Seven Seconds to Sundas - Skyrim Fanfic [on hold forever, probably]

Dedicated to LeviosaGold19085 for making the beautiful cover :3 Thank you!

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Prologue

   Syra slid the few rusty septims she still owned through the narrow slit in the bare, leaning wall. Nervously tapping her thumbs together, she overheard the multiple metallic clangs of the coins thumping against the stone floor behind the wall, and then the almost inaudible shuffling of silent feet. Her skin pricked in the chilly Winterhold wind and anticipation.

   A grunt was finally heard next, and then the outline of the door creakily slid open, disappearing into the vine-covered cobblestone beneath it. An old, weathered man came into sight, his snowy, bristly beard twisted at the end into a scraggly, rushed beard, the beard purposefully hiding his bruised, split lips. Oversized, magenta robes adorned with a yellow silver crescent moon hung from his figure, his facial hair brushing the sleeves of the clothing as his chest moved up and down.

   "Ahh, a customer! Haven't seen one in quite a while!" he cried wistfully, his cheeks creasing to indicate that he was grinning at her arrival. He took in the middle-aged woman's face before him with light emerald eyes. Syra felt uncomfortable, as if he was trying to see into her soul. "Who knew people were so afraid of knowing when their numbers up?" he continued, his head tilted in thought of his own question. He dismissively shrugged. Syra nodded smally, as if she was agreeing with his absurd thought.

   Syra let a nervous smile slip onto her face. It's not like stepping in this room means I'm going to die today, she thought, and that gave her the small dose of courage she needed. Her smile grew wider.

   "Come in, come in! You must be freezing out here in the cold!" he exclaimed, pushing the Nord woman inside his home in the bottom of the towering, misty mountain with his wrinkly hand. Syra's skin tingled where the elderly man had touched it, and, strangely, she had a sudden surge of energy. He stepped inside the make-shift home after her, swinging down a lever on the wall of the hole, and the door obligingly slid open, squeaking as it did so.

   The room beyond the door was small, to say the least. Maple-wood cabinets filled with potions upon potions were firmly nailed to the mossy walls. A sturdy wooden barrel sat in the corner of the room, a few bottles of mead peering out of the barrel. On top of a snow-wolf pelt rug, there were two nicked chairs, between the armrests of the seats lay a small, cube-shaped table. However, there was no bed or blankets or even a bed roll. Syra immediately noted this, but brushed it off without a second thought. Mages probably didn't need to sleep.

   The man trotted across the small room, exhaling slowly as he settled into a chipped wooden chair. He beckoned Syra to a similar seat, except it was less damaged and appeared to be much sturdier. Biting her lip nervously, she trekked over to the chair, and set herself in it unhurriedly. She wondered why she got this strong chair, and not he. Surely the man weighed more than she did.

   "So, Syra, I'm going to need you to tell me things about yourself." the mage questioned, his fingers interlocked on his lap. Syra's eyes widened in disbelief. She never uttered a word to him in her life, much less give him her birth name. "If I can predict your death date, what makes you think I can't predict your name?" he explained, which earned a surprised nod from the woman. She made it a habit to be careful what to think around this man, seeing he could interpret what she was wondering.

   "Uh, well, I come from Falkreath and I travel around a lot with the hope for adventure and action." Syra spoke dejectedly, and the mage shook his head as he received the information. Syra felt as if she had given him information that was irrelevant to him.

   "Any felonies yet?" he inquired, and she scoffed at his straightforward-ness, her demeanor slowly changing to that of a more uncooperative one, her true self. All thoughts of being polite or calm had been thrown out the window, or in this case, out of the sliding door.

   "No." she answered simply, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest. The wizard raised an grey, almost-burned-off eyebrow at her rather childish antics, but shook his head, muttering about 'women and their tempers'.

   "Any enemies?" he continued, picking up a scroll and a piece of charcoal, holding it readily above the papyrus, as if expecting her to not have many fans, to put it nicely. Syra definitely noticed this, and she couldn't help but let the corners of her mouth quirk up.

   "Plenty." she answered, and the mage tilted his head downwards, as if saying 'Please specify.' Syra responded by rattling off name after name of people who would chop her head off or poison her sweetroll if they had the chance. The mage hummed somewhat sarcastically as he swiped the charcoal across the page, each stroke equaling a letter. Finally, he set the stick of charcoal down onto his lap and asked another question.

   "Love interests?" he asked, his green eyes never leaving the withering scroll on his lap.

   "Cairo Quick-Tongue of Falkreath." she mumbled, rather red-faced. With her addition of a fiery red mane of hair, she was the striking image of a ripe tomato. Her cheeks cooled down as he continued to copy down the name she had told him. The elder mage paused, as if trying to think of what to ask next. His emerald eyes lit up in small accomplishment as he opened his mouth to ask another question.

   "Friends?"

   Syra scratched the back of her neck, embarrassed. Her cheeks turned crimson again, and the mage chuckled in realization.

   "Message understood."

**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**

   After hours of seemingly-pointless questions and snarky answers, Syra finally got the answer she was looking for - and dreading.

   "4E 201, the 25th of Evening Star, at 11:59:53 PM."