Isabel slept the sleep of the dead after the blooding, lodged in a forgotten, vine draped tomb deep under Skyrim. Others dwelt there as well, but they sensed her aura the way feeder fish sense a predator. Shifting to a better bed of dust, they too went silent.
“You got a good thing going now,” said Ilyana suddenly, the once raven-haired student of Isabel, but now the dread queen of necromancy. How Ilyana obtained the keen edge of power, be it a ring, a magic dagger, whatever, Isabel would never know. The only fact is that she did have something, and it allowed, upon occasion, Ilyana to shift Isabel across the dimensions. “I’m not going to ruin it. The ice and snow do wonders for that pale face of yours.”
Isabel couldn’t cancel the dream. It was more than a dream. She thought she could feet the fabric of Ilyana’s thin, black overlay glide spider-like over her hands, and it made her seep further into her unnatural sleep. “I cannot tarry here, for my kingdom back in Britannia awaits me. I am being courted by the king, Blackthorn. Perhaps you heard of him? I have righted him back on his throne with my power. But I cannot guarantee that I won’t bring my armies to Skyrim. It does look so lovely here.”
Of course Isabel had a few things to say to her old student, but the sleep of the dead claimed her, drug her back down into the hyper-conscious realm of the vampyre, where the blaring light of all knowledge waits.