(AN: -sigh- the College of Winterhold really holds a high place in the hearts of players of Skyrim. If one supposes the very real possibility that they blew up Winterhold, you're written off as "just another stupid racist Stormcloak". Seriously, blame the eruption of the Red Mountain? That was a hundred years before the Great Collapse and how could the eruption have caused storms that destroyed the town a hundred years afterwards? Furthermore, if the mages were so powerful that they could protect their college from being destroyed, why couldn't they do the same for the rest of the town?)


Seeking the Lost

Though he had left Whiterun in secret, there was no more secret that the Dragonborn had come to Winterhold. Tongues wagged, people laughed, cried and cheered as he walked past and many of the guards offered to buy him drinks at the Frozen Hearth inn. Even some of the sorcerers were impressed, cheering him on and giving him great praise. In the midst of this, one lone sorcerer was making his way through the crowds to where Eirik stood, Mjoll at his side, surrounded by cheering and applause.

"That was a fine feat, no doubt about that," he said to Eirik over the roar of the crowd. He then placed his hand on Eirik's shoulder and, leaning in, whispered in his ear. "You better come with me. Too many eyes and not everyone in the College can be trusted."

Following the hooded sorcerer, Eirik and Mjoll passed through the crowds and away from the College. They came to a two-story house on the western end of town, within a stone's throw of the longhouse and across the street from a broken down wreck of a house. The sorcerer opened the door and ushered Eirik and Mjoll inside. Within the house, Eirik saw a white-haired Nord rise up from his seat.

"It's alright, Kraldar. We need to use the upper room, away from unfriendly eyes." the sorcerer said. Away from the roar of the streets, Eirik could hear that the sorcerer was Cyrodilian. The Nord named Kraldar grunted his consent, then Eirik and Mjoll were led up the stairs and into a bedroom. Once upstairs, the sorcerer removed his hood. He was Cyrodilian, with darker skin than Eirik or Mjoll: dark was his hair, almost like Eirik's, yet tied at the back, and he had a small goatee upon his chin no bigger than a giant's thumbnail.

"Alright, now," the Cyrodilian sorcerer said. "Tell me everything, right now. Beginning with your name."

"Uh, Eirik," he returned. "Formerly of Falkreath, but I make berth in Whiterun."

"Immaterial, immaterial," the young sorcerer dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Who are you?"

"I'm Thane of Whiterun," he began. "I, uh..."

"Oh, by the Eight!" he exclaimed. "You people really are as dense as Alessia Ottus said you were!"

"What?"

"Are you really that dumb?" he asked. "What happened just a few moments ago, with the dragon and all."

"Yes?" Eirik asked.

"What are you?" the Cyrodilian asked again.

"It's a trap," Mjoll stated, reaching onto her back for Grimsever.

"If I wanted you dead," the Cyrodilian said. "I would have let the dragon do it for me instead of casting the ward that saved your Nordic ass. Now answer my question: who are you?"

"Dragonborn," Eirik replied.

"Wrong answer," he returned. Seeing Mjoll reach for her sword, the Cyrodilian took a step back, hands outstretched either in a plea for mercy or readying a spell of defense. "Wait, wait! Before you take off my head, just hear me out! I said you're not the Dragonborn because I've seen him."

"You've seen him?" Eirik asked.

"Yeah, blessing of Akatosh," he began. "Stealing the souls of dragons? I saw him on his first arrival in Riften." He chuckled at Eirik's shocked expression. "What, you think I'm joking?"

"Eirik, don't bother with him," Mjoll said. "He's a sellsword."

"I am an apprentice wizard, I'll have you know!" he retorted. "And fancy seeing you here, Lioness. I thought you never left Riften. And where's that mewling little toady always dogging your steps? Hmm, that imp of a Cyrodilian, what was his name? Alaric? Osric?"

"Aerin," Mjoll retorted.

"Wait, how do you know of them?" Eirik asked.

"He's one of the regulars at the Bee and Barb," Mjoll said.

"And he is right here!" the Imperial mage replied. "My name is Marcurio."

