When Jeanne awoke to a noise, her first impression was pain. Mostly in her head, but the rest of her body didn't feel great either. Her legs left like she'd been marching all day, her arms left like she lost control of her flames, her stomach felt like she'd swallowed needles, and her chest left as though it had been stabbed. Maybe that sword was there for a reason.
However, her pain wasn't the most notable thing around her. No, when she turned her head away from the innocuous wooden ceiling, she found a door of bars, the unmistakable sign of a prison cell. She was in jail, her armor replaced with linen shirt and trousers. She wasn't sure how she got here, probably something to do with last night, but she knew she wanted out.
Entering her view of the door, the fine Nord she saw when she first came to Windhelm came to her cell. It was Jorleif, Jarl Ulfric's steward, the de facto leader of Windhelm in his Jarl's absence. He carried himself heavily, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. With the Legion on their doorstep, it wasn't unearned.
"Do you know why you're here?" he asked.
Jeanne got up, much to her displeasure, to answer him. "Well, I was drunk, so I don't remember a lot of what I did," she explained.
"Well, that makes this harder," Jorleif remarked as he pinched the bridge of his nose, "From what we can discern, you began getting rowdy with the other patrons. You ended up punching some of Rolff's lot and stabbed him between the Molag Bals and the Azura."
Jeanne's smirked, but it disappeared he said, "We found you in one of the rented rooms with a bloody sword and stab wound in your chest."
She wasn't sure how to take it. Had someone tried to kill her? Had this Rolff decided to get some revenge for his wound of such humiliation? Or had she taken the blade to herself? Of that time, she could barely remember anything, let alone what she was thinking. However, this came to be, it wasn't a cheery thought that her, who had fought in three battles and hadn't fallen, would've died in a bar with less sobriety than some Daedra Princes I could mention.
"What's to be my punishment?" Jeanne asked.
"We're still investigating," Jorleif explained, "If we find that you did this unprompted, you'll be held until Ulfric's return, at which point he'll decide your fate. If Rolff and his fellows were at fault, you will only spend the day in the cell. We'll see."
The wind blew with a strength that could throw trees and carried a cold that would sap the life from even the heartiest Nords. The ground was a series of ice plates, some more solid than others. One false move and you'd fall into the Sea of Ghosts, a name it surely deserved for the lives it took from sailors over the years. It was dangerous to even attempt to cross it, especially if you didn't use a boat.
Skathi was tempting fate by entering the ice fields. She knew two things: few who traveled here lived and Septimus Signus was the only lead she had for an Elder Scroll. If he was dead, fallen through the ice, frozen or starved to death, she was going to need another lead. Though judging by his book, he might not be useful alive.
Before stepping onto another plate, she made it a point to poke it and try to see if it was steady enough for her weight. When she did, she leapt like a sabre cat and landed like a boulder, throwing the balance off, but she adjusted fast, as she had to or fall into the sea. Whenever there was a gap too far to jump, the Dragonborn would "Wuld" across. She really wanted to learn some more words for Whirlwind Spirit.
After what was the travel equivalent of a walk to the shops for Skathi, she came upon an iceberg with a trapdoor in it, flanked by torches. At least she could safely say someone was here. At some point. Maybe not Septimus, but at least someone. Probably warmer in there than out in the elements.
Through the trapdoor was a cave. At the end of that cave, there was a cube of bronze. It was the size of a house, a Dwarven contraption to be sure. In its shadow was a man in a hooded robe with a beard sticking out, and his makeshift dwellings. Hopefully, this was Septimus.
"When the top level was built, no more could be placed. It was and is the maximal apex," he rambled.
Skathi was thoroughly sure this was Septimus. "I heard you know about Elder Scrolls," she stated warily.
"The Empire," he spoke like a madman with two words, "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."
Yup, this man was Septimus. Even if he didn't say his name, it was easy to figure that out. "You have an Elder Scroll? Here?" Skathi asked.
"I've seen enough to know their fabric," he explained, "The warp of air, the weft of time. But no, it is not in my possession."
"So," Skathi awkwardly asked, "where is the Scroll?"
"Here," Septimus stated, pointing downwards, "Well, here as in this plane. Mundus. Tamriel. Nearby, relatively speaking. On the cosmological scale, it's all nearby."
"Are you," Skathi wondered, "all right?"
"Oh, I am well. I will be well," the wizard grinned, "Well to be within the will inside the walls."
This was getting her nowhere and she was getting impatient. "Can you help me get the Elder Scroll or not?" she asked in frustration.
He turned his head to one side and raised an eyebrow while looking her dead in the face. It was unsettling. "One block lifts the other," the old bat explained, "Septimus will give you what you want, but you must bring him something in return."
