– My feet have just touched down upon Skyrim once more, though my head is riddled with the machinations of illusions and hallucinations, of befuddled dreams and bewildering mysteries. Meridia had abducted me, speaking to me in a basking glow with a honeyed voice and a gentle caress of the winds in the skies above. Held at her mercy, I was but a toy to be played with, a tool to toss around and discard like any poorly made iron working. “Enter my temple, retrieve my artifact, and destroy the defiler,” she commanded. Far be it from me to question the divine bodies above, but was that a coded message? By gently rubbing my hands upon her beacon, did I just add a new notch to my leather belt? These questions simmered and stewed in my mind as I hung there, listening to her and embracing the glow of her illumination. A tickled ecstasy pulsed through my midsection as the wind tugged lightly at my sheathed sailing vessel. Was I in her temple? Had I, without a keen awareness, performed a sacrament with her, destroying some unseen defiler merely by giving myself unto her in the clouds above? A childlike grin passed across my face as another breeze brushed up against me, this one stronger than the last. The winds were rousing the sailing vessel to action. My snoozing armored troll had stirred. “Enter my temple.” The soothing words danced around the maypole of my fantasies as I tilted my head back, as I extended my arms and embraced the lightness of my disposition. “Take me. Take me you sultry Lady of Infinite Energies,” I howled. “I have tickled your stone, and I give myself unto thee. Brush and pull at me as you will. I shall not fight it.” Vigorous sensations flooded my body as I was barraged with strong currents all at once. A joy overwhelmed me, and then as swiftly as it had arrived, it departed. I descended back to the lands below, back to the realm of Nords and beasts, of monsters and living dead. I stood alone, holding Meridia’s Beacon. A wetness brought about a chill in my armor. Was that it? Was that all the divines could afford in the art of consummation? I wasn’t even given a bountiful and exquisite meal. ~Cornelius G. Thundercock
Night Mother, Your eye sockets are a desiccated place where no dilated orbs may blossom or find purpose. Yet, though you will not read it, I feel compelled to write to you. An overwhelming force beyond my control deems I draw quill to paper and let out that which flows through me, endearing me in a manner I have as of yet to determine is of sound or ill mental health. When the Falkreath Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood burned in the vengeance-laced embers of those who would do us harm, you bade me to seek comfort in your arms. You called to me, Night Mother, bidding me to find safety in the only pace un-licked from those scorching flames. I admit, at first it was awkward. As I rest my head upon your dried-out breast, an uneasiness washed over me. You beckoned me here, but was I too imposing? Should I have lain my head upon your belly instead? Were my hands clutched round your waist bordering on waters too sensual for our relationship? After all, you are the Night Mother, and I am but your lowly Listener. An obedient child, I hear your words and nod my head, following through with the chores you deem fit. A slap on the snout I fear most fervently from one of your caliber, and I wouldn’t wish to tempt your striking hand with my incessant need to cuddle. Still, you remained silent. You spoke not a word – giving neither answer to approval or violated disgust. As we lie there, hearing the wretched cinders and crumblings of a sanctuary lost, the uneasiness began to settle. A comfort wrestled the other away, and I began to snuggle closer – at first a nestling under thy chin and a smooth palm along your jutting, bony backside. You emanated such warmth, Night Mother. I dare say a tenderness flowed from within your hollowed husk. Was this my answer? Was this your quiet approval of my pulpy fingers hovering gently above your protruding bones? Out of all the women I have lain with in my lifetime, you were by far the ugliest, most vile-looking creature my eyes had ever fallen upon. However, I have never felt such peace in an embrace. It’s as if your mere presence allayed my worries and plucked my frustrations from my mind. Though home to some manner of roach, your open mouth became a beacon to me. A good many hours I thought about it while we were isolated to ourselves, Night Mother. Such strange desires and wishes hounded through me of a magnitude I have never felt before. Aye. A kiss. A soft kiss, closed-mouth upon thy lips eventually proceeded forth from these tantalizing musings. Such power and enchantment from that kiss, it was as if I had never truly been touched upon the lips. Did you feel it too, Night Mother? Is our union a relation beyond mere guide and scout? I will never know for your husk is incapable of growing eyes, but I am left to wonder nonetheless. Answer me, Night Mother, if I bid you to speak, for a dangerous longing sparks within my breast. Should the feeling roam unrestrained, I feel I may need to curl within your coffin once more, embrace you yet again to appease this damnable temptation. I love you Night Mother, Cornelius G. Thundercock P.S. Is there a sweetness of drink or pastry that satisfies what little palate remains?