"Wait, you're Marcurio?" Eirik asked.

"I see my reputation precedes me," Marcurio replied, folding his arms confidently across his chest.

"Crixus told us to meet you," Eirik began, but Marcurio interrupted him.

"You know Crixus?" he asked. "The real Dragonborn?"

"Him?" Eirik asked with a laugh. "That's as much an insult as the Age of Aggression!"

"This whole rebellion is an insult to the Empire," Marcurio replied. "At least that's what Crixus says. Me? I just go along for the money."

"And what brings you away from Riften?" Mjoll asked, crossing her arms upon her breastplate beneath her robes.

"He ran afoul of those accursed rebels," Marcurio said. "He paid me enough so I accompanied his ass to Solitude, Morthal, Markarth, Falkreath, Whiterun and then here. I told him I would have been of much better use to him in Riften as a spy, but he said he had other means of gathering information, whatever that means."

"And he left you here?" Eirik asked.

"Yes and no," Marcurio replied. "He wanted to go it alone after a while and I wanted to come to Winterhold and school these apprentices in the art of real sorcery."

"This is a waste of time," Eirik sighed. "We came here for the College, we don't need some arrogant little Cyrodilian sorcerer."

"You think your fists and sword can bring down any obstacle in your way?" Marcurio asked. Eirik turned around. "If Crixus really told you to meet me, he must see something very special in you. I've never seen him regard a Nord as anything more than an animal."

"You don't say," Mjoll added.

"What do you know?" Eirik asked.

"Quite a bit, actually," said Marcurio. "And if you're intending on going into the College, you'll need my help."

"Your help?"

"Oh yes," Marcurio began. "Mirabelle Ervine can give you the grand tour and show you everything the College has to offer: the Dunmer Arch-Mage Savos Aren and various other trainers. But if you went up to the gates of the College and asked for admittance, you'd be a fool. They don't let Nords in, unless they have some magical talent. Maybe you can get by with your Voice, that seemed to have fooled them once already. Nevertheless, there's some dirty work afoot in the College, mark my words"

"And why should we believe you?" Mjoll asked. "You're a mercenary, you're paid to fight, probably paid to talk and lie for your Imperial master."

"I am a free man!" Marcurio replied. "Which is more than can be said of you two straw-headed coxcombs." He sighed, composing himself. "But, as I was saying, your little stunt didn't help you any. You're undoubtedly in the sights of Arch-Mage Ancano."

"Who's that?" Eirik asked.

"Adviser to Savos Aren," Marcurio said. "Easily recognized: tall, white-haired, dressed in black, golden skin, high forehead. But there's more."

"What more?"

"I've said too much as it is," Marcurio dismissed. "Look, either way, you're gonna need my help."

"And what price do you ask for your help?" Mjoll asked.

"Right now, I'd leave this boring-ass town for free," Marcurio stated. "However, some of us need to eat and sleep in a place with four walls and a roof. One thousand septims in advance, that does not include travel expenses, food and bedding and various other purchases such as robes or spell-books."

"That's outrageous!" Mjoll exclaimed.

"Maybe there is something you can help me with," Eirik asked. "I am looking for...a particularly rare magical item of a very powerful nature."

"Heh. Didn't know Nords could use them big words," Marcurio mocked, imitating a thick Nordic accent.

"This is serious!" Eirik said through gritted teeth.

"Alright, alright," the Imperial sighed. "Your best bet would be the Mage Librarian in the Arcanaeum in the College. Old Orsimer, takes his job a bit too seriously, if you ask me. He would know about anything about rare and powerful magical items. I'll take you there, but it's going to cost you two drinks at the Frozen Hearth." He then put his hood back over his head and led them down the stairs to the ground level.

"I can see why Crixus would like hanging out with this one," Eirik whispered.

"You said it, Eirik," Mjoll sighed resignedly.


