Femme Fatale

Yellow, sturdy parchment pages filled the journal's contents. At its cover, written and inlaid with copper, read the words: 'Sevyn's Journal.'

He smiled, content, before folding the book shut and draping the bedsheets over him. A good night's sleep should bode him well considering the day of tomorrow - at last, Sevyn's official entrance to the College of Winterhold.

He couldn't fail the entrance test - time, after all, waited for no man, and they had very little of it to spare.

*

*

*

There was no rest for the wicked, it seemed.

A familiar forest engulfed him in his dreams - this time, though, it had a different color palette.

Lavender, purple, pink, crimson, alien trees that dwarfed him in size. The air had an undertone of perfume and another of asphyxiating amounts of Magic.

The scenery was perfect, yet also overwhelming. The colors blurred together, and the scents invaded Sevyn's mind like a tsunami.

"I suggest you close your eyes." Whispered a voice beside his ear.

Straining through the pain, he found enough mental clarity to trust the advice.

The darkness that followed was deafening, such contrast it had with the blur of images and colors he'd been presented with before. It, however, also put all of his senses focused on the sweet fragrance that appeared to embrace him from all sides.

'Wait-' He did a double-take.

It literally embraced him.

Velvet-soft arms wrapped around his petite body, and her long silky hair fell to rest over his shoulders. Her hands were fine and dandy - he realized as she caressed his face.

"You should get used to it one day." She commented, almost offhandedly.

A warm and wet something flowed down his nose then. 'Oh, blood,' he distantly noted.

"Let me clean this for you, Sevyn." A soft laugh, too close to his ears for comfort, "It's a beautiful name." She complimented.

So they stood, he stuck within her gentle ministrations and her cold hands serving as a contrast to the heat of his blood.

Before long, the aroma that threatened to overwhelm him turned manageable, and no longer did his head hurt like someone had wrenched it open.

"You make me wait, Sevyn." She said after a moment of silence, and he could feel the blood in his veins freeze, "Patience isn't known for being one of my virtues."

The air turned heavy, and the fragrance that wrapped around him took an undertone of powder.

"Don't make me wait any longer." Whispered a silky voice in his right ear.

He woke up.

*

*

*

Blinding sunlight was the first thing to greet him as he shot up from his bed. Cold sweat drenched his back, and his face seemed drained of all its blood.

'Right... I forgot about that.' A heaving sigh escaped his lips, and he almost cursed his luck, 'When will I catch a break - couldn't it have been just a dream?'

He shook his head, then made to take a slip of parchment, a Quill, and his inkwell from the bedstand.

'Ysgramor's city...' He wrote on the slip of paper, his quill tapping absent-mindedly against the paper.

'Ysgramor was an Atmoran - an ancient race of men and woman born in Atmora, a frozen continent to the north of Tamriel, across from the Sea of Ghosts.' So said the books Lyslenne had given him.

'He gathered followers during the Civil War in Atmora and sailed south, seeking to escape the violent war. Landing in Hsaarik Head, it was there that they settled the first Nordic city in Tamriel: Saarthal.'

'Did she mean Saarthal, then?' He proposed but quickly erased the idea, 'No, there is nothing left of it but ruins.'

'Saarthal was later sacked by Snow Elves - the event that came to be known as Night of Tears. Only Ysgramor and his two sons were able to escape back to Atmora.'

The tapping on the paper stopped, and he scrunched up his eyebrows, 'Returning to their hailing land, they found the Civil War to have come to an end, and Atmoran society at peace once more. Ysgramor and his sons, then, gathered the famous Five Hundred Companions and marched back to Tamriel to avenge the sacking of Saarthal.'

The tapping resurfaced, and he could almost taste the answer in his lips.

'The Nordic-Falmer War had a turning point during the Battle of Moesring, where... a twelve-year-old girl went into a murderous rage after having seen her mother die at the hands of the Snow Prince, and... promptly killed him by throwing her mother's sword at his chest.

He furrowed his eyebrows, 'The Snow Elves lost all their morale after seeing the twelve... right, I'm getting side-tracked. Having won the war and repelled the Snow Elves from Skyrim, they ventured to colonize further inland.'

The tapping reached its zenith, the answer finally there, 'Ysgramor traveled eastward, heading towards Yngol Barrow where he decreed that a great city was to be built - the City of Kings, Windhelm, from where he could gaze upon his slain's son resting place.'

'Windhelm.' He wrote and underlined the name, 'Where the Sun is last seen... that would be...'

His eyes widened, 'Azura's Shrine.'

Considered to be one of few Daedric Princes to be Good - in Morrowind, Azura is worshipped by the Dunmer, along with Mephala and Boethiah. The Queen of Dawn and Dusk, her sphere is composed of transition and change - of the Magic in-between Day and Night.

Her Realm was called Moonshadow - one said to be beautiful enough to make a man half-blind and a perfume capable of driving people insane. Which, now that he reflected: sounded mighty familiar.

'A Daedric Prince wants to see me... why?' A shudder crawled up his spine, 'At least... it's one of the good ones, right?'

The reassurance didn't seem believable to even him. Tales of people driven to insanity, or worse, their death by fickle God-like entities crossed his mind.

'Perhaps, the entrance exam could wait for tomorrow?'

It was frustrating to have to change plans like this, but he wasn't daft to ignore the summons of Azura. Still, just like everything, he'd deal with his problems head-on, whether or not they were beyond his scope.

He could do with an impromptu meeting with Azura - shouldn't be too hard.