I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

They squeezed through the dark opening in the glacial wall, entering Alftand Glacial Ruins. The change was immediate: the wind's howl was replaced by a damp silence, and the air, though still frigid, lacked the biting sting of the blizzard outside. The tunnel before them was a rough-hewn passage of ice, its walls slick and uneven. Scattered haphazardly along the floor were wooden crates and barrels, some splintered and broken, as if hastily abandoned. A dull grey Dwarven metal ingot rested precariously on the edge of one crate near the entrance, threatening to fall with the slightest tremor.

The tunnel snaked deeper into the glacier, the icy walls narrowing in places, then widening abruptly into small alcoves. The faint glow of their torches cast long, dancing shadows that flickered and swayed, making the uneven surfaces seem to shift and writhe. The crunch of their boots on the icy floor echoed through the confined space, each step a sharp report in the oppressive silence. Rounding a sharp bend, they came upon a small, makeshift camp. An unlit campfire, a circle of stones blackened with soot, sat in the center of a slightly wider section of the tunnel. A crude cooking spit, fashioned from rough branches and sharpened metal, lay knocked over on the ground beside it, half-buried in the ice. To the left, a worn leather-bound journal rested on a barrel, its spine cracked and faded. A simple knapsack, its canvas bulging slightly at the seams, leaned against the same barrel.

Harin approached the barrel cautiously, her hand hovering over the journal before she picked it up. The leather was damp and cold to the touch, the pages inside slightly warped from moisture. She recognized the distinctive, cramped handwriting from the expedition manifest they had found outside. 

"It's Sulla's," she murmured, her voice echoing softly in the tunnel. She opened the journal and began to read aloud:

"[We tried to get through glacier at the top, but we couldn't find any way into that tower parapet. Yag spotted in the glacial wall and construction of a catwalk was finished just in time for a storm to hit. At first we thought to wait it out, but it has only gotten worse. A shift in the glacier took out several of the new laborers. I ordered everyone to quickly move as much of the supplies as we could into the fissure and we managed to get most of it. One of the hands decided he wasn't going to listen and tried to make it out through the storm, but got blown off the catwalk by the wind. Looks like we are well and truly stuck in here. But for all that I feel even more driven that I should be the one to uncover the mysteries of this ruin. I'm tired of all the credit for my work going to the Mages or the Legion. It will be my name that goes down in the history books for this discovery.]"

Behind the campfire, a single bedroll lay unrolled on the cold stone floor, its rough wool blanket rumpled and stained. Beside it sat two chests: one made of rough-hewn wood, its hinges rusted and its lid slightly ajar, the other of polished Dwemer metal, its intricate carvings gleaming faintly in the torchlight, both unlocked. A pickaxe, its head dulled and chipped from heavy use, leaned against the wall nearby, its wooden handle worn smooth from countless grips.

The tunnel continued beyond the first camp, leading to another, larger one. The scene here was far more disturbing. Dark, viscous stains, clearly blood, were splashed across the floor and walls, some fresh and glistening, others dried and blackened. The metallic tang in the air was stronger here, mingling with a faint, unpleasant odor. Another unlit campfire sat in the center, this one surrounded by five bedrolls. Some were hastily abandoned, simply thrown down on the floor, while others were crumpled and stained with blood, telling a grim tale of a struggle. A lute, its strings broken and its wooden body deeply scratched, lay discarded between two of the bloodstained bedrolls, as if dropped in a moment of panic.

They continued deeper into the tunnel, the air growing noticeably colder and the smell of damp earth becoming more pungent. On their left, they reached a wood-slatted wall, roughly constructed from uneven planks. Peering through the narrow gaps between the slats, they could see into another section of the tunnel. A gleaming Dwemer chest sat partially obscured by shadow, its intricate metalwork catching the faint light. Several loose coins, their surfaces dull with age, lay scattered on the floor nearby. A potion of minor healing, its glass vial catching the light, rested precariously on the rounded edge of a barrel, just within reach from their side of the wall.

Suddenly, the muffled sound of voices reached them from beyond the slatted wall. It was an argument, harsh and agitated, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakable.

"Where is it?" one voice hissed, thick with accusation, the Khajiit accent unmistakable. "I know you were trying to keep it for yourself, J'zhar…" The voice dropped to a lower, more menacing growl. "You always try to keep it for yourself!"

"No! There's got to be more Skooma…" another voice replied, weaker and more desperate, also with a Khajiit accent.

"Shut up! Shut up!" the first voice snarled, punctuated by a sharp, slapping sound. "Don't lie to me, J'zhar! You hid it! You always try to steal it from me!"