The three of them were now outside of Kraldar's house and making their way to the College of Winterhold. Now that the threat of the dragon was gone, Mjoll and Eirik got more time to examine the wonders of this magical symposium. The majority of the town, as they had seen from the view from the bridge, was built upon a cliff that had been strangely undercut. The bridge was built on seemingly nothing, though there were two points where its turns were standing upon tall pillars of rock. The main part of the college, though, was built upon the tall pillar of rock that stood out from the rest of the town. There was nothing else around it, only empty, cold air.

"The Great Collapse," Eirik murmured.

"Another conspiracy theorist, eh?" Marcurio laughed. "It was the Red Mountain."

"Would you want to make that mistake known?" Eirik asked.

"What mistake?" scoffed Marcurio.

"If you had destroyed half a city," Eirik said. "Claimed thousands of lives, over your own magic which you could not control, would you want everyone to know it was your fault?"

"You sound like the rest of these stinking half-wit Nords," Marcurio chuckled. "It was the Red Mountain, and there ends the matter."

"That was over a hundred years before the Collapse," Eirik stated.

"If you say so," Marcurio laughed. "Keep telling yourself that. Just follow me and don't talk to anyone or anything, especially Ancano."

They passed through the gates, which opened before Marcurio, and came upon a wide courtyard with a stone statue in the center. It was of a robed and hooded sorcerer, standing proudly, with both hands outstretched and cloak billowing freely behind his back. Behind the statue was a great wooden door, which Marcurio opened with a wave of his hand, leading the two of them inside and away from the howling winds. The moment Eirik stepped inside, he saw every eye turn and stare at him. There was no anger, no outward signs of hatred that he saw from Altmer or traitorous Nords like the Battle-Born clan, they were simply staring at him because he was there to stare at: because he was a Nord and not allowed on the College grounds. Mjoll pulled her hood down over her face a bit lower as Marcurio took them through a door on the right and up a flight of stairs.

At the top of the stairs, there was a room with a tall, domed ceiling. It was cold, with a few candles sitting in goat horns upon the stone pillars or hanging from the ceiling. There were bookshelves here, some of them two stories tall, filled with so many books that merely thinking about them made Eirik's head spin. Marcurio lead them up to a desk with two candles upon it. Nearby, on a small chair, sat a balding Orc with a long white beard, pouring over a book.

"Master Urag!" Marcurio greeted. "How are the tomes treating you?"

"Better than most people at the College," the Orc groaned. "To say nothing of the rest of Skyrim. Now is there something you want, Marcurio? I'm on my lunch break."

"What, here in the Arcanaeum?" Marcurio laughed. "Won't you spill crumbs on your precious books?"

"Fuck off, Imperial!" Urag groaned. "I'm not as messy as you lot." He looked up at Eirik. "So you're the new guy, eh?"

"How do you know about me?" he asked.

"J'zargo said something about a Nord fighting off a dragon an hour ago," the Orc replied.

"Where is he?" Marcurio asked. "Great fellow, always has the best Destruction spells."

"He's in the training courtyard," Urag stated. Marcurio turned to leave.

"Wait, where are you going?" Eirik asked.

"I have better things to do than babysit wanna-be wizards," he replied, then left down the stairs. For a moment Eirik was distracted, then the Orc gave Eirik a nudge on the arm.

"If you plan on staying here for any meaningful period of time," Urag began. "Let me make something perfectly clear: don't mess with the books. This collection is the result of hundreds of years of painful research into all the fields of study: magic, history, legend, poetry, prose, strategy, ancient almanacs, grimories and tomes dating from before the First Era. If you damage any of these, I'll personally see to it that you're torn to shreds by angry atronachs. Are we clear?" Eirik nodded, which elicited a smile from the Orc. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for a book," Eirik began.

"Well, you've obviously come to the right place," Urag snorted. "My name is Urag gro-Shub, I'm the librarian at the College's Arcanaeum. If it's not here, it doesn't exist."

"That's quite a tall order!" Mjoll exclaimed.

"Do you question the thoroughness of the Arcanaeum's archives?" Urag asked.

"No," Eirik interjected. "She was just saying how remarkable it is that you have so many. Uh, would you happen to know about an...Elder Scroll?"

