I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

Faralda pushed open the heavy oak doors, revealing the Arcanaeum. Sunlight, filtered through high, arched windows, cast long shafts across the vast circular space, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the still air. The room hummed with a quiet intensity, the scent of aged paper and worn leather permeating the atmosphere. Bookcases, packed tight with volumes, stretched towards the vaulted ceiling, disappearing into the shadows.

Ibnor's gaze swept across the scene. Near the entrance, five bookcases stood clustered together. Atop one rested a massive mammoth tusk, its ivory surface gleaming in the light. A nearby round table and chairs suggested quiet contemplation. Further in, tables and chairs were arranged in small groups, each surface buried beneath stacks of books, some open, some closed, some teetering precariously. Partition walls created alcoves, partially obscuring a central reading area.

At the far end, behind a long, worn counter, stood Urag gro-Shub. His broad shoulders hunched slightly, and his green skin seemed almost luminous in the filtered light. Two thick tusks protruded from his lower jaw, framing a perpetually grim expression. His eyes, small and dark, moved across the newcomers, lingering on each of them for a moment too long, a territorial glint in their depths.

"You are now in the Arcanaeum," Urag's voice rumbled, a deep growl that seemed to vibrate through the very shelves. "Of which I am in charge. It might as well be my own little plane of Oblivion. Disrupt my Arcanaeum," he paused, his gaze hardening, "and I will have you torn apart by angry Atronachs. Now," he finished, the word hanging in the air like a threat, "do you require assistance?"

Harin stepped forward, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "We're looking for information on the Elder Scrolls."

Urag's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing to slits. "And what do you plan to do with it?" he challenged, his voice laced with suspicion. "Do you even know what you're asking about, or are you just someone's errand girl?"

Harin ignored the barb. "Tell me more about the Elder Scrolls."

Urag let out a low, guttural grunt. "I knew it. Everyone comes in here, expecting my help, but they don't even have the proper questions." He ran a thick-fingered hand over the worn surface of the counter. "An Elder Scroll is an instrument of immense knowledge and power. To read one," he emphasized, his gaze fixed on Harin, "a person must have the most rigorously trained mind, or risk madness." He paused, a hint of something akin to pity flickering in his eyes. "Even so, the Divines usually take the reader's sight as a price."

"A price for what?" Ibnor asked.

"The simplest way to put it is 'knowledge,' but there's nothing simple about an Elder Scroll," Urag explained, his voice softening slightly, as if speaking of something sacred. "It's a reflection of all possible futures and all possible pasts. Each reader sees different reflections through different lenses, and may come away with a very different reading. But at the same time," he added, his voice regaining its gruff edge, "all of it is true. Even the falsehoods. Especially the falsehoods."

"Who wrote the Elder Scrolls?" Harin inquired.

Urag let out a heavy sigh, the sound echoing through the quiet room. "It would take a month to explain to you how that very question doesn't even make sense." He shook his head slowly. "The Scrolls exist here, with us, but also beyond and beneath. Before and after. They are bits of Divine made substance so we could know them. Sorry," he muttered, as if realizing he'd become lost in thought. "Talking about the scrolls usually ends in irritating and vague metaphors like that. Some people who study them devoutly go mad."

"All right. So do you have one that I could use?" Harin asked.

Urag barked out a harsh laugh. "Ha! You think that even if I did have one here, I would let you see it?" he scoffed. "It would be kept under the highest security. The greatest thief in the world wouldn't be able to lay a finger on it." He paused, his gaze narrowing again. "What about the Dragonborn?" His eyes flicked to Harin. "Are you… were you the one the Greybeards were calling?"

"I am," Harin confirmed. "I need to find one and was told you could help."

Urag considered this, his expression unreadable. "I don't know who told you that, but I'll do what I can," he conceded, his voice softening slightly. "What we do have here are plenty of books." He paused, then added, his tone laced with a hint of warning, "I'll bring you everything we have on them, but it's not much. So don't get your hopes up. It's mostly lies, leavened with rumor and conjecture."