The voices faded as they moved further along the tunnel. The rough-hewn rock walls began to give way to smooth, polished Dwemer metal, the architecture becoming more intricate and refined. Patches of ice and snow still clung to the walls and floor, a testament to the glacier's relentless encroachment. They passed the shattered remains of a Dwarven spider automaton, its metal limbs twisted and broken, its brass plating dented and scarred, as if it had been torn apart by some great force. Finally, the tunnel opened into a large, rectangular room. A large work table, its surface scarred and stained, dominated the center, cluttered with the wreckage of two more Dwarven spiders. Gears, springs, and other metal components were scattered across the surface, a testament to some violent disassembly. A worn book, its leather cover frayed at the edges and its pages filled with scribbled notes and hastily drawn diagrams, lay open on the table.

Harin approached the table cautiously. She picked up the book, its pages thin and brittle, and began to read, her voice barely a whisper:

"[If only Umani would have left one of these Dwarven machine creatures intact for me to study. The fact that they almost killed those Khajiit brothers in the middle of the night doesn't mean we couldn't have found a way to disable one. We dragged some stuff in front of the pipes they came out of to stop them from coming back. They are simply fascinating! It is just as Calcelmo described in Dwarves, v2. Their appearance does, in fact, resemble that of an arachnid. I had thought that to be an embellishment given by his source. The inclusion of the soul gem into the design of the apparatus is quite remarkable. It could explain the focus for the lightning that he describes. Oddly enough it doesn't appear to be the main power source for the apparatus. Perhaps some sort of harmonic resonance with the energies contained in the soul gem to bring heat to a small boiler? Too early to say conclusively. That does raise the question of where they get the liquid for the boiler however. Huh, that was strange. I thought I just saw something moving beyond the barred door. It looked vaguely humanoid. I wonder if it could be an undiscovered automaton? I'm going to move my bedroll down here to see if I can catch another glimpse of it. This is all so exciting!]"

Beyond the table, a barred doorway blocked the northern passage. Through the bars, they could see a lift platform suspended in the darkness, hinting at a lower level. A bedroll lay unrolled to the right of the barred door, beside a barrel that looked like it had been used as a makeshift seat. To the south, two dark scuttles, circular openings in the wall, offered alternative routes. One was choked with rubble, completely impassable. From the other, a low scraping sound emanated, followed by the metallic clicking of a Dwarven spider automaton as it scuttled into view, its glowing red eyes fixed on the intruders. To the west, a ramp ascended into the gloom, another Dwarven spider patrolling near its top.

Harin lowered the book, a shiver running down her spine. "So," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, "someone was here. Recently. That bedroll...and they saw something beyond that door too. But if they were studying these things...why did they leave? And why are these spiders still active?" Her eyes darted between the approaching automaton and the ramp to the west. "This doesn't feel right."

Choosing the west ramp, they ascended cautiously, sneaking past the parolling Dwarven Spider. The passage then turned sharply south, leading them back into the icy tunnel they had initially entered from. Passing a fork to the west, they continued, the tunnel leading them to the area they had glimpsed through the wooden slats earlier. Retracing their steps to the fork, they took the western path, descending past the mangled remains of another Dwarven spider, its metal limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Just before the next corner, a scuttle on their right shifted slightly, a metallic leg protruding before a Dwarven spider skittered out, its pincers snapping.

Around the corner, the tunnel descended further, the air growing noticeably colder. They rounded a bend and stopped short. A Khajiit stood hunched over a body lying sprawled on the icy floor. Dark stains, more blood, pooled around the corpse. His back was to them, but the tension in his posture, the way his shoulders trembled, spoke of grief and rage. He turned as they approached, his eyes wide and bloodshot, his fur matted with sweat. He clutched a woodcutter's axe in his trembling hands, the blade stained a dark, rusty brown.

"What?" he snarled, his voice thick with a Khajiit accent and laced with a raw, desperate edge. "Who is this, Brother? Another of the smooth skins looking for food?" He glanced down at the body at his feet, his expression twisting with pain. "But this one wasn't trapped with us… No… No!" His gaze snapped back to Ibnor and Harin, his eyes narrowing with sudden realization. "You must be the one who took my skooma!"

The ensuing confrontation was brief, a stark display of Harin's honed skill against the Khajiit's raw, unfocused rage. The Khajiit's grief had curdled into a desperate ferocity, but it was a blind fury, lacking any semblance of strategy or control. He roared, a ragged, pain-filled sound, and swung the woodcutter's axe in a wide, telegraphed arc. The heavy blade blurred through the air, whistling past Harin's ear as she sidestepped the clumsy attack with practiced ease. Ibnor watched from the side, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade, but he didn't draw it. It was clear this was Harin's fight.

