The Morning After

You step out into the brewing blizzard at the crack of dawn, frayed cloak almost smothering in its attempt to ward off the chill of another Skyrim morning. Dallying in the Frozen Hearth any longer would scrape away the last coppers to your name. Besides, you doubt you'd be able to look either innkeeper in the eye after last nights...surreptitious activities.

An awkward jog to maintain some heat brings you to the College's crumbling viaduct. A robed figure stands sentinel before the staggered path, bathed in magelight emitted by a pair of stone braziers that flank it.

"Access to the College is restricted. The gates are barred and the path is treacherous, you shall not gain entry"

The frigid reception wasn't surprising. After all, you resembled a wandering vagrant more than some aspiring student of the arcane.

"Markus Avenicci, formerly of Whiterun. It's said that Winterhold is one of the only places in Skyrim that mages are welcome...or is that another 'milk drinker's rumor'?" you ask bluntly, sending tongues of flame guttering across your palm to verify your ability.

"Oh...my mistake. Approach, Novice Avenicci."

Seems she's already assessed your abilities...

The cloaked guard pulls back its hood to reveal the sharp features of an Altmer woman. As with most of her kind, the mages olive complexion and wheat-tinted pigtails betrayed nothing. She could've seen over two hundred winters, yet passed for barely thirty by human standards.

"I am Faralda, senior faculty. I understand your situation, but those who wish to enter the College must at least display some skill with magic; a little test, if you will.

Yep. Being a walking tinderbox isn't so impressive after all...

As you step onto the carving before her as she indicated, (an eye surrounded by a five-pointed star) the air instantly slackens its icy grip. The magelight must also regulate the temperature somehow, along with its obvious function to aid sentries.

You sense a faint stream of magicka begin to flow between the high elf and the insignia underfoot, as she mutters a series of incantations that leave the atmosphere crackling with static.

"The seal allows me to gauge the strength of your cast. Give it your best shot; destruction, conjuration, alteration...even restoration if you must. Don't worry about me, the brunt of your spell will be insulated. I might just get a taste though...well, if you're not entirely hopeless."

No point in making a show of clearing your throat and rolling up your sleeves...