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(A/N: Also everyone I have a new novel a Dragon Age Inquisition novel named "From Couch To The Inquisitor", be sure to check it out and give some power stone)
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"Yes, Captain. A courier delivered this directly from Dragonsreach an hour ago," Valerius reported. "The General's orders are clear. Our regiment is to execute a forced march and arrive at Fort Kastav first. We are ordered to initiate a massive, highly visible siege upon the fortress. We are to cause a huge disturbance as planned, drawing the attention of the Stormcloak command in Eastmarch and Winterhold, anchoring their attention to our position."
Valerius traced a line on the map. "Once we have Fort Kastav fully engaged, Legate Rikke will march the main army straight up the Pale to shatter Fort Dunstad while they are distracted when our attack on Fort Kastav."
Aerion's lips curved into a dark, predatory smile. General Tullius was using him exactly as he had intended, as a terrifying and natural level disaster decoy that doubled as a sledgehammer.
"Then we will give them a disturbance they will never forget," Aerion promised softly. He looked around the table at his command staff. "Are there any remaining hurdles I need to know? Any final reports before we finalize the march orders?"
The two Praefects and the five Tribunes looked at one another, exchanging brief, silent confirmations, with their eyes before uniformly shaking their heads.
"The regiment is yours to command, Captain," Quintus affirmed.
"Then this meeting is adjourned," Aerion declared, stepping back from the map table. He picked up his dark cloak, fastening the heavy silver clasp at his shoulder. "Accompany me outside, Praefects. It is time I formally address the men who bled for me, and the men who are about to."
The command staff saluted sharply, turning on their heels and marching out of the pavilion.
Outside in the crisp, late afternoon air, the Tribunes immediately began shouting orders to their respective Quaestors. Within minutes, the sprawling Imperial camp transformed from a relaxed staging ground into a rigid, terrifying display of the Empire might.
One thousand Imperial legionnaires assembled in the vast open field behind the command tent. They formed up in perfect, immaculate squares, their crimson cloaks snapping violently in the wind, the late sun glinting off a sea of polished steel helmets and heavy shields. The sheer overwhelming scale of the regiment was breathtaking.
Aerion walked out of the tent, flanked by Praefects Valerius and Quintus, and stepped up onto a reinforced wooden supply wagon that served as a makeshift podium.
A profound, absolute silence fell over the thousand men.
Aerion stood tall, his golden eyes sweeping over the ranks. He saw the battered, hardened faces of the veterans who had survived the siege of Whiterun, and he saw the fresh, eager faces of the reinforcements from Solitude.
"Soldiers of the Empire," Aerion's voice boomed, magically amplified to carry across the massive formation with crystal clarity.
"To those of you who stood with me upon the walls of this city, you have my eternal respect. You held the line against the rebel, and you broke the rebellion attempt to take over this great city. But our work is not done yet."
Aerion shifted his gaze to the massive blocks of new infantry.
"To the five hundred men who have marched from all corners of Imperial friendly holds to reinforce this banner, welcome," Aerion called out, his voice rich and commanding. "You have joined a regiment that does not know defeat. I want to hear the voices of the men I am taking into our next mission! Let the Stormcloaks hear you!"
The five hundred new legionnaires instantly erupted. They slammed their shortswords against their iron and steel shields in a deafening, unified crash of steel, letting out a massive, earth shaking roar that echoed off the stone walls of Whiterun.
Aerion raised a gauntleted hand, and the roar ceased with terrifying discipline.
"I thank you," Aerion continued, his tone dropping into a grave, uncompromising register. "I expect the veterans of this unit to show the newcomers the ropes. I expect you to show them the unity, the discipline, and the unbreakable rules that govern this regiment."
He stepped closer to the edge of the wagon, his presence radiating an oppressive, absolute authority.
"We fight as one unbroken shield wall. I will not tolerate any violation of the brotherhood. I will not tolerate infighting, theft, or cowardice. We adhere to the warrior's code, and we respect the men standing beside us."
His golden eyes seemed to bore into the soul of every man present. "And above all else, I absolutely despise injustice within my ranks. If any man abuses his power, or betrays the trust of this unit, my judgment will be swift and it will be final. Am I clear?!"
"YES, CAPTAIN!" One thousand voices roared in absolute, unified agreement.
"Good," Aerion nodded, a fierce, proud smile touching his lips. "Return to your duties. Finalize your packs, sharpen your steel, and rest your bodies. In two days, we march north, and we will break the spine of Winterhold!"
Aerion stepped down from the wagon as the massive formation dissolved back into the organized chaos of military preparation. He dismissed his command staff with a final salute, turning his back on the camp and walking up the paved stone ramp toward the main gates of the city.
