Nurelion,
Quit hitting yourself. Quit hitting yourself. Quit hitting yourself, vile filcher. Your corpse lies cock-eyed before the fire now, its body strewn lopsided over a chair. It looks as if you rose from the grave, stumbled drunkenly, and plopped uncomfortably before the kindling, then proceeded to pummel yourself in the face with your own fists.
Aye. Your knuckles are as rosy and bloodied as a fair maiden’s bedchamber on a wedding night. Your face is as pulpy and demolished as that leftover fruit from this morning’s breakfast – the one I had bashed repeatedly with my mace. To the casual onlooker, it’s a scene of remorse. Or perhaps one of self-mutilation at the horror of gazing into such a pitifully small fire? Had not your father taught you how to lay logs? In all your years, did you not understand the simplest concept of building a campfire?
Whatever your excuse be, it matters not, Nurelion. Your heart’s kindling has burned through its last smoldering embers. A curmudgeonly old man, you have gasped your final, hoarse cough. Our first encounter, you snubbed me of my payment for procuring the White Phial for you. Your assistant, Quintus Navale, convinced me to help repair the mold. And so it stands, the last vision you witnessed was that of your precious Phial rebuilt. A life’s quest fulfilled. A greedy, self-centered and vicious heart finally released of its obsession. So long to reach this moment, wasn’t it? So short-lived it was too…
As it stands, this story seems quite familiar. I know of a man whose very obsession haunts and leads him astray, dragging him down dark alleyways on wobbling legs. An otherwise heroic fellow with a towering frame of hardened muscles, his single-tracked mind has led him down a road of mixed opinions. Some admire him for his fleeting moments of good deeds. Some feel spited by him. Others find him repulsive, relating him to their companions as nothing more than a womanizing drunkard obsessed with his own prowess and mirrored complexion. I just cannot seem to remember his name.
Oh well.
~Cornelius G. Thundercock
Found on Nurelion’s Corpse
Nurelion,
Quit hitting yourself. Quit hitting yourself. Quit hitting yourself, vile filcher. Your corpse lies cock-eyed before the fire now, its body strewn lopsided over a chair. It looks as if you rose from the grave, stumbled drunkenly, and plopped uncomfortably before the kindling, then proceeded to pummel yourself in the face with your own fists.
Aye. Your knuckles are as rosy and bloodied as a fair maiden’s bedchamber on a wedding night. Your face is as pulpy and demolished as that leftover fruit from this morning’s breakfast – the one I had bashed repeatedly with my mace. To the casual onlooker, it’s a scene of remorse. Or perhaps one of self-mutilation at the horror of gazing into such a pitifully small fire? Had not your father taught you how to lay logs? In all your years, did you not understand the simplest concept of building a campfire?
Whatever your excuse be, it matters not, Nurelion. Your heart’s kindling has burned through its last smoldering embers. A curmudgeonly old man, you have gasped your final, hoarse cough. Our first encounter, you snubbed me of my payment for procuring the White Phial for you. Your assistant, Quintus Navale, convinced me to help repair the mold. And so it stands, the last vision you witnessed was that of your precious Phial rebuilt. A life’s quest fulfilled. A greedy, self-centered and vicious heart finally released of its obsession. So long to reach this moment, wasn’t it? So short-lived it was too…
As it stands, this story seems quite familiar. I know of a man whose very obsession haunts and leads him astray, dragging him down dark alleyways on wobbling legs. An otherwise heroic fellow with a towering frame of hardened muscles, his single-tracked mind has led him down a road of mixed opinions. Some admire him for his fleeting moments of good deeds. Some feel spited by him. Others find him repulsive, relating him to their companions as nothing more than a womanizing drunkard obsessed with his own prowess and mirrored complexion. I just cannot seem to remember his name.
Oh well.
~Cornelius G. Thundercock
Categories: Death Notice
Tags: Cornelius G Thundercock, Letters From Skyrim, Nurelion, Quintus Navale, Repairing the Phial, Skyrim, White Phial, Windhelm
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