Yes, I am aware of the ideological conflicts that would pop up in this situation. Deal with it. I might even write a story exploring this specific incarnation of the Dragonborn's journey across Keizaal and how this all came to be.

Chapter 6: Sky Haven Sanctuary

"Babbette! You're better than this!" a mature female voice shouted out.

"But Delphine," a child's voice called back, "this is so much more fun!" A dull explosion echoed in the stairwell that the Archmage and I had begun to jog up.

"You are three hundred years old, Babbette," a tired-sounding old man called out. "Act your actual age, not your physical age, and put the Wabbajack down." A massive wheel of cheese rolled past us down the stairwell.

"But Esbern-"

"Babbette," a deep voice interrupted her, no louder than a normal speaking voice, but still commanding that it is listened to. "Put it down. Now. I'm trying to sleep, and I'm not in the mood for this."

A small sigh, and a muttered "Fine, Nazir" later, and the random explosions stopped abruptly. As we walked into the main room, we saw a young girl, an old, balding man, and a furious-looking blonde woman in black armor glaring at the child. Also, there were no less than seventeen large wheels of what appeared to be goats' cheese, twelve boxes of sweetrolls, and two large barrels filled with small wooden carvings of cats.

"Alright," the Archmage bellowed, "what's going on here?"

"Listener!" "Dragonborn!" "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon, Esbern. Now, I'll ask again: what's going on here?"

A sigh drifted in from a side room. "Babbette broke into the storage room and stole the Wabbajack. Again. Before you ask, Cicero is in the shrine, doing his Keeper stuff, and I'm trying to sleep because I travelled all night to get back from my last contract. So could everyone please be quiet?"

"Thank you Nazir. Now," she said, turning to the child, "Babbette, what have I told you about breaking into the artifact room?"

"Don't get caught?"

"What? No! That's for murders! Just don't do it. Especially not while Dawnbreaker and Auriel's Bow are both in there. You may be an old vampire and you're used to sunlight, but you are not stronger than gods. Those two alone could easily kill you, given the chance, and there's a reason that the Ebony Blade is buried under six feet of solid stone."

"But Listener, it's just the Wabbajack! It's not like it actually does anything dangerous."

"Babbette, this is the staff that turned the World Eater into a sweetroll and then dropped an anvil on the sweetroll. And then the anvil exploded into a fountain of boiling-hot molten cheese! The Wabbajack is most definitely dangerous!"

"Even I think you're making that one up, Dragonborn."

"Yes, well you're a close-minded, straight-laced bitch who doesn't even try to get a life."

"You're just saying that because I won't sleep with you."

"So what if I am? You know you want to."

"Excuse me," I interrupted. "Not to get in the middle of this little lovers' argument, but did we not come here for a reason, Archmage, hmm?"

She looked at me for a moment, puzzled, before remembering. "Ah, yes! Esbern, my friend!"

"Yes?" the old man asked apprehensively.

"I need some help with this." She pulled her robe open again, revealing the scutes to now cover her entire torso. Oh, and her breasts. Obviously.

"Well," Esbern began, voice rising a few pitches and a slight blush covering his face, "they seem to be very healthy."

The Archmage rolled her eyes. "The dragon scales, Esbern, not my breasts. I know that they're fine." She then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "stupid males who can't handle the sight of perfect breasts outside of a bedroom" followed by "not like the Forsworn wear any more than this, the dirty exhibitionists" and "probably why you decided to stay here, you pervert".

He frowned and stepped forward for a closer look. "My word…" he murmured. "Dragonborn, do you have any armor made of dragon scales on you. Or even just normal dragon scales?"

"Of course I do! I'm a dragon-slayer; why wouldn't I have dragon scales on me?" She paused at the poor choice of words. "Metaphorically speaking. The literal sense is the problem I'm here about." She reached between her breasts - her completely exposed, no-cleavage-to-hide-anything-from-view breasts - and… something happens, and she was suddenly holding a full-size kite shield made of dragon scales.

Clearly, the others in the room were used to this kind of thing, and didn't even blink at it. I on the other hand, could feel my mind shutting down at the sheer impossibility of what I had just witnessed.

"...the spell?" I heard as my mind began to start back up.

"Yes, it's already been pointed out to me that the best way to prevent the transformation caused by the spell is to stop using the spell."

"And clearly, you haven't?"

"Look, Esbern, I'm not here to get psychoanalysed. I'm here to see if you can help me."

"No. I can't. I'm a historian and an archaeologist. Not a spellcrafter nor a fellow Master of Alteration. Babbette might have been able to help you if this were caused by some potion, but that's the closest you'll get."

"Fine," she grumbled. "J'zargo, you back with us?"

"Ah… Yes, Archmage. But please don't pull anything from between your breasts while I can see between your breasts again. This one does not believe he could handle it and would end up becoming one of Sheggorath's chosen. The fabric of reality should not fold that way."

"I make no promises. But anyway, since Esbern has proved unhelpful, we're headed back to Winterhold to see what Tolfdir's done."

"This means another month of travelling with you, does it not, hmm?"

"Of course! Now, onwards! Let us ride off into the sunset!"

"Winterhold is east from here."

"Let us ride off into the sunrise!"