—
The bottle slides from my clutches. I let it fall. I want it to fall – the splintering of evidence across dampened streets. No longer mine, it could have belonged to anyone. A vagrant, perhaps? A child sneaking Skooma when his parents were away at the Winking Skeever rekindling that fire that had long since died between them?
The clamoring ear-screeching of a shatter is overshadowed by the thunder rolling across the skies. Prepared wincing made moot as rain sets in. A cleansing from the Divines washes all the grit and grime down the sewer drains. Pigs’ blood, spit, fried grease from an animal’s flabby arse, mud, skeever droppings, and lost dignity blended with broken dreams all rinse away. My skull shudders to imagine where these wastes sail ashore, what lands they voyage to speckle and blemish like rotten eggs unwarily purchased from that shyster Sayma’s general store.
No. That shuddering is the skooma kicking in – the moonsugar concoction adding the sweetest pleasures of the best candies afloat in my mind. A war wages between the occupants of my thinking capsule. Scantily-clothed women, violent beasts, and the sugar clash swords and sully one another betwixt the muck.Who will win? Who shall reign champion of my fantasies on this eve of exploration?
Two hands press against the doors of the Winking Skeever. The tingling of the moist wood against my skin is exhilarating – a trip into the ecstasies of the unknown. What is this new found feeling? Where have these joys hidden themselves? Even in the greatest of my days, spending my Sundas morns lying nude in my bed and tearing into the flaky crusts of a fresh sweet roll, had I not experienced mind-altering sensations of this sort.
New. Euphoric. World-shaking. In the wrong hands, this could be dangerous, but in mine…
Five mugs of mead spiral down my throat before I even notice what’s happening. Corpulus Vinius begins to utter something, but his voice is droned out in the harmony of music filling the air – sweet, organic music chiming through like divinely-crafted winds. My ears prickle as if the hot, sticky breath of some deceiving puppeteer were whispering to me, beckoning me forth to follow its lead.
These melodies ring from the pipes of Pantea Ateia, local bard and fashion disaster who cloaks herself in her mother’s drapes. An animal fur adorns her shoulders, covering up the holes meant for a pole to slide through. Pantea’s smile incites the moment, and before I could withhold that which runs wild, my hand paws her dainty cheeks. I touch her softly at first, but a disconnect between my hands and my body unleashes a hidden strength that sends all of Skyrim into a whirl.
Winged gauntlets attack, their flighty, pummeling fists barraging me from all directions. I cannot see them. I cannot predict them. To only watch the blurring of my vision is my cursed fate as I am bludgeoned to near mortal doom.
The bruises ember like hot coals upon my flesh, searing deeply that which may never heal. I knew now how my dinner felt, scampering across the field tonight until my incinerating hands roasted it alive. Joyful. Playful. Tasty to some unwashed barbarian smitten with the disease-like hungering pains of a demanding stomach. Like an unruly wench, it demands constant attention and care. Should you give it disagreeable gifts, it picks fights and rejects thy wondrous presents. Up the gift canal they go [Return to Sender]. These shall be the reasons why I prefer a good mule to a wife.
Droplets of rain once again adorn my face. Haggard and defeated, I find refuge under an awning and enough parchment to scribble my decree. My vision fades. The euphoria evaporates. Only emptiness remains and the screaming of a family household turned upside down. The wife is angry, and the husband is belligerently hammered, spouting nonsense of the like even I have never babbled before.
Pots clash and wares clobber against one another – then a solitary thud. Silence resumes temporarily until the thunderous fluting of a horn breaks the calm for a split second. A vaporous expulsion of mead, signifying that the unjust have won in this twisted realm. Aye, I was on her side.
Woe is the man who comes down from a skooma high to find himself the loser. His heart broken. His face battered. A realization washes over him as he considers his skooma habit. Perils of an oncoming onslaught assume command, and percolating questions rumble to the top of the stewing volcano. What further misdeeds will uneven the road? What repercussions will I face? Shall I ever relocate my pants, which seem to have disappeared this fateful night?
Guardians, guide me safely home as I stick to the bushes. A serpent traversing the jungle, I shall remain hidden from the eyes of Solitude’s watchdogs. A dragonborn would be shamed should he succumb to a public nudity ticket.
–Cornelius G. Thundercock
Found Stuck in the Bushes in Solitude
—
The bottle slides from my clutches. I let it fall. I want it to fall – the splintering of evidence across dampened streets. No longer mine, it could have belonged to anyone. A vagrant, perhaps? A child sneaking Skooma when his parents were away at the Winking Skeever rekindling that fire that had long since died between them?