He needed to ground himself before the upcoming slaughter.
The streets of Whiterun were rapidly recovering. The debris had been cleared, the merchants were hawking their wares, and the smell of roasting meat filled the Plains District. Aerion navigated the crowded market, acknowledging the respectful nods of the guardsmen and the awed stares of the citizens, until he reached the familiar, heavy oak doors of the Bannered Mare.
The tavern was bustling, but Ysolda was not behind the counter. Hulda pointed a thumb toward the back rooms.
Aerion found Ysolda in the small, private dining alcove she used for managing her ledgers. She was bent over a stack of parchment, a quill in hand, her brow furrowed in concentration. When she heard his heavy boots, she looked up, the stress instantly melting from her features.
"Aerion," Ysolda smiled warmly, setting the quill down and standing up to embrace him.
"I hope I am not interrupting the flow of business," Aerion murmured, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
"Business can wait," Ysolda assured him, pulling back and leading him to a small wooden table where two bowls of steaming venison stew and a fresh loaf of bread were already waiting. "Sit. Eat with me. Tell me about your mysterious expedition to the west."
They ate together in the quiet alcove, insulated from the noise of the tavern. Aerion kept the horrific details of the Briarhearts, the decapitated Hagraven, and the Daedric artifacts completely out of the narrative. He wove a sanitized, adventurous tale of tracking down ancient, historical relics in the remote ruins of the Reach and the pine forests of Falkreath, focusing on the tactical growth of his apprentices and the beautiful, rugged landscapes.
Ysolda listened with rapt attention, her mercantile mind fascinated by the logistics of moving through such dangerous territories.
When the bowls were empty and they were sharing a bottle of Alto wine, the atmosphere shifted. The reality of his situation demanded attention.
"I am marching out in two days, Ysolda," Aerion told her quietly, setting his goblet down.
Ysolda's green eyes focused on his face, the easy smile fading into a look of deep and supportive seriousness. "Where?"
"Fort Kastav," Aerion explained, his voice low. "It is a heavy fortress in the freezing mountains south of Winterhold. My regiment will lay siege to it and take it over. It will serve as the Empire's staging ground for a direct assault on the hold capital. While I am engaging them there, General Tullius will march the main army against Fort Dunstad to set the stage for Dawnstar's surrender."
Ysolda let out a slow, steady breath, reaching across the table to interlock her fingers with his.
"The northern mountains are merciless," Ysolda warned softly, her thumb tracing the knuckles of his gauntlet. "Please, Aerion. Be incredibly careful. I know what you are capable of, and I know you command an army now. But promise me you won't take unnecessary risks just to prove a point to the Empire."
"I do not take risks, Ysolda. I calculate outcomes," Aerion assured her gently, squeezing her hand.
"I just hope this war ends soon," Ysolda sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder as he moved to sit beside her. "Before you became a Praefect, the civil war felt like a slow, bleeding stalemate that was going to drag on for decades. But now... a great progress has been made since you joined the fight. You broke the siege here. If you break the north... maybe Skyrim can finally heal."
"It will end," Aerion promised, his tone carrying an absolute, terrifying certainty that comforted her. "And when it does, the trade routes will be yours to command."
They shared a long, quiet, intimate moment in the alcove, stealing a few precious hours of peace from the encroaching war. When the sun finally began to set, casting long shadows across the tavern floor, Aerion stood up.
He leaned down, sharing a deep, lingering kiss with Ysolda.
"I will see you when the northern banners fall," Aerion murmured against her lips.
"Come back to me, Captain," she whispered.
Aerion left the Bannered Mare, navigating the darkening streets of Whiterun and passing through the main gates. He retrieved Revan from the Imperial stables and rode out into the cold, starlit expanse of the tundra, heading directly back to his sprawling estate.
For the next two days, Tundra Homestead became an absolute hive of preparatory activity.
Aerion did not rest. He spent the entirety of the first day locked inside the massive, roaring forge he had constructed on the edge of the property. The heat was blistering, the rhythmic, deafening CLANG of his heavy smithing hammer echoing across the plains from dawn until dusk.
He was meticulously analyzing and reinforcing the custom forged steel armor plates worn by his eleven mammoths. He used his Smithing skills to temper the heavy steel, folding in refined corundum to increase the tensile strength, ensuring the metal would not become brittle in the extreme zero temperatures of the Winterhold mountains. He hammered heavy, spiked iron cleats into their massive hoof-guards to provide absolute traction on the treacherous, icy inclines leading up to the fort.
On the second day, Aerion turned his attention to a far more delicate, complex task.