With a heavy thud of his boots on the stone floor, Urag turned and disappeared behind one of the partition walls. He returned moments later, holding two worn tomes, their leather covers cracked and faded. He placed them on the counter in front of Harin, the impact making a soft thud. 

"Here you go," he grunted. "Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls and Effects of the Elder Scrolls. Try not to spill anything on them," he added, his eyes narrowing, emphasizing the importance of the books. He returned to his counter, his gaze sweeping across the room once more, a silent guardian of his precious collection.

Harin opened Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls. The pages were filled with dense, cramped writing, interspersed with strange diagrams and symbols. The language was archaic and difficult to decipher, the sentences twisting and turning in on themselves.

"This is… incomprehensible," she muttered, running a finger over a particularly intricate diagram.

Urag, who had been watching her from behind the counter, grunted in agreement. "Aye, that's the work of Septimus Signus," he said. "He's the world's master of the nature of Elder Scrolls, but… well. He's been gone for a long while. Too long."

"Where did he go?" Ibnor asked.

"Somewhere up north, in the ice fields," Urag replied, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. "Said he found some old Dwemer artifact, but… well, that was years ago. Haven't heard from him since."

"He's dead?" Ibnor pressed.

"Oh no. I hope not," Urag said, a flicker of genuine concern crossing his rough features. "But even I haven't seen him in years, and we were close. Became obsessed with the Dwemer. Took off north saying he had found some old artifact. Haven't seen him since. Somewhere in the ice fields, if you want to try and find him."

The mention of the ice fields sparked a memory. Harin recalled the map Urag had gestured towards, a remote, frozen archipelago far to the north. 

"If he went north, perhaps…" she trailed off, turning to Ibnor. "Remember what Urag said? About the ice fields? That's where we should look."

"Then we'll go north." Ibnor nodded.

They prepared for a journey to the far reaches of Skyrim. The biting wind whipped across the icy expanse of the Sea of Ghosts, driving snow into Ibnor and Harin's faces as they navigated their small boat towards a jagged, ice-covered island. A faint wisp of smoke rising from a crevice in the ice hinted at their destination: Septimus Signus's outpost.

They beached the boat on a narrow strip of frozen shore, the keel grinding against the ice with a harsh screech. Each step they took towards the dark gash in the island's side was a struggle, their boots sinking deep into the powdery snow. The wind, though still biting, was muffled within the crevice's mouth. Stepping inside felt like entering a different world. The air, though still cold, lacked the wind's icy bite and carried a damp, earthy smell overlaid with the faint, metallic tang of old blood or rusted metal.

The cavern was small, barely more than a large fissure in the rock. Its uneven walls were coated in thick layers of ice, reflecting the weak light filtering in from the entrance in distorted, shimmering patterns. The ice groaned and cracked softly as if under pressure. Dominating the center of the space was a large, metallic cube, its surface a tapestry of intricate Dwemer glyphs and geometric patterns. A hunched figure, his back to them, paced restlessly around it, his shadow stretching and shrinking on the uneven ice walls.

The figure was an elderly man, his thin frame swallowed by faded blue mage robes that dragged on the uneven floor. Worn leather boots, scuffed and cracked from years of wear, peeked out from beneath the hem. An iron dagger, its hilt worn smooth and darkened with age, hung loosely at his hip, swaying with each erratic step. His long, white hair, tangled and unkempt, fell around his shoulders like a frayed shawl, partially obscuring his face. His head was bowed, his gaze fixed intently on the cube as he muttered to himself, his voice a dry, rasping whisper, as if his throat were filled with dust.

"Dig, Dwemer, in the beyond. I'll know your lost unknown and rise to your depths," he mumbled, his fingers tracing the sharp edges of a glyph on the cube. He took a few more shuffling steps, his breath puffing out in small white clouds that quickly dissipated in the cold air. He stopped abruptly, his body stiffening as if he'd hit an invisible wall. 

"When the top level was built, no more could be placed. It was and is the maximal apex." He resumed his pacing, his words quickening, becoming more frantic, his hands now clutching at the air as if grasping for something just out of reach. 