The clamoring ear-screeching of a shatter is overshadowed by the thunder rolling across the skies. Prepared wincing made moot as rain sets in. A cleansing from the Divines washes all the grit and grime down the sewer drains. Pigs’ blood, spit, fried grease from an animal’s flabby arse, mud, skeever droppings, and lost dignity blended with broken dreams all rinse away. My skull shudders to imagine where these wastes sail ashore, what lands they voyage to speckle and blemish like rotten eggs unwarily purchased from that shyster Sayma’s general store.
No. That shuddering is the skooma kicking in – the moonsugar concoction adding the sweetest pleasures of the best candies afloat in my mind. A war wages between the occupants of my thinking capsule. Scantily-clothed women, violent beasts, and the sugar clash swords and sully one another betwixt the muck.Who will win? Who shall reign champion of my fantasies on this eve of exploration?
Two hands press against the doors of the Winking Skeever. The tingling of the moist wood against my skin is exhilarating – a trip into the ecstasies of the unknown. What is this new found feeling? Where have these joys hidden themselves? Even in the greatest of my days, spending my Sundas morns lying nude in my bed and tearing into the flaky crusts of a fresh sweet roll, had I not experienced mind-altering sensations of this sort.
New. Euphoric. World-shaking. In the wrong hands, this could be dangerous, but in mine…
Five mugs of mead spiral down my throat before I even notice what’s happening. Corpulus Vinius begins to utter something, but his voice is droned out in the harmony of music filling the air – sweet, organic music chiming through like divinely-crafted winds. My ears prickle as if the hot, sticky breath of some deceiving puppeteer were whispering to me, beckoning me forth to follow its lead.
These melodies ring from the pipes of Pantea Ateia, local bard and fashion disaster who cloaks herself in her mother’s drapes. An animal fur adorns her shoulders, covering up the holes meant for a pole to slide through. Pantea’s smile incites the moment, and before I could withhold that which runs wild, my hand paws her dainty cheeks. I touch her softly at first, but a disconnect between my hands and my body unleashes a hidden strength that sends all of Skyrim into a whirl.
Winged gauntlets attack, their flighty, pummeling fists barraging me from all directions. I cannot see them. I cannot predict them. To only watch the blurring of my vision is my cursed fate as I am bludgeoned to near mortal doom.
The bruises ember like hot coals upon my flesh, searing deeply that which may never heal. I knew now how my dinner felt, scampering across the field tonight until my incinerating hands roasted it alive. Joyful. Playful. Tasty to some unwashed barbarian smitten with the disease-like hungering pains of a demanding stomach. Like an unruly wench, it demands constant attention and care. Should you give it disagreeable gifts, it picks fights and rejects thy wondrous presents. Up the gift canal they go [Return to Sender]. These shall be the reasons why I prefer a good mule to a wife.
Droplets of rain once again adorn my face. Haggard and defeated, I find refuge under an awning and enough parchment to scribble my decree. My vision fades. The euphoria evaporates. Only emptiness remains and the screaming of a family household turned upside down. The wife is angry, and the husband is belligerently hammered, spouting nonsense of the like even I have never babbled before.
Pots clash and wares clobber against one another – then a solitary thud. Silence resumes temporarily until the thunderous fluting of a horn breaks the calm for a split second. A vaporous expulsion of mead, signifying that the unjust have won in this twisted realm. Aye, I was on her side.
Woe is the man who comes down from a skooma high to find himself the loser. His heart broken. His face battered. A realization washes over him as he considers his skooma habit. Perils of an oncoming onslaught assume command, and percolating questions rumble to the top of the stewing volcano. What further misdeeds will uneven the road? What repercussions will I face? Shall I ever relocate my pants, which seem to have disappeared this fateful night?
Guardians, guide me safely home as I stick to the bushes. A serpent traversing the jungle, I shall remain hidden from the eyes of Solitude’s watchdogs. A dragonborn would be shamed should he succumb to a public nudity ticket.
–Cornelius G. Thundercock
Categories: Uncategorized
Tags: Cornelius G Thundercock, Corpulus Vinius, Khajiit, Letters From Skyrim, Moonsugar, Pantea Ateia, Sayma, Skooma, Skyrim, Solitude, THe Winking Skeever
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