Skathi sighed. So, it was going to be like this. "What do you want?" she asked.
The wizard looked at the bronze cube. "You see this masterwork of the Dwemer. Deep inside their greatest knowings," he explained, "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.'"
"No, I haven't" Skathi replied, "Where is this 'Blackreach'?"
"Under deep. Below the dark. The hidden keep," he gibbered, "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."
Well, that was helpful. "How do I get in?" Skathi asked, feeling less sane after this conversation.
The biggest grin appeared on Septimus's bearded face. "Two things I have for you. Two shapes. One edged, one round," he stated, holding out a sphere and cube, "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," he paused in sadness, "empty. Find Mzark and its sky-dome. The machinations there will read the Scroll and lay the lore upon the cube.
He looked dead in Skathi face and whispered, "Trust Septimus. He knows you can know."
Skathi took the sphere and cube. She wasn't sure what she needed these for. Not even at the end of their conversation and she wasn't sure what he was saying. She knew the words he was saying but wasn't sure how they went together for a coherent thought. She might not have been part of civilization for years, but she knew madness when she saw it.
While she was here, Skathi thought of a question she had been meaning to ask. "What is an Elder Scroll?"
A kindly smile was on his face at the question. "You look to your left; you see one way. You look to your right, you see another," he remarked, "But neither is any harder than the opposite. But the Elder Scrolls," he paused for the right words, "they look left and right in the stream of time. The future and past are as one. Sometimes they even look up. What do they see then? What if they dive in? Then the madness begins."
That made no sense whatsoever, but at least it was good to know he at least read an Elder Scroll once.
And so, Jeanne sent the day in the cell, awaiting her sentencing. It was lonely, as no other inmates were there at the time, and the guards didn't speak to her. They wouldn't, as they saw her disgrace. An officer of the Stormcloak warband, one that hadn't fallen in battle, was expecting punishment for a drunken mistake.
She wasn't sure if they would miss her back home in High Rock. She was just another child of her house, not particularly special or anything. Perhaps she was special in her parents' eyes, but they had six other children of far better acclaim in court. No one would care if she died except as an embarrassment to her family, a rebel against the Empire that couldn't hold her liquor.
The bards would have a tale of a time trying to write the song. Yes, she had gained acclaim in the battles of Whiterun and Falkreath but led a rout in Markarth and drunkenly stabbed a man. Whatever songs they decided to write and sing for as long as they cared to sing it, there would always be someone who wasn't satisfied with it for misremembering her deeds.
But what would Jeanne have to say about her life to whoever came to take her? Arkay, Kynareth or whatever god took pity on her when she died would almost certainly want to hear it. If she had to be fair, she would have to say that it was foolish to run off to join the Stormcloaks, and despite the glory she gained, she wouldn't do it again if she had the chance to live it again. The glory may be golden but weighted by the blood of those who didn't deserve her blade.
All in all, the wait wasn't agonizing because she wanted to get out. It burned her because she wanted to get this over with. Free her, punish her, she didn't care; she wanted to know her fate.
And she would know it. After her third exercise routine that day, she heard someone entering the jail. They walked without the clanking of utensils on a plate, so they weren't here with her dinner. They walked alone, so they weren't the next shift. It could only be who it was: Jorleif.
"You're free to go," he stated, unlocking the door.
Jeanne let go of the beam in her cell and landed on the floor with grace. "What happened last night?" she asked.
"Rolff and his thugs were harassing you over your uniform," the steward explained, "saying a Breton couldn't be a Stormcloak. You shouted back about things that were only half related to their insults. Clearly drunk, a waitress escorted you to a room to cool off when Rolff's group jumped you. Before they could do anything, you stabbed Rolff and threw his men off you. The waitress ran to get the guards and found you with the stab wound when she came back."
Finally, she knew what happened last night. "What's one really useful waitress," Jeanne remarked, "Remind me to give her a massive tip."
"I don't know what that is," Jorleif replied, a serious expression on his face.
Wow, Nords really are barbaric. "If I'm innocent, then I'd like to ask about something," Jeanne stated.
He sighed, probably seeing some terrible question ahead of him. "Very well," he muttered, "what would you like?"
"I've heard about these murders."
The steward's expression got far grimmer at the topic. "These are difficult times indeed," he sighed, "when men stalk their brethren like beasts. My men are stretched thin as it is. If you offer your aid, I gladly accept. The guards will be told to assist you as necessary. I'm happy to lend a hand as much as I can, as well."
Jeanne was about to leave when Jorleif added, "And don't just implicate Rolff; he's already getting punishment for his actions."
That wasn't in her plans, but she would keep it in mind. First thing she needed to do was examine the crime scene.