Jarl Elisif the Fair, I hope this letter finds you on a most delightful of mornings and with the pleasant color you shine so radiantly when I have visited you in the Blue Palace. My fairest Jarl, I have matters to discuss with you concerning the health and nutrition of the children in Solitude. As you are already well aware, Solitude is the finest city in all of Skyrim with the cleanest streets and friendliest of peoples, public executions withstanding, and it is a beacon many other cities should, if they do not already, look up to for guidance. That having been said, I am most certain you will agree with me that this fair city needs to produce the most intelligent and strongest individuals. Not only for the war effort’s sake, these individuals should shine above the others as illuminating figureheads of Solitude’s dominance and continuous cultural progression. Aye, my fair Jarl, wearing a face whose beauty is unmatched by the stars sneezed across the sky from Akatosh’s blessing, I am certain you agree. Why? Because a heart beats under those wonderful bosoms of yours. Were I to nestle in close and blow them a raspberry, the tingling of your warm heart would evoke the loveliest of giggles from your soft-spoken, pouting lips. And as we know with the latest medical breakthroughs, a tender giggle, like yours, is the sign of someone who is fair, just, caring, and kind to all souls who deserve it. And who to be more deserving of your graciousness than Solitude’s children? Further insights into the latest medical breakthroughs reveal that devouring the flesh and bodies of tough creatures produces tough individuals. The heart of a bear leads to stalwart soldiers with ferocious howls even dragons have a hard time to restrain. Me? I consume the souls of dragons, and within me beats the combined thu’ums of over thirty ancient beasts. It’s why I haven’t been slain yet and why I shall carry forth without death’s fateful knock drumming against my door, but this isn’t about me. It’s about the children. It’s about instilling within Solitude’s young a fervor and resilience unmatched by any of Skyrim’s other children. Unfortunately, the bear population isn’t possibly large enough to sustain our ever-increasing child-base here in this fine city. Also, slaying a bear is quite dangerous, and it can tie up many resources that are better spent fighting this dreary war effort. However, I have a solution. A man of the lands, I have come across many caves and dungeons and seized many ingredients that can put forth the power of unmatched beasts in our young. This is why I write to you. I am proposing a new lunch program for the children of Solitude. My beautiful Jarl, would you agree that frostbite spiders are a force to be reckoned with? Would you agree that, grown to full adulthood, they are fearsome creatures that have slain many fine people all across this realm? Aye. I thought so. I imagine you’re quivering this very moment, reading this alone in your chambers where you can let your guard down and allow the fear to swell betwixt your loins. Your eyes glimmering with terror and your tongue effortlessly brushing against your perfect lips – I would hold you close at this moment. I would tremble with you, whispering gently in your ear that it will be all right, that no spiders would harm you, so long as I am with you. But what if we can harness that power that petrifies you so, Elisif? What if we can endow our young with the terrifying might of the frostbite spider with relative ease? Believe me, we can do it, and I know how. On my many journeys, I have rammed my sturdy gauntlets into more sacs than you would believe. Without a thought, I have jammed my fists into so many egg sacs, it seems so quaint and boring now – a typical afternoon. But what do I do with these frostbite spider egg sacs? Whom do I aid with them? Solitude, I thought to myself. I aid the people of the most glorious city in all of Skyrim. With them, we can feed our children with the proper nutrients laced inside these eggs, and we can also grace them, at a young age, with the power and force of one of the most deadly creatures in all of Tamriel. Are you with me? Are you inferring my plan? I speak plainly of mandated school lunches. Think of it, Elisif. All of Solitude’s children clenching their jaws around juicy egg sacs peppered with the best spices gold can afford. Tasty. Delicious. Healthy. In no time, our children will grow big and strong enough that they’ll overtake our commanders in sport and fight, paving the way for a superior race of frostbite spider-infused Nords. Are you drenched in the sweat of excitement and ecstasy yet? Get back to me as soon as you can. I shall visit your palace on my next journey back. In the meantime, think it over, and we’ll discuss a price. My life for your rule, Cornelius G. Thundercock