The Khajiit stumbled from the force of his own swing, his weight shifting forward, leaving him momentarily off balance. Harin moved with the speed of a striking viper. She flowed into the opening, her blade a blur of silver, a whisper of steel against air. A quick, precise jab, aimed not to kill but to disable, found its mark. The point of her blade pierced the thick fur of the Khajiit's arm, just above the elbow, drawing a sharp cry of pain. He staggered back, clutching his wounded limb, his eyes widening with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

He tried to recover, his gaze wild and unfocused, but the pain in his arm hampered his movements. He attempted another swing with the axe, but it was slow and clumsy, easily anticipated. Harin simply stepped inside the arc, her movements economical and precise. A swift, upward strike, a flash of steel, and the axe fell from the Khajiit's limp hand, clattering onto the icy floor. He looked down at his other hand, now clutching at a fresh wound on his forearm, a thin trickle of blood staining his fur.

There was no more fight left in him. The wildness in his eyes had been replaced by a dull, defeated resignation. He slumped to his knees, his head bowed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Harin lowered her blade, her expression neutral, her stance relaxed but still alert. Ibnor finally stepped forward, sheathing his own blade.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the Khajiit's shallow breathing. The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air. Ibnor surveyed the scene. A small, stoppered bottle had fallen from the Khajiit's belt during the brief struggle, its contents now spilling onto the ice, staining it a sickly green. The Khajiit's woodcutter's axe, its blade now smeared with his own blood, lay discarded beside him. A simple knapsack made of roughspun cloth, rested near another Khajiit's lifeless body, a reminder of their shared journey and its tragic end. Ibnor knelt beside the pack and carefully opened it. Inside, they found several empty skooma bottles, their glass necks chipped and broken, suggesting a desperate attempt to scrape out the last remnants of the addictive substance. Two more random potions, their corks still firmly in place, completed the meager inventory. The scene painted a clear picture of desperation, addiction, and ultimately, a tragic demise. The fight, or rather the swift resolution of it by Harin, had been a brutal but necessary end to a sad story.

The path continued north, past a barrel that had been rolled against the wall. Straight ahead, through a wider opening in the tunnel, they saw another makeshift camp. A table, crudely constructed from planks of wood, dominated the small space. On its surface lay Umana's Journal, several pieces of Dwemer metal scrap, and the mangled remains of another Dwarven spider.

Harin approached the table and picked up the journal. Its leather cover was worn and scratched, and the pages within were thin and brittle. She opened it and began to read, her voice low:

"[It's been about a week since Valie went missing and now Endrast is gone too. We found blood leading over to the barred off doorway, but Sulla seems to think that they found a way through and that they are trying to cut him out of the discovery. He keeps saying that we need to press on. We've manage to break through into another section of the ruins, an "Animonculory", where the dwarves would produce their automatons. We learned the hard way that the metal creatures are still alive in there and it hasn't improved Yag's mood at all. She holds that the Khajiit brothers aren't involved with the disappearances and has been keeping a hard eye on Sulla. The rations have all but run out and we are going to have to decide soon whether to brave the storm or try to push further into the ruins. I don't know if the echoes of screams I've heard in my sleep are those of our missing comrades, or my own nightmares.]"

The path beyond the makeshift camp rounded a corner, opening into a large, high-ceilinged room. A sturdy table stood just inside the entrance, littered with various Dwemer tools and scraps of metal. The floor ahead was treacherous, patches of dark, viscous oil shimmering under their torchlight, reflecting the flames in distorted ripples. The oil also stained a raised platform in the center of the room, suggesting a leak from some now-dormant machinery. On the walls to their left and right, circular scuttles, like vacant eyes, stared out into the room. A faint whirring sound emanated from within each, punctuated by the occasional metallic click.

In the northwest corner of the room, another table held more Dwemer metalwork, along with a gleaming, filled soul gem, its facets catching the light. Behind this table, three large metal pistons stood vertically, their surfaces polished smooth from constant use. The faint hiss of escaping steam could be heard from their bases.

Ibnor nudged one of the pistons with the toe of his boot. It gave slightly under the pressure, then rebounded with a soft thump. 

"Looks like we can ride these up," he said, glancing at Harin. "Ready for a lift?"

Harin nodded, eyeing the pistons with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. 

"Just try not to launch me into the ceiling."