He stood in the center of the estate's secure storehouse, surrounded by the massive, heavy bundles of ivory bone and iron hard all kinds of color scales harvested from the two dragons they had slain upon the plains.
Aerion ran his gauntleted hands over the smooth, incredibly dense surface of a massive dragon femur. He tapped it with a steel hammer, listening to the dull, resonant chime that indicated a material harder than ebony, yet astonishingly light.
He pulled a set of iron calipers and a parchment ledger from a nearby workbench, beginning the painstaking process of taking precise, mathematical measurements of the bones and scales. He calculated the exact curvature required for a breastplate, the density needed for a shield, and the weight distribution for a heavy greataxe.
He was drafting the blueprints.
When the campaign for Fort Kastav was concluded, and the northern rebellion was shattered, he would return to this forge. He would use these bones and his absolute mastery over the elements to forge a set of armor and weapons unlike anything seen in Skyrim since the Dragon Cult ruled the skies. He would forge the Dragonborn's ultimate arsenal.
But for now, the blueprints were rolled up and sealed. The heavy mammoth armor was secured. The mercenaries were packed, and the magical reserves were full.
As the sun set on the second day, casting a bloody, bruised light over the tundra, Aerion stood on the porch of his mansion, looking north toward the jagged, snow capped peaks of the distant mountains. The preparations were complete.
The pre dawn light creeping over the golden tundra was cold and gray, but the sprawling grounds of Tundra Homestead were already alive with the harsh, rhythmic clatter of preparations for war.
Inside the master suite of the mansion, Aerion stood in absolute silence as he methodically strapped the heavy, fur lined plates of his Nordic Carved Armor over his linen undershirt. He secured the heavy leather buckles with practiced precision, testing the weight and the range of motion in his shoulders. Today was the culmination of his localized consolidation of power. Today, he marched not as a lone mage or a simple Thane, but as a supreme warlord of the Imperial Legion.
He picked up the jagged, bronze mask of Krosis, hooking it securely to his heavy leather belt, and descended the wooden stairs.
Out in the frosty courtyard, his retinue was fully assembled. Lydia, Jenassa, and Eisa stood beside their saddled warhorses, their armor gleaming dully in the low light. The four mages, J'zargo, Onmund, Brelyna, and Eirik, were adjusting their heavy winter cloaks, their staffs resting against their saddles.
Sinmir stood near the massive timber gates of the mammoth pens, leaning on his battleaxe. The mercenary captain watched as the estate workers carefully undid the heavy iron chains locking the gates.
"Keep the homestead locked down, Sinmir," Aerion commanded, his heavy boots crunching against the frost covered dirt as he approached the alpha mammoth. "No one enters the perimeter unless they bear my seal or the seal of the Jarl. If the Stormcloaks attempt a desperate reprisal while the main army is marching north, the defense of this estate falls entirely on you."
"The walls will hold, Boss," Sinmir promised, offering a crisp, deeply respectful salute. "My boys and girls will keep the cheese safe. You just go give Ulfric a bloody nose."
Aerion offered a faint, confident smirk. He turned his attention to the massive timber pens.
He reached out with his Animal Affinity, sending a pulsing, authoritative command through the magical tether linking him to the beasts, letting them knew from just the feelings that it's time to march out.
The eleven heavily armored mammoths let out a synchronized, low, rumbling bugle that vibrated through the earth and rattled the wooden planks of the mansion. They lumbered out of the pens, their custom forged steel plates clanking ominously, their iron capped tusks sweeping back and forth. They were rested, fed, and brimming with primal aggression.
Aerion swung smoothly into the saddle of his black stallion, Revan. He took the reins and spurred the horse forward, leading his retainers, his apprentices, and the towering herd of beasts out of the estate gates and onto the main road toward Whiterun.
The ride to the capital was brief. As they crested the final hill overlooking the sprawling Imperial encampment, the sheer, breathtaking scale of Aerion's new command became visible.
One thousand Imperial legionnaires stood in flawless, immaculate formation upon the frost covered plains. The crimson cloaks and polished steel shields formed perfect geometric squares, a testament to absolute military discipline. At the very front of the massive formation stood Praefects Valerius and Quintus, flanked by the five Tribunes.
The moment Aerion's towering, armored column approached, the sharp bark of commands echoed across the field.
"ATTENTION!" Valerius roared.
One thousand heavily armored men snapped to attention simultaneously. One thousand steel gauntleted fists slammed against their breastplates in a deafening, unified crash of absolute respect.
Aerion pulled Revan to a halt in front of the formation, his golden eyes sweeping over the ranks. He raised his right fist to his chest, returning the salute with slow, deliberate authority.