My dearest departed Camilla, I had the most enchanting evening this night in Reachcliff Cave. After clearing out a den of Draugr, I had the opportunity to attend a party by Eola, a woman I had met recently. Do not worry, my former lover, as Eola is a special woman but special in that platonic way. There is no connection between us, as I find her horribly unattractive. Her eye looks funny. Her breath reeks of rotten flesh and spoiled milk, and her body is tainted by the smell of caked blood. However, like me, Eola is a hunter. She heeds the call of the wild, listening to the whispers of wholesale slaughter across the gentlest of breezes rolling through the hills. Carried upon the wings of unassuming butterflies, to this call Eola does not back down. She does not whimper, nor cower. Like me, she permits a smile to place itself across her features and embraces that calling, that warm-tongued muttering in the wind that seemingly brings meaning to this world (and a stiffness in my britches, I might add). Tonight, my departed lover, I dined on human flesh. Raw. I just wormed my fingers into the body of Brother Verulus of Markarth and plucked out an organ. So simple. So tasty. It was like picking an apple from a tree or snowberries from a bush. And sweet! Verulus’ flesh reminded me of chicken mixed with a juicy gourd – two opposing flavors uniting as one in a beautiful, aromatic bouquet of ecstasy. After I ate his lung, I began to carve into Verulus with Eola’s help. We slow-cooked his limbs and body parts over a fire. Hogni Red-Arm, a shopkeeper in Markarth, enjoyed a succulent butt steak. Nimphaneth, after flashing me a secretive smile, crushed his eyeballs between her teeth like grapes, the squirting juices running down her chin and beneath her robes. Like a silent, stalking predator, her tongue slowly lapped up the escaping liquid. It was beautiful – festive, and best of all, there was no judgment. There was no one there to snub your attire or cast an eye skyward because of your wealth. Food was the only reason they were there – love of good food and the pleasures a fine meal can provide. I have a newly discovered interest in the culinary arts, my fallen love, and this is where I ask you one final favor. I have noticed that while you have been sitting down here, your body hoisted in a chair to decay and rot and fester, you have done no such thing. Your body is preserved and looks just as it did when you were alive. Yet, you have sat down here for over a week. Is there trickery behind this, or is this your last gift to me? I hope you won’t mind, but tonight I feel another hunger rising, and my tongue tells me your soft, supple flesh will cast untold pains to Oblivion. Let me dine on you, my love. Let my teeth ravage your fruitful body for nourishment. This you can do for me, satiating me with a home-cooked me one last time. You’ll be a part of me now and forever, Cornelius G. Thundercock P.S. First you, and then I feel I shall visit the orphanage tomorrow
My sweet rose, Ingun, When I said I wished access to your trunk, I had not meant so literally. I appreciate the ability to plunder your ingredients, but my actions were not merely out of friendship or lack of work. I have plenty to do, and I have plenty of folks across Skyrim to label as friends. Do you not see, my dear, that when a man crosses the far reaches of Skyrim in search of Nirnroot, that it is out of an unquenchable passion? Do you not see this when he repeats these ventures for Deathbell and Nightshade, slaving away to see that glimmer of a smile carve just slightly across your beautiful face? I wish to plunder YOU, Ingun, not your ingredients. Think on this, my angelic vision. I did it for you. I did it ALL for you. The alchemy supplies. That cave bear pelt on by your front door this morning (as I noticed a bit of a chill in the air). Your murdered family (you expressed distaste for them, and you’ll find them taken care of by the time you get home). Every whim or musing you let fly from those pouty lips of yours, I can have arranged. I’m sure you noticed the sweet roll that this was bundled to. Accept that as a token of my affections. The frosting should have a heart with our names carved inside of it. With murderous love, Cornelius G. Thundercock P.S. I’ll try to fix the blood on the floor when I kill your family, so it’ll look like little hearts splattered all over the place.
