Found Stuffed in a Bottle of Skooma

Poor Cicero,

 

It seems like so many moons ago, I drove that sword into your throat. My head was swimming. My skull ached. It was the hangover of a lifetime, throbbing within like a trembling crescendo of stampeding children pounding against the walls of my brain. Their relentless little fists and their shrieking cries for more dessert snacks were too much to bear, too much to fight against. The little monsters! The little Daedric orphans bemoaning to the Divines. Had I been thinking clearly or had your insufferable voice not added to the internal screeching, I would have spared you. I would have let you live, Cicero; I would have let you lived.

 

And now I drink. Skooma. Mead. Brandy. All of it rushes down my gullet as I somberly remember how I discovered your innocence. It was Astrid, fallen brother. That sultry harlot with unforgettable, steel-coated eyes. I was entranced by her – mystified that a nocturnal huntress like her would be wed. Aye. It drove me mad. It made the inner werewolf run out amidst a thunderstorm to howl devastatingly at the elements, cursing out all the Divines in animalistic rage. Many one-handed skill levels were raised that night, friend. Many indeed.

 

I have always had a weakness, poor Cicero, for drink and ladies fair, and I find one of those weaknesses has closed its shroud upon me once more. I am not my merry self, jovially jumping about some tavern, tossing bottles at bards and blowing raspberries on the bellies of frightened innkeepers. My belches aren’t thunderous. My farts don’t evoke the childish snickering they once did. Now, they merely foul the dry, tundra air as I sit upon this mountain peak.

 

I wear your garbs, dear Cicero. I felt they would bring me warmth, but only the deathly chill of emptiness lurks within, creeping into my heart. I drink more to counteract this effect – to numb the freezing of my ears. Another gulp, another bottle thrown.

 

“…Oh, if I chance to see a cat, I’ll feed its corpse to my pet rat.” Your voice whispers through the mountains. Is my mind reeling in delusional quandaries, or are you still alive somewhere? Do I hear you trekking through the canyon below, dancing your merry jig as you gleefully slit the throats of foolish bandits?

 

As bizarre as it may come across, I miss the sound of your voice. I miss your rhymes and your harping laugh, and I am left to wonder what it would be like to adventure together. Dressed alike and sneaking through the night, stifled giggles would haunt the air as we ran ropes around the legs of a sleeping giant. Then – stab. Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab. We’d do it all for the mammoth cheese. Goopy. Chunky. Delicious. Cheese.

 

I hunger. I shall search for some food. Should fate deem you still live, find me, so we may venture out into the wilds of Skyrim, our hands joined together and our tunes calling out the death knell of blood-letting.

 

I’m sorry, Cicero,

Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found at the Shrine of Azura

–

 

My trek away from the ravages of the Civil War carried me through lands few dared travel. A world of ice and tundra visions danced before me, the delusional death grip of hallucination feeding me musing whimsy in a place known only for its final toll on the untrained body. Aye, but I was trained. I was fueled by spite and maddened with sorrowful rage at the waste of this Civil War that I barreled through ice and snow and hidden bears waiting to pounce on my unsuspecting form.

 

It was in this turning away from Nordic woes that I found servitude to those whose names have withstood time itself. The Daedric Princes – the beings whose invocation was all but dead. In this barren waste of frost, I was tasked by Azura to reclaim her star. It was an easy quest, or so it seemed, until I was thrust inside the very object itself to defeat an unwanted vagrant.

 

Within Azura’s Star, a whole new world unveiled itself. Spacious and seemingly unending, this realm could house the souls of an insurmountable number of beings with much ease. Entire parties of disorderly fellows with a penchant for destruction could feasibly find solace here, their tendencies unhindered and unaffected as their parties rage within the back pocket of an unsuspecting carrier waltzing about town.

 

Excuse me, fair wench, is that a party down your blouse, or is Azura’s star currently empty? The possibilities know no end, and these ceaseless parties could carry forth without the demands of a permit or public approval. Within these hidden realms, freedom discovers the means of its existence.

 

With that noted, there is a darker concern at play. If this object houses the fabrications of its own cosmos away from the woes of Skyrim, what other objects within Tamriel’s realm house the same? And can they be destroyed? By the mere devouring of an ordinary-looking apple, have I unknowingly committed mass genocide against a whole race of little people, singing their songs and dancing their jigs within the ripened fruit of a tree’s offering to the world? How could I have known that it was, indeed, a magical apple whose existence housed a dimension of merry folk? Have I digested them? Has my stomach incinerated them in a sea of growling hunger, and I was too lacking in keen-ness to hear their gurgling screams of torment? How many civilizations have I obliterated by the trudging of my foot and the curiosity of my tongue?