"Praefects," Aerion called out, his resonant voice carrying easily over the morning wind. "Is the regiment ready?"
Valerius and Quintus stepped forward, their postures rigid with military pride.
"The regiment is fully provisioned, equipped for the cold altitudes, and ready to march out at a moment's notice, Captain!" Valerius reported flawlessly. "The quartermasters have finalized the supply trains, and the men are eager."
Quintus nodded in stern agreement. "Just give the word, Captain."
Aerion nodded his head, satisfied with the lethal efficiency of his command staff. He guided Revan a few paces forward, positioning himself so that every single legionnaire in the massive formation could clearly see him. He did not pull the mask of Krosis over his face, he wanted them to see only the unshakeable confidence in his golden eyes.
"Soldiers of the Empire!" Aerion's voice boomed, magically amplified to wash over the ranks like a physical wave. "Today, we march into the freezing teeth of the north! We are marching on Fort Kastav, one of the most heavily fortified mountain strongholds in this province!"
He paused, letting the sheer weight of the objective settle over the men.
"The fight ahead will be brutal," Aerion continued, his tone brutally honest. "The cold will test your endurance, and the Stormcloak veterans holding those walls will fight with the cornered desperation of dying wolves. But look behind me."
Aerion gestured broadly to the towering, nightmarish herd of eleven armored mammoths standing patiently behind his retainers.
"These beasts are your personal, living siege engines," Aerion declared, his voice rising in power and intensity. "The stone walls of Fort Kastav will be crushed to dust in a matter of moments. The rebel shield lines will not hold against us. They will either be stomped into the freezing mud, thrown broken from the ramparts, or pierced upon iron capped tusks. I do not want a single man in this formation worrying about the enemy's walls!"
He leaned forward in his saddle, his presence radiating an overwhelming, magnetic charisma.
"Your only duty today is to maintain your shield wall, watch the back of the brother standing next to you, and ensure your own survival! Leave the grand strategy, the breaching of the gates, and the absolute brunt of the slaughter to me and my beasts! Hold the line, and I will deliver you a victory!"
Aerion drew his Ebony Greatsword, thrusting the massive, dark blade high into the morning air.
"FOR THE EMPIRE! AND FOR SKYRIM!"
The response was instantaneous and deafening.
"FOR THE EMPIRE! FOR SKYRIM!" One thousand men roared the battle cry, slamming their swords against their shields in a frenzied, blood pumping rhythm that shook the frost from the grass. The morale of the regiment was absolute, blinding iron.
Before Aerion could lower his blade and give the final order to march, the rhythmic drumming of approaching hooves drew his attention toward the main gates of the city.
Riding out from the massive Imperial encampment reserved for the main host was General Tullius, accompanied by Legate Rikke and a half dozen elite Imperial guards. The supreme commander of the Legion in Skyrim pulled his horse to a halt near the edge of Aerion's formation, his sharp eyes taking in the roaring, energized state of the men.
Aerion immediately sheathed his greatsword and snapped off a crisp salute, which the entire command structure mirrored.
Tullius returned the salute with a brief, approving nod.
"I heard the speech from the main road, Captain," General Tullius noted, his gravelly voice carrying a rare tone of genuine, unadulterated approval. "It was exactly what they needed to hear. You have them ready to bleed for you. I assume you are moving out right away?"
"We are, General," Aerion confirmed smoothly. "The regiment is packed and the vanguard is primed. We march on Fort Kastav on the hour."
General Tullius nodded his head, looking up at the towering, armored mammoths with a mixture of tactical appreciation and lingering disbelief.
"Good," he grunted. "I am dispatching a small elite unit of Imperial scouts to trail your regiment from a safe distance. The moment your preemptive assault on Fort Kastav beginsznthe moment those walls start cracking and the Stormcloak reserves in Eastmarch panic and commit to reinforcing the fortznthe scouts will ride back here and report."
General Tullius looked toward the northern horizon, his jaw setting into a hard line of absolute resolve.
"The moment I receive that report, I will personally lead the main army of thirty thousand men straight up the Pale to annihilate Fort Dunstad," he declared. "We will shatter their northern hold before they even realize they are fighting a war on two fronts."
"We will not keep you waiting long, General," Aerion promised, his golden eyes flashing with lethal anticipation.
General Tullius offered a final, grim nod, wheeling his horse around to return to his own preparations.
Aerion turned back to his command staff. He pulled the bronze mask of Krosis from his belt, securing it over his face, instantly transforming from an aristocratic commander into a faceless, demonic avatar of war.
"Form the column!" Aerion's voice echoed from behind the metal visage. "We march north!"