"How long will it be sung? My feet were set upon the rock but it turned to mud and drew me down." He stopped again, his head tilting sharply to one side, his eyes widening as if listening to some unheard sound, his lips parting slightly. "It lick the panes and smokes the glass…"

Harin exchanged a worried glance with Ibnor. This man was clearly not well.

"What are you doing out here?" Harin asked, her voice gentle.

Septimus stopped pacing, his eyes focusing on her for a moment before darting away again. "The ice entombs the heart. The bane of Kagrenac and Dagoth Ur. To harness it is to know. The fundaments. The Dwemer lockbox hides it from me. The Elder Scroll gives insight deeper than the deep ones, though. To bring about the opening."

"Do you have an Elder Scroll here?" Ibnor inquired.

Septimus shook his head, his gaze sweeping over the cavern as if searching for something. "I've seen enough to know their fabric. The warp of air, the weft of time. But no, it is not in my possession."

"You seem to know a lot about Elder Scrolls," Harin observed.

Septimus's eyes flicked back to her, a spark of recognition flickering within them. "Elder Scrolls. Indeed. The Empire. They absconded with them. Or so they think. The ones they saw. The ones they thought they saw. I know of one. Forgotten. Sequestered. But I cannot go to it, not poor Septimus, for I… I have arisen beyond its grasp."

"Where is this scroll?" Harin asked directly.

"Here," Septimus replied, gesturing vaguely around the cavern. "Well, here as in this plane. Mundus. Tamriel. Nearby, relatively speaking. On the cosmological scale, it's all nearby."

Harin stepped closer, her voice firm. "We need that scroll."

Septimus's gaze sharpened, a flicker of cunning replacing the earlier confusion. "One block lifts the other," he said, his voice regaining a measure of focus. "Septimus will give what you want, but you must bring him something in return."

"Help each other, how?" Ibnor asked.

Septimus gestured towards the large cube. "You see this masterwork of the Dwemer. Deep inside their greatest knowings. Septimus is clever among men, but he is but an idiot child compared to the dullest of the Dwemer. Lucky then they left behind their own way of reading the Elder Scrolls. In the depths of Blackreach one yet lies. Have you heard of Blackreach? 'Cast upon where Dwemer cities slept, the yearning spire hidden learnings kept.'" He let out a high-pitched, unsettling laugh.

"Where is Blackreach?" Harin asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Under deep. Below the dark. The hidden keep. Tower Mzark. Alftand. The point of puncture, of first entry, of the tapping. Delve to its limits, and Blackreach lies just beyond. But not all can enter there. Only Septimus knows the hidden key to loose the lock to jump beneath the deathly rock."

"How do we get in?" Ibnor pressed.

Septimus's eyes gleamed with manic excitement. "Two things I have for you. Two shapes. One edged, one round." He reached into the folds of his robes and produced two objects: a smooth, metallic sphere and a rectangular metal plate covered in intricate Dwemer script. "The round one, for tuning. Dwemer music is soft and subtle, and needed to open their cleverest gates. The edged lexicon, for inscribing. To us, a hunk of metal. To the Dwemer, a full library of knowings. But… empty. Find Mzark and its sky-dome. The machinations there will read the Scroll and lay the lore upon the cube. Trust Septimus. He knows you can know." He pressed the objects into Harin's hands.

"What does the sphere do?" Harin asked, turning the smooth metal object over in her hand.

"The deepest doors of Dwemer listen for singing," Septimus explained. "It plays the attitude of notes proper for opening. Can you not hear it? Too low for hearings?"

"And the lexicon?" Ibnor asked, examining the metal plate.

"To glimpse the world inside an Elder Scroll can damage the eyes. Or the mind, as it has to Septimus," he admitted, tapping his temple with a long, thin finger. "The Dwemer found a loophole, as they always do. To focus the knowledge away and inside without harm. Place the lexicon into their contraption and focus the knowings into it. When it brims with glow, bring it back and Septimus can read once more."

"What do you expect to gain from the Elder Scroll?" Harin asked.

