I can feel it swimming around in my gut like a slaughterfish on the hunt. Chewing the tender lining of my innards, it devours me whole from the inside out. My body hasn’t wrenched this painfully since I dined at the Vilemyr Inn in Ivarstead, and even then, I knew that poisonous food had to be a vendetta. I had written to the inn’s owner, Wilhelm, to chastise him for spewing his ignorant mouth like some common drunkard traipsing outside a lushery. I assumed his wretched contempt avenged itself in a manner of extra seasoning upon my meal, giving me the foulest onset of diner’s remorse I have ever had. I pity the bucket laying beside my bed that haunted evening.
And here I am now, reeling over in similar pain, clutching myself feverishly as some manner of beast wriggles through my entire body.
I have pondered this for some time now – this ability I have. Some say it’s a gift, but those guttersnipes gab their sweet roll holes without giving nary a moment to the thought’s cautious mechanics. They know not how it feels. They understand little, aside from the swirling colors around me every time I absorb another dragon soul. To the onlooker it’s a vivid sight of intrigue and curiosity, one of wonderment that evokes only the deepest romanticism. To the Dragonborn, it signals another night of gastrointestinal problems.
It’s not that I merely absorb dragons’ souls. I digest them in a manner of speaking. My body filters them, utilizing the good parts and leaving the scummy parts along the roadside as feeding puddles for the woodland animals to lap up and over-extended, underfunded Imperials to peruse. It may very well be possible that the chamberpot teeming with corn-speckled dragon stew at one of the inns contains the last remains of Viinturuth.
Typically, the pain is only mild, but the anguish on this day has an added effect that has me thinking. Before I slew this last dragon, I watched it crunch the bones of that clever Altmer, Captain Valmir. Aye, I was exiting the treacherous Forelhost with the mask he so desired, one in which I did not desire to hand over, only to see that my likely violent encounter was working itself out with the resident fire-breather. The battle was quick, and the Altmer dog masquerading as an Imperial met his end betwixt the powerful jaws of this land’s most feared creature.
As this pain settled in post-absorption, I wondered if dragons have the same ability as I. Do they absorb their fallen prey? Before meeting its end by my dual magic, did this dragon ensnare the mangy soul of Valmir? In turn then, does that mean I digested the Thalmor agent?
I certainly feel so. After all, I do feel a rush of unprovoked mischief interlacing through my body. A sense of sneaky wickedness is bubbling to my brain, frequenting my mind with obsessive thoughts of stealing the most lowly of materials from people’s houses. Ladles, wooden bowls, and pens – are these the thoughts that occupy an Altmer? Do they strive to invade all of Tamriel merely to enforce control and power over the whims of common kitchen utensils?
I know not the answers to these questions. I know only that if I did, indeed, absorb Valmir’s essence with that dragon, it certainly made bloated and gassy understatements in describing my current condition.
~Cornelius G. Thundercock
Found In A Tent Outside Forelhost
I can feel it swimming around in my gut like a slaughterfish on the hunt. Chewing the tender lining of my innards, it devours me whole from the inside out. My body hasn’t wrenched this painfully since I dined at the Vilemyr Inn in Ivarstead, and even then, I knew that poisonous food had to be a vendetta. I had written to the inn’s owner, Wilhelm, to chastise him for spewing his ignorant mouth like some common drunkard traipsing outside a lushery. I assumed his wretched contempt avenged itself in a manner of extra seasoning upon my meal, giving me the foulest onset of diner’s remorse I have ever had. I pity the bucket laying beside my bed that haunted evening.
And here I am now, reeling over in similar pain, clutching myself feverishly as some manner of beast wriggles through my entire body.
I have pondered this for some time now – this ability I have. Some say it’s a gift, but those guttersnipes gab their sweet roll holes without giving nary a moment to the thought’s cautious mechanics. They know not how it feels. They understand little, aside from the swirling colors around me every time I absorb another dragon soul. To the onlooker it’s a vivid sight of intrigue and curiosity, one of wonderment that evokes only the deepest romanticism. To the Dragonborn, it signals another night of gastrointestinal problems.
It’s not that I merely absorb dragons’ souls. I digest them in a manner of speaking. My body filters them, utilizing the good parts and leaving the scummy parts along the roadside as feeding puddles for the woodland animals to lap up and over-extended, underfunded Imperials to peruse. It may very well be possible that the chamberpot teeming with corn-speckled dragon stew at one of the inns contains the last remains of Viinturuth.
Typically, the pain is only mild, but the anguish on this day has an added effect that has me thinking. Before I slew this last dragon, I watched it crunch the bones of that clever Altmer, Captain Valmir. Aye, I was exiting the treacherous Forelhost with the mask he so desired, one in which I did not desire to hand over, only to see that my likely violent encounter was working itself out with the resident fire-breather. The battle was quick, and the Altmer dog masquerading as an Imperial met his end betwixt the powerful jaws of this land’s most feared creature.
As this pain settled in post-absorption, I wondered if dragons have the same ability as I. Do they absorb their fallen prey? Before meeting its end by my dual magic, did this dragon ensnare the mangy soul of Valmir? In turn then, does that mean I digested the Thalmor agent?
I certainly feel so. After all, I do feel a rush of unprovoked mischief interlacing through my body. A sense of sneaky wickedness is bubbling to my brain, frequenting my mind with obsessive thoughts of stealing the most lowly of materials from people’s houses. Ladles, wooden bowls, and pens – are these the thoughts that occupy an Altmer? Do they strive to invade all of Tamriel merely to enforce control and power over the whims of common kitchen utensils?
I know not the answers to these questions. I know only that if I did, indeed, absorb Valmir’s essence with that dragon, it certainly made bloated and gassy understatements in describing my current condition.
~Cornelius G. Thundercock