My dearest departed Camilla, Fixated upon the night sky, I think of you my beloved. Rarely did we heed much attention to such a beautiful sight, a colorful aurora such as this trailing across the stars like a gentle stream of masterful art against a canvas of glimmering oil. It seemed as if life was too busy, too hectic. I was out adventuring, exploring caves, raiding camps, and saving Tamriel as we know it while you were at home selling junk (that you called treasures), eating bread, and inviting Faendal over for cuckolding intentions. Was it here where the foundations of our loved were flawed? Was it this misstep in appreciating the glorious visions to behold in Nature that led to our downfall and your accidental “stumble” down the stairs? With begrudging admittance, I think of you often my love. I think of your warm smile on a cold, rainy day. I think of your delicate preparation in making home-cooked meals to line my belly, fueling the fire that spirals from my throat when I roar at my enemies. Not only did the flames of the Dragonborn scorch them, but whiffs of digested garlic, onions, and venison assaulted them as well, cultivated from your deft hand. We where like a perfect team – the greatest hero ever known and his doting, barren housewife. I think of the crunching noises you made, day in and day out, at any hour be it one in the afternoon or three in the morning – whenever it happened to be decided when you should dine on finely baked loaves. Because of stress, depression, or hunger, I know not, but I remember them well. I also think of the dress you always wore, the one that accumulated foul stenches and grimy splotches as each sunrise set below the ground and a new one began. Never washed, it always clung to you like a second skin, a reminder of your low income beginnings before you decided to make a fool out of the wealthiest hero in all of Skyrim. It’s so lovely out here at this late hour, Camilla. How did we miss it? How did we stray from our purity of intertwining spirits? In the beginning, our love was so pure – so fresh. Then it rotted from the inside out, a decaying cabbage alongside a well-traveled road. Wherever you are, I like to imagine you’re looking down at this wonderful illumination across the sky. Unfortunately, I know this is not the case. You are looking up at it, looking from beneath my feet and the dirt they stand on, your face stained with grime and dried tears at your misfortune and poor choice. Faendal is with you, suffocating in the thick smog permeating the air as Daedric minions dance around you. But you can see it, can’t you? You can see the painting etched across the vast cosmos above? Were I not the Dragonborn savior, I feel it would make a creature, be it humanoid or beast, feel small and insignificant, like a gnat on the butt cheek of an old horse. It’s the kind of vision that makes one realize there is something much greater than him or herself, something bigger at play that is using Skyrim as its oil canvas. Again, I would feel this way were I not the most important man of all time. Still, it’s enchanting, and it’s pure – devoid of good or evil. The aurora simply is. And then the dawn comes to wash it away to be lost in the throes of time before a new one is cast across another night sky. Like our love, this too shall have its moment of awe-inspiring hope and amazement.