The journey was a grueling, methodical ascent into one of the most unforgiving climates on the continent of Tamriel.
For the first few hours, the massive column of one thousand legionnaires, eleven mammoths, and a heavy supply train made excellent time across the relatively flat, frozen plains of the Whiterun tundra. But as they crossed the regional borders and began the long, winding climb into the jagged, treacherous mountain passes leading toward Winterhold, the pace significantly slowed.
The temperature plummeted. The crisp morning air turned into a biting and freezing gale that whipped through the narrow canyons, carrying flurries of blinding, freezing snow. The legionnaires pulled their heavy winter furs tightly around their necks, leaning into the wind as they marched uphill.
Aerion rode near the front of the column, perfectly insulated against the elements by his enchanted armor. The mammoths, naturally adapted to the brutal cold, seemed entirely unbothered by the shifting climate, their massive footfalls crushing the snow into hard-packed ice.
It was mid afternoon when the winding mountain pass finally opened up, revealing a sprawling, elevated plateau nestled between two jagged, snow capped peaks.
And there, dominating the entire plateau and blocking the only viable path deeper into Winterhold, was Fort Kastav.
It was a massive, imposing structure of heavy, dark stone. Thick, fortified walls bristled with wooden spikes and tribal Stormcloak banners flapping violently in the blizzard. Dozens of armed sentries patrolled the high ramparts, and the dim shapes of heavy ballistas were visible on the corner towers.
Aerion pulled Revan to a halt on a small, elevated ridge about a mile out from the fortress.
Praefects Valerius and Quintus quickly spurred their horses forward, riding up beside the Captain to assess the tactical situation.
"There she is," Quintus muttered, his breath pluming in the freezing air. The veteran officer pulled a spyglass from his belt, squinting through the falling snow. "Heavily fortified. No structural weaknesses visible on the southern curtain wall. The garrison looks massive. It's a hard nut to crack, Captain."
Valerius looked at Aerion. "What are your orders, sir? Do we pull back into the tree line and establish a fortified encampment first, wait out the snow, and launch a coordinated siege in the morning? Or do we push a preemptive attack immediately, test their defenses, and then build the camp behind our own lines once the assault concludes?"
Aerion sat quietly in the saddle for a long moment, his tactical mind calculating the variables. The Stormcloaks were undoubtedly already aware of their approach, a column of a thousand men and a herd of mammoths was impossible to hide in the snow. "We divide the regiment," Aerion finally spoke, his voice calm and absolute over the howling wind.
_____________________________
[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 1030/1030
Stamina: 1070/1070
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 267
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Dragon Master (MAX LEVEL), Eye Of Magnus (MAX LEVEL), Summon Dragon (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+7)/Lightning(+5)/Frost(+4)) (Level 0/0/0), Restoration (Healing(+4)/Purify(+2)) (Level 0/98), Alteration (Level 43), Illusion (Level 62), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+3)) (Level 37/0), Persuasion(+3) (Level 92), Smithing(+1) (Level 79), Sneak(+1) (Level 64), One Handed(+2) (Level 0), Two Handed(+1) (Level 29), Lockpicking (Level 55), Archery(+1) (Level 0), Enchanting(+1) (Level 23), Light Armor(+2) (Level 42), Block (Level 70), Pickpocket (Level 8), & Heavy Armor(+2) (Level 0)
Shouts: Fus Roh Dah (Force Balance Push), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim Zii Gron (Fade Spirit Bind), Su (Air), Laas (Life), Yol Toor (Fire Inferno), Kaan (Kyne), Zul Mey Gut (Voice Fool Far), IIZ (Ice), & Faas (Fear)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, the Golden Claw, Arvel's Journal, Inkwell & Quill, Thief Book, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, The Mirror, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Deed to Tundra Homestead, Dawnbreaker, Traveling Backpack (Supplies), Vampire Armor, Vampire Boots, Movarth's Golden Ash (Unique), Potion of Healing, Mage Boots Of Weight, Master Robes Of Destruction, Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson, Gauldur Black Bow, Dwarven Battleaxe, Mehrunes Razor Hilt, Mehrunes' Razor Pommel, Stone of Barenziah (1/24), Mehrunes' Razor Blades, Iron Circlet of Ruby, & Iron Circlet of Emerald
2x Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), & Potions of Plentiful Magicka
3x Potions of Minor Stamina, Petty Soul Gem (Filled), Potions of Minor Magicka, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), & Greater Soul Gems
5x Mod Chests
8x Iron Arrows, Ancient Nord Arrows, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
10x Lesser Soul Gems
12x Black Soul Gem (Filled)
Weight: 49.79 KG / 885 KG
Septims: 255,867