Septimus's eyes widened in surprise. "Ooooh, an observant one. How clever to ask of Septimus." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "This Dwemer lockbox. Look upon it and wonder." He gestured to the cube again. "Inside is the heart. The heart of a god! The heart of you. And me. But it was hidden away. Not by the Dwarves, you see. They were already gone. Someone else. Unseen. Unknown. Found the heart, and with a flair for the ironical, used Dwarven trickery to lock it away. The scroll will give the deep vision needed to open it. For not even the strongest machinations of the Dwemer can hold off the all-sight given by an Elder Scroll."

As they turned to leave, Septimus called out to them, his voice taking on a strange, almost serene quality. "You look to your left, you see one way. You look to your right, you see another. But neither is any harder than the opposite. But the Elder Scrolls… they look left and right in the stream of time. The future and past are as one. Sometimes," he added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "they even look up. What do they see then? What if they dive in? Then the madness begins."

Ibnor and Harin left Septimus's icy cavern, the wind now at their backs, urging them south. Their journey took them across the desolate landscape, past frozen lakes and snow-covered pines, until the imposing silhouette of Winterhold came into view. They skirted the edge of the fallen city, the crumbling remains of its once-grand structures a stark reminder of the Great Collapse. Following the directions Urag had subtly implied, they continued southwest, towards the foothills of a towering glacier.

As they approached the glacier's base, they discovered a desolate camp perched precariously on the edge of a cliff. The scene spoke of hasty abandonment and a struggle against the elements. Two ramshackle huts, their walls riddled with holes and roofs partially collapsed, stood sentinel over the desolate scene. Missing doors flapped in the wind, their hinges groaning like mournful sighs. An unlit campfire, a circle of blackened stones surrounded by scattered ash, lay cold and lifeless. Several tattered tents, ripped and torn by the wind, lay strewn across the snow, their bedrolls spilling out onto the frozen ground like discarded toys.

Ibnor's gaze swept across the scene, taking in the scattered debris, the broken supplies, the general air of abandonment. He kicked at a loose piece of wood, sending it skittering across the frozen ground. 

"Looks like someone didn't fare too well here," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the wind.

Harin nodded, her eyes drawn to the northernmost shack, its roof sagging more dramatically than the other. "Let's see if we can find anything."

They approached the shack cautiously, the wind whistling through the gaps in the wooden planks. Inside, the air was still and stale, a stark contrast to the blustery wind outside. A thin layer of frost coated the interior surfaces. An adept-locked chest sat against one wall, its metal bands gleaming dully in the dim light filtering through the holes in the roof. On a nearby table lay a worn journal, its cover slightly warped from dampness. 

Harin picked it up, carefully brushing off the layer of frost. It was titled "Expedition Manifest" and written by one Sulla Trebatius. She began to read:

"[We've managed to secure the site and hold off any others who may try to steal our discoveries so far, especially those from the College of Winterhold, who seem to think the glory of exploring every ruin should be theirs alone.

The crew for our expedition is as follows:

Sulla Trebatius (myself) - Expedition leader Umana - my constant companion and bodyguard Valie - a mage not associated with Winterhold (took some time to find) Endrast - a fellow explorer of some local renown Yag - a great brute of a woman, hired to keep the rest of the labor in check J'darr and J'zhar - two Khajiit brothers, hired as labor.

Need a couple more laborers, getting through the ice is proving difficult.

We've set up shelter and scouted the area. The small ruins on the lower plateau of the glacier don't seem connected to the main structure and we haven't managed to find a way into the tower parapet we've found here. Yag mentioned spotting a fissure in the glacial wall that may lead into the ruins so we are going to try to find a way to get down there with the gear. Looks like a storm is coming.]"

Harin closed the journal, a frown creasing her brow. "Sounds like they were expecting trouble. And they were trying to get inside Alftand, just like us."

Ibnor pointed towards a towering structure visible through a gap in the clouds. "There's a tower over there. Looks like it has a lift, but there's a gate blocking access."

They followed a series of rickety catwalks that extended west from the camp, spanning a deep, icy crevice that plunged into the glacier's depths. The wind howled through the crevice, sending icy gusts swirling around them. The catwalks groaned under their weight, the wood creaking ominously with each step. At the end of the catwalks, a dark opening in the glacial wall beckoned – the entrance to Alftand Glacial Ruins.