Erdi, I noticed your clamor of excitement at new folk coming to town, particularly myself. At least, I think you were looking in my direction, sizing me up – your eyes slowly climbing that mountain of man muscle tightly pressed underneath that beautiful Nightingale armor of mine. The slow flick of a tongue across the lower lips as you looked into Mask of Morokei, piercing through it with your gaze to penetrate deep within my good eye. Sh. Sh. Shush. Don’t fret. Don’t scurry for a denial in fear of being ousted. But please, blush. I felt it too. That’s the feeling that rolled across your face like a gentle breeze on a lush valley, wasn’t it? You know the one. We all do. It’s that flighty wrenching of the gut that can come from only two things – love at first sight or severe constipation. Yes. It washed over me as well. Seeing your embroidered rags you call a dress, woven together in front like a child’s sewing project, spiraled me into a swoon of never-ending torment. I must have you. I must gaze in your oceanic eyes while we lie in my bed made from dragon bones. Yes. Dragon bones, my blossoming maiden. I am Cornelius G. Thundercock, Dragonborn legend and Skyrim’s savior. I kill them. With my voice. My shouts. The tumultuous mead-fueled belch of fire that tears through the sky like plaguing death! Their damning screeches meet the damnations of my thunderous bellows with swift demise! Pip, pip, huzzah! But for you, my dear, my ripening fruit, for you it can be a gentle whisper. The hot wind alongside the lobe of the ear. The cooing sound of a singing bird on the dew-carrying leaves of a tree. The solitary drop of water plunking into a serene pool of its brethren. Don’t you see what I am saying to you, Erdi? I am but your heartfelt slave swimming in the sticky, uncooked mixture of love’s sweet roll. Bound to you by desire, I am lust’s hostage, and you are the negotiator. Speak the words, my dearest, and you shall set me free. Speak the words, my mountain flower, and our ingredients shall mix to concoct a potion so powerful, our alchemy skills will jump tenfold. You are the unexplored dungeon, and I am the stalwart adventurer. Let me scavenge your murky depths and loot you of your riches. With undying passion, Cornelius G. Thundercock
My dearest wife, I watch you now, stripped down to your skivvies, as your body slumps in its chair. The last gasp for breath has resounded its final croak, and now you are still. Even in death, you’re one of the most beautiful creatures I have seen in all of Skyrim, but your beauty still could not save you. When stopping home to drop off books for you to read or to bring you jewelry, I had the uncomfortable opportunity to bump into Faendal one too many times trudging out of my home. I had not remembered inviting him, and I had not remembered you asking if he could visit MY house. Something strange was lurking underneath our marriage, and it wasn’t a secret birthday party you were planning for me. It was your mischief, your ill-gotten betrayals of honor. I would ask you why, but I feel I already know the reason. Besides, in my dragon blood-fueled rage, I incinerated you while you feasted on the bread that my adventures pay for. I feel the fool, Camilla, but it was love’s blindness that spared me from seeing the obvious. You said you were a merchant, yet I never saw you leave the house. I’d hide around town for days on end, just waiting for you to go “work”. Not once did you ever leave home. Oh, sure, you had visitors. Plenty of them. Guards. Drunkards. Faendal. When I’d return home from my adventures, you’d always have a portion of your profits for me waiting, sitting on the table next to that home-cooked meal. Was it your wish to make me the cuckolded husband of a cheap tart? Or is it some defect in your character? A weakness of your sex, perhaps? Regardless, here I stand now before your corpse. Every so often I run my fingers across your fair face, your mask of innocence, to feel the chill slowly seeping beneath your flesh. I’m still smitten with you, this I cannot deny. The anger at your betrayal just runs deeper, courses through my veins in a more stalwart fashion than my love. I will use this dwelling no more as I wish not to bury your corpse. Honeyside will stink and fester while your beauty decays into the true form beneath the mask. Maggots will run rampant. Skeevers will gnaw at your dainty bones, toothing for that last bit of flesh etched on. Your place of work will be your tomb, and your soul shall forever be trapped here. Haunt well, my dearest. Love’s blindness will always cast its spell over me, overpowering even the most rigid arguments against you, as it is right now. I’m just superbly glad your mouth is open. ~Cornelius G. Thundercock