 

This worries me. It means the slightest movement of my body and the lightest expulsion of gas can alter the course of Tamriel in the gravest of ways. Far be it from me to shy away from spitting upon ants when boredom plagues my mind, but what if I have destroyed creatures smaller than ants? Creatures like me that think and speak and laugh and drink?

 

My mind carries forth a concern formerly unknown and a headache that fares worse than a violent skull-splitting. I shall sit and think upon this for a while as the falling snow nestles around me.  

 

~Cornelius G Thundercock

Found in the Dawnstar Sanctuary

The unruly throbbing in my skull will not end. A bunch of barbaric children run rampant in the back of my head, flailing clubs recklessly and beating my brain senseless. They will not stop. They will not let up until every pulpy mound of flesh has been satisfyingly pulverized, and even then, their fiery, demonic spirits may still carry on out of sheer boredom, as they have been for several moons now.

 

Just a friendly drinking game, huh Sam? I’ll admit it was divine. I remember little of the night, but the aggravated characters I had to visit to find Sam again were nothing shy of exhilarating. I just hope, when I visit a physician of some sort, I have not contracted any disease from that hagraven, Moira. This disturbs me. It sets me on edge to think Little Cornelius may have sailed into the tepid pond of something as foul as that feathered hag. What evil lurks in there? A disease? A monster? My worst horrific visions imagine some deformed Khajiit – Argonian baby with buck-teeth and patchy skin treading out of that swamp, calling for its paternal guardian with lop-sided, uneven arms extended. “Dah-dah,” it croons, marching forward with bulging eyes and lengthy tuffs of hair jutting out from a uni-brow on its Argonian-shaped head.  

 

Then again, I suppose it’s a relief to know that the backwoods in which this happened is an isolated one, so I can keep it quiet – passing off any visible signs of illness my sprouting Spriggan may have on my next encounter with a fair maiden as a mere sinus infection. “Mmmm. He’s a little under the weather, but he’s okay.”

 

Aye. Those wounds are easily hidden with the right word choices, but this headache – no magic incantations will cease its stalwart bludgeoning. Here, in this dead sanctum, I listen to it. Sitting in a pool of Cicero’s blood and inhaling the whiffs of my own regurgitations emanating from a corner, I wait for Sanguine’s last trick to pass. Like a kidney stone passing through some poor bloke’s bladder, this headache wishes to shred every bit of visible innards to mush. Drunken debauchery indeed, but there is a price to pay.

 

Cicero, if your spirit can read this, I intended no hard feelings. I merely came here to talk with you, but your shrill cries and trumpeting screeches pained my sensitive ears. I could feel my own blood oozing from the sides of my head as you cried and shouted throughout the sanctuary. Has anyone ever told you that your screeches are not dissimilar from the inharmonious cries of a whole college of bards razed? Like the music of Lurbuk at the Moorside Inn, your very whisper could disintegrate minds not strong enough to withstand horrifying pitches of your magnitude.

 

Let it be known that I simply could not deal with your whimpers anymore, particularly on a day like this. Sanguine’s drinks brought about a hangover of the likes I have never felt before, and your voice simply could not be withstood. It was not for Astrid’s petty revenge, probably willed about by womanly scorn over a lost knitting needle, Cicero. It was merely for my own sanity and respite.

 

Though I am not one to typically degrade bodies, I left yours nude and exposed to the moist air of this dungeon. Fungal growth will soon set in (I apologize), but I found your clothes rather whimsically endearing. I felt with the right flair, I could perhaps better improve my chances with the ladies. Unfortunately, I will have to visit a tailor, as it seems my rear looks rather pudgy and disarrayed in these pants, like a sack of lumpy potatoes. Again – no hard feelings.

 

Your friend,

Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found in Whiterun

[This letter still had the heavily saturated stench of mead permeating off it when found. Combining that with the inconsistent style of writing and unintelligible portions, we have reason to believe that Cornelius G. Thundercock was drunk when he wrote this. We have confirmed, however, that this handwriting is indeed his.]

Whiterun Guard,

 

You think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you, gutter trash? “Is that fur coming out of your ears?” Oh, is that blood coming out of YOURS? Oh, it is?! How did that happen? Did some heavy-handed, moral citizen with a sense of common f……..[unintelligible]….ing courtesy and decency teach you some lessons in basic etiquette?