"Hmm, maybe," Urag snorted, crossing his arms. "What's it to you? Do you even know what you're asking about or are you just someone's errand-boy?"

"Do you have one or not?" Eirik asked.

"And if I did," Urag retorted. "Do you think I'd let you see it? It would be kept under so great a security, not even the Nightingales of legend could so much as lay a finger on it."

"What about the Dragonborn?" Eirik asked.

"What about it?" Urag returned. "Playing wise with me?" He then paused. "Wait, I remember that Khajiit saying something about that. The hold guards said that about...wait, you're the one the Greybeards were calling?"

"You heard that?" Eirik asked.

"Heh! All of Skyrim heard that," exlaimed Urag. "Midnight on the 19th of Last Seed, two hundred and first year of the Fourth Era. Hell, I'd bet even people in the Imperial City or Morrowind heard that call." He stroked his long white beard pensively. "Hmm, there's not much in our archives about the Elder Scrolls, I'm afraid to say. Well, nothing of any consequence."

"I'll take whatever you have," Eirik replied.

"Hmm, wait here." Urag said.

Leaving his half-eaten bread-loaf on the table, Urag wiped his hands upon the handkerchief in the pocket of his robes, then walked over to one of the book-shelves. With a key from his belt, he unlocked the iron grating over it and removed two large books. These he then carried over to the desk and placed them down.

"Here you go," he said. "But don't get your hopes up. These aren't the Elder Scrolls, mostly just lies peppered with rumor and speculation. Still, if you spill anything on them, I'll rip your guts out myself."

Eirik walked over to the leather-bound tomes and brought them over to one of the candle-lit tables, Mjoll at his side. The first book was bound in a reddish leather cover inlaid with gold. The title on the first page was Effects of the Elder Scrolls, with the author's name given as Justinius Poluhnius. The second book, bound with an emerald cover, was entitled Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls. While the author, Septimus Signus, was also an Imperial, there was an interesting appellation added to the end: College of Winterhold.

"It's been a while since I've read anything new," Eirik said, looking over the books.

"These seem to be a bit old, though," Mjoll stated.

"And keep it quiet!" Urag added. "Or I'll cut out your tongues."

Eirik passed the book entitled Effects of the Elder Scrolls to Mjoll, while he opened up the Ruminations, held it as close to the candlestick as he could and began reading it in a slow, hushed voice.

"'Imagine living beneath the waves with a strong-sighted blessing of most excellent fabric.'" he began. "'Holding the fabric over your gills, you would begin to breathe-drink its warp and weft. Though the plant-matter fibers imbue your soul, the wretched plankton would pollute the cloth until it stank to heavens of prophecy. This is one manner in which the Scrolls first came to pass, but are we the sea, or the breather, or the fabric? Or are we the breath itself?'"

"Master Urag," Eirik spoke up.

"This better be important," the Orc grumbled as he left his seat and walked over to where Eirik sat.

"Um...this book, I...do you know anything about it?" he asked.

"Old Septimus' book?" Urag asked. "Aye, he's Tamriel's master of the nature of the Elder Scrolls, only..."

"Only what?" Mjoll whispered.

"He's been gone a long time," the Orc continued. "Too long, if you ask me."

"Do you happen to know where he went?" Eirik asked.

"Somewhere up north," Urag groaned. "Said something about an ancient Dwemer artifact and so he went up into the ice-fields. But that was years ago and no one in the College has heard from him since. Now if you don't mind shutting up so the others can enjoy their books in peace?"

"Oh, aye, certainly," Eirik replied.

Urag sighed in frustration, then left back to his desk. Eirik then looked at Mjoll, who nodded silently. He then picked up the books and left the Arcanaeum the same way they had entered. Down the stairs they went and towards the great wooden doors to leave the College of Winterhold behind them.


(AN: I'm really not digging going into another Dwemer ruin, especially Alftand, since it's so damn HUGE. But the lore says that I must and therefore I must, and that was as good an ending for a chapter as any. Just to let you know, though, the next chapter will be VERY long.)

(I'll try to get the next chapter out soon, but it will take a while.)