My dearest wife Camilla, I remember writing to you before of my nigh invincibility, of the visions I have of my untimely demise, sometimes arriving in a multitude of ways. I see myself fighting and dying, only to return to some reality before that point has yet arrived, and I use these visions to learn and adapt, to fight and counter differently. As much as I am a man of boastful prowess, my love, it seems I have met my match in Mzulft. These ruins are a home to Elven bastard children, otherwise known to pansy bookworms as Falmer, and oversized insects. Together, they are an adversary that, admittedly, has proven to be too much a match for my well-revered and greatly feared Thundercocking. I find myself now hiding in a corner writing this, my Nightingale armor soiled with my own paralyzing terror, though the unpleasant aroma is nothing in comparison to these ruins. It smells like slow death in here, the kind of death that burns up the nostrils and seizes the brain hostage in a zombified stupor. Will I die here permanently? Is this where my end shall manifest? Curse the College of Winterhold for ever sending me here! I’d decree those damning words out loud, but Falmer trod nearby, hunting for me. I can hear their feet pad against the floors in front and behind, as I have found myself deep within Mzulft. I used my ethereal abilities and Kyne’s Peace to reach these inner halls, screeching like a mortified wee girl upon seeing her first orc in town. Yes, my love, I did scream. It was a shrill pitch I had never heard escape my throat before, but I couldn’t help it. The fear had settled deep within me, had slain everything I stood for. My bravery. My ego. My pride. My strength. My erection. All that I have at my command during the heat of battle is gone. And now I sit here alone in this corner, drenched in my own bodily juices, which are no longer warm and comfortable. The frosty draft has set in, and it has chilled me to the bone. Should some soul ever make it through Mzulft and find this letter only to deliver it to you, my sweet, you shall note that these tear stains upon the letter are my love of you. They are not tears of perilous fear. They are tears of love, naturally, as a man of Thundercock lineage, while having the potential to piss himself, simply does not weep at death. He faces it with dignity and pride. A true man. A worthy man. A strong man. I love you now and forever, Cornelius G. Thundercock
It was from my keen Dragonborn mind that this poem sprung forth, my dearest Camilla. It happened upon me whilst I thought of you on my journeys through Markarth. I knew not I had this in me, until the remembrance of the warmth of your smile entered my soul (and freed me from those nightmares in the mines). Though, if one were to claim ownership or creation of this poem, as some such jealous person may, let it be known that they are charlatans and liars – low-born marionettes dancing a jig behind the wafting fumes of royalty belonging to the Dragonborn’s presence. Aye. They do so merely out of jealousy, a bitter jealousy that arises from the notion that I, not they, am the Dovahkiin. The petty scoundrels should feel lucky they are permitted to inhale the stenches of my digested mead fumes. Alas, my mind wanders.
A missive: from
My lover’s heart is numbing stone
That hides in ice beneath our sight.
So some decry, “It is not there,”
While others whisper, “Yet, it might.”
Though stone is born from fevered ash,
Once formed it yields no whiff of heat.
So too, her heart betrays no love,
Nor comforts those embracing it.
As mountains grow and yearn for sky,
Then climbers, conquering, ascend.
With chisel, rope, with axe and pick,
They force the rock to yield to them.
One peak stands proud amidst the range,
Invincible, and scaled by none.
Those men who try wash down her slopes;
Their eye-born streams obliquely run.
For brash assault could never pierce
Those guarded depths that lay apart.
But patient water gently shapes
A furtive channel to the heart.
My love is delving water, ice
That cracks with cycles of the sun.
A lapping, yearning, whispered plea
Will mark the time ’til I rush in.
For I have dwelt among the rocks,
My city carved from rugged stone.
So in that burrow I will creep,
And warm the soul which makes my home.
A missive: from
Calcelmo Cornelius G. Thundercock to Faleen Camilla Valerius