 

How many times must I slowly strut through this blustering town, with my hair billowing in the wind and my chest glistening with oily man sweat, only to have you blundering guards chastise me about my pallor or rumored crimes? Drenched in the blood of  eviscerated bandits, bears, and dragons and sporting a breath blending the aromas of fish, garlic, leeks, and skeever tails, I return home to Whiterun for a bit of leisure. I pound a few meads at one of the inns. I slink over to Ysolda to whisper spicy tales of perilous adventure, and I stroll home to sleep soundly, belching out a verse or two to “Ragnar the Red”.  I cast not my empty bottles to the roadside like some littering scum. Rather, I line them up by my bed, should I have need for a late night deposit. I relieve myself not in the bushes of some poor fellow’s home, thundering my dutiful task to the winds like a child demanding attention. I restrain from lolly-gagging. I follow your ordinances agreeably, so that  I may spend my gold, rustle my mistress, and pass out on my own bed covered in the filth of  drunken ecstasy and my glistening man muscle. Is that too much to ask? Am I, the great hero and Thane of Whiterun, demanding too much in being spared your snide remarks? Over and over and over again?

 

Or are you so blinded by your own self-righteousness and sense of importance to understand? All day long, you buffoons march up and down the streets in your unwashed, ugly smocks and sweltering helmets, barking orders at anything that moves. A man. A child. A bird. Does it matter? Folding your arms across your chest, you put out the feel of authority and coldness, wafting in the air a sense of your own inflated purpose while you survey a peaceful market of peaceful people going about their daily business. How many dragons have you killed? How many crimes have you halted? As far as I can count, none, but I’m certain you’ve distributed your fair share of fines, no? You flea-ridden dog! I spit at thee! [unintelligible....]

 

Your pitiful life consists of eating, marching, sitting, and sleeping. Unhappy with your lot in Skyrim, you waggle your tongue with the boldness of an unruly child that deserves a spanking, and so in keeping with that discipline, I’ve spanked you, and I will continue to go on spanking you… [unintelligible scribbling]…

 

After widening your mouth with my knife to let all that fired-up spittle you call speech dribble out, I’ve taken to removing your pants and boot-stomping your tender hams. One. Two. Brrrrrrruuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrp! THREE! Arrow to the knee? You took an iron heel to your secret cave entrance. Or was it exit only? How do you like that, bed-wetter? You crying yet? You want me to douse you with mead now?!

 

……………Oh……..

 

You’re dead? I thought your health was low. I’m… truly… sorry. May the guard who finds this send condolences to his family (if he has one). I’ll chip in a few gold to help put his kid through the College of Winterhold – also so his wife can buy some cabbages to eat. Tell them I am in remorse. It was an accident.

 

If you’re looking to get a hold of me, my name is Brenuin. You can find me at the Bannered Mare.

 

Sorry,

B-

 

P.S. I’ll slip the money under the barracks door.

Found on Shadr’s Charred Corpse

 

 

My dear friend,

 

I am terribly sorry. I understand that means nothing to you now considering you’re dead, but my infinite sorrow is the burden of remorse I shall carry with me for the next few hours (or until another skirt with mysterious eyes walks past).

 

I hope your spirit is not a vengeful spirit because this is a rather odd tale. You asked of me to help alleviate those debts you owed Sapphire. I went in The Bee and the Barb and gave her a piece of my mind, scaring that uppity bandit-woman with the darkest of my sinister intentions. She complied – agreed that your debts were nullified, and then business drew me away from Riften. 

 

As you may have noticed, I was away for days, weeks, maybe even a month. There were caverns to clear, bandits to kill, and a woman at home to lay with. If you would have seen her, you would agree that Oblivion gates that fantastic-looking should not be ignored. 

 

When I did next find myself in Riften, I realized I would conveniently be passing by your stables, and so I had every intention of telling you that your credit was no longer suffering, that you were debt-free! 

 

…then a dragon descended from the perilous skies. Like a true warrior, you ran toward it with a dagger, screaming harsh words and thrusting your blade at a beast a great distance above you with absolutely zero chance of damaging its thick hide. Possibly in fear of your mad frenzy, it honed in on you and incinerated every fiber in your body. I watched as what once was a brave, stupid man morphed into a smoldering husk of skeever food.

 

Fortunately, your gold and lockpicks were undisturbed, so I acquired those as payment rendered for my services. Still, I feel I must tell you, if there is an afterlife or if you were still concerned with the physical realm, I relieved you of your burdens. Your legacy is intact. When people reflect on the life you led, they won’t say you were a good-for-nothing stable boy with a heavy debt on his shoulders. They’ll say you were the daft stable boy who, while debt-free, charged a dragon with a dagger, and they’ll gleefully drink to your name.

 

I know I will.

 

Farewell, my friend. May you be blessed with the fortunes of the afterlife.

 

~Cornelius G. Thundercock