They timed their ascent carefully, stepping onto the pistons as they reached their lowest point. With a hiss of steam and a powerful thrust, they were propelled upwards, landing on a narrow ledge overlooking the room. From this vantage point, they could see a route that bypassed the oil-slicked floor below—a precarious series of pipes and metal grating clinging to the southern wall.

"Looks like a shortcut," Harin observed, pointing to the precarious pathway. She took a deep breath, focusing her energy. With a well-timed Whirlwind Sprint and a deft jump, she crossed the gap, landing smoothly on the other side. She turned back to Ibnor, a grin on her face. 

"Your turn."

Ibnor took a running start, but his jump was slightly less precise. He landed heavily on the grating, his boots slipping momentarily before he regained his footing. He let out a small grunt. 

"Graceful as always," he muttered, dusting off his breeches.

They continued along the narrow pathway, which eventually rejoined the main path near the northeast corner of the room. The passage leading out of this corner was filled with a faint, but distinct, smell of sulfur. The air shimmered slightly in the torchlight, revealing a thin haze of flammable gas.

"Smells like trouble," Harin commented, wrinkling her nose.

"Let's keep our torches well away from the walls," Ibnor replied, holding his torch out at arm's length.

The next room was dominated by a large Dwemer forge, its bellows cold and still. More Dwemer metal items were scattered around the room, along with the broken remains of three more Dwarven spiders, their limbs and plating strewn across the floor. A large oil slick covered a significant portion of the floor near the forge, reflecting the torchlight like a dark mirror. Several more scuttles lined the walls, two of which emitted the telltale whirring and clicking of active Dwarven spiders.

In the northwestern corner of the room, a novice-locked gate barred access to a small alcove. Through the bars, they could see two chests: one made of wood, secured with an apprentice-level lock, the other of Dwemer metal, protected by an adept-level lock. Two sets of shelves, laden with various Dwemer artifacts and components, lined the walls behind the gate.

"Looks like a treasure trove," Ibnor said, eyeing the chests.

"We'll check it out later," Harin replied. "Let's focus on finding the Animonculory first."

A doorway to the west led to a short flight of stairs ascending to a T-junction. An unlocked chest sat at the junction, but a pressure plate just in front of it was clearly visible, its surface slightly discolored.

"Trap," Harin warned, pointing to the plate.

Ibnor nudged a loose stone onto the plate, and a spear shot out from the wall with a loud snap, narrowly missing the chest. "Good eye," he said, retrieving the stone.

One Dwarven spider scuttled into view from the corridor to the south, its metallic legs clicking on the stone floor. Another could be heard moving below, down a flight of stairs to the north. At the bottom of these stairs, a thick cloud of flammable gas hung in the air, similar to the passage they had just traversed.

"Think we can use that to our advantage?" Ibnor asked, gesturing towards the gas cloud.

Harin nodded. "Let's see if we can lure that spider down there."

Harin used a fire spell to ignite the gas, creating a brief but intense explosion that took out the spider at the bottom of the stairs, leaving behind an adept-locked chest amongst the rubble.

Taking the path south from the T-junction, they found a small bedroom to the east. Simple shelves lined the walls, holding various mundane items. Opposite the bedroom, to the west, was another caved-in area, impassable. Further along the corridor, another cave-in blocked the path to the east. Opposite this second cave-in, an apprentice-locked door led to another bedroom. Inside, two simple stone beds stood against the walls, and two tables held more pieces of Dwemer metalwork. An unlocked chest sat at the foot of one of the beds. A lone Dwarven sphere, its metallic body gleaming in the torchlight, patrolled the room, its glowing blue eye scanning the surroundings.

"Another guardian," Harin whispered, drawing her sword.

Ibnor nodded, readying his own weapon. "Let's make this quick."

After dispatching the sphere, they continued south, up a flight of stone stairs. At the top, the main path continued to the east. Before turning south, they paused and looked down into the large room they had first entered, observing the oil slicks, the pistons, and the scuttles far below.

"Quite a maze," Ibnor commented.

"Let's hope we're on the right track," Harin replied, glancing back down at the lower room.

The path then curved around the western and southern walls of this upper level. A series of five horizontal steam pistons were embedded in the floor along this section of the path. The pistons periodically shot out with a hiss of steam, creating a dangerous hazard.

"Watch your step," Harin warned, carefully navigating the pistons.

They carefully timed their movements, avoiding being pushed off the narrow walkway and into the room below. Scuttles housing more Dwarven spiders were visible in the southwestern and southeastern corners of this upper level. The path traversed some rubble past the southeastern corner and continued along the eastern wall. Finally, at the end of this long, winding passage, they reached a sturdy metal door, marked with intricate Dwemer symbols – the entrance to Alftand Animonculory.