls Aerion had incinerated. The superheated, boiling ash that had coated the beasts had rapidly cooled in the blizzard, fusing the blackened bones and melted flesh into horrific, solid blocks of dark ice. They stepped carefully around the frozen monuments to destruction, the lingering scent of ozone still faint in the howling wind.
Further down the winding cliffs, they spotted the scattered, shattered shards of translucent blue ice that marked the remains of the Ice Wraiths Jenassa and Aerion had shattered.
As they crossed the three thousandth step, the environment finally began to relent.
The howling, blinding blizzard slowly faded into a thick, damp mountain mist. The temperature rose marginally, transitioning from sub zero to a biting, uncomfortable chill. The treacherous, solid black ice coating the stone stairs melted back into slick, rushing water.
The dark, jagged pine trees gave way once more to the lush, sprawling canopy of golden birch and vibrant autumn foliage that marked the lower elevations of the Rift.
The relief was palpable. The crushing, existential pressure of the high altitude entirely vanished from their chests, allowing them to finally take deep, full breaths of oxygen rich air.
"By the Divines, I can feel my toes again," Aeloria laughed breathlessly, stomping her steel sabatons against the wet stone to shake off the lingering frost.
"Do not let your guard down entirely," Jenassa warned quietly, her crimson eyes scanning the dense, misty tree line bordering the lower stairs. "The snow is gone, but the wolves are not."
They maintained a tight, disciplined formation as they navigated the final, sprawling descents of the ancient staircase. The journey downward took less than half the time of the brutal ascent, their momentum carrying them swiftly through the beautiful, autumnal forests.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, deep, shadowy purples and dark oranges across the sky, the rushing sound of the mountain river finally met their ears.
They stepped off the final, wide stone step, their boots crunching against the wet dirt path. They crossed the sturdy, arched stone bridge, the churning water wheel of the lumber mill groaning loudly in the twilight.
They had returned to Ivarstead.
The small, rustic village was quiet, the local farmers having already retreated to the warmth of their hearths. The only building showing signs of life was the Vilemyr Inn, bright, yellow candlelight spilling warmly from its windows.
Aerion led his exhausted, freezing team across the dirt courtyard. He pushed the heavy wooden doors open, stepping back into the smells of roasted meat, spilled ale, and the blessed, localized heat of a roaring hearth fire.
Wilhelm, the bald innkeeper, looked up from the counter as the heavily armed group re entered his establishment. He didn't offer a sarcastic greeting this time, he simply noted their survival with a brief, indifferent grunt, returning to his ledgers.
"Valdemar, Lydia," Aerion instructed, his voice smooth and tired. "Secure our rooms and distribute the remaining rations. Tomorrow, we ride back to the central plains. We have an ancient tomb to breach." A massive, hidden smirk touched the High Elf's lips as he moved toward the warmth of the fire. The deception was flawlessly in motion. The Dragonborn would get her trial, and he would harvest the loot in Volunruud.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 540/540 Stamina: 560/560 Magicka: 750/750
Level: 145
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Dragon Master (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+3)/Lightning(+1)/Frost(+1)) (Level 42/76/41), Restoration (Healing(+1)/Purify(+2)) (Level 31/25), Alteration (Level 35), Illusion (Level 50), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/26), Persuasion(+1) (Level 83), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak (Level 87), One Handed(+1) (Level 72), Two Handed (Level 81), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 72), Enchanting (Level 66), Light Armor(+1) (Level 0), Block (Level 70), & Pickpocket (Level 8)
Shouts: Fus Roh Dah (Force Balance Push), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim Zii (Fade Spirit), Su (Air), & Wuld (Whirlwind)
[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, Golden Staff of Flames, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, Orcish Dagger, Jagged Crown, The Mirror, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Reanimate Corpse Tome, Staff of Lightning, Deed to Tundra Homestead, Sapphire, Ruby, Dawnbreaker, Traveling Backpack (Supplies), Potion of Minor Magicka, Vampire Armor, Vampire Boots, Movarth's Golden Ash (Unique), Dwarven Sword, Hide Boots Of Sneak, Gold Ruby Ring of Fortify Magicka, Iron Garnet Ring of Fortify Conjuration & Magicka Regen, Elven Dagger, Potion of Healing, Honed Ancient Nord Sword of Sparks, Gold Emerald Circlet, & Scroll of Fire Storm, Ring of Archery,Hide Boots of Stamina, Ancient Nord Sword of Absorbing, Iron Garnet Circlet, & Iron Sapphire Circlet
2x Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), Elven Sword, Amethysts, Potions of Plentiful Magicka, Scroll of Conjure Familiar, & Scroll of Magelight
3x Glowing Mushrooms, Potions of Minor Stamina, Flawless Sapphires, Gold Necklace, Iron Necklace, Petty Soul Gem (Filled), & Potions of Minor Magicka
4x Spider Eggs, Garnets, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
5x Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
7x Vampires Dust
8x Iron Arrows & Ancient Nord Arrows
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
12x Black Soul Gem (Filled)
Weight: 90.20 KG / 580 KG
Septims: 82,277