Found at Thu’um Fest (Part 2)

~~

Eye flutters open into waning darkness, and the chill suddenly sets in. It’s dangling in the air, blanketed by the clouds blotting out the stars up above. The chill is in my bones, stabbing me with thousands of little daggers. My gut wrenches, brewing with the malice of numerous concoctions. Either my breastplate or trousers will forever be stained with this folly, though it’s too soon to tell which direction the eruption will go.

 

As I lean forward, my back shatters under the stress. It’s broken – pounded into a pile of rubble by a beast more powerful than the mightiest dragon. Aye. The memories return with bitter resentment and self-hatred. Temba Wide-Arm. Why, Cornelius? Why did you foul yourself with such a deed? Should the townspeople ever find out the foulness of your swamp-treading, they’ll all chuckle with insufferable laughter. Waddling, toothless elderly. Orphaned children. Penniless drunkards. Harlots still working their clients, giggling between mouthfuls. Argonians. All of them. Indeed, you’ll be Jarl of buffoonery, Cornelius.

 

The waking misadventures of a Skooma binge can be a harsh mistress. When the kick ensnares the mind, the dream takes over. Any frequenter knows this is where the beauty lies. One moment I could be scrubbing off dova dung from the bottom of my boots, and the next I’m no longer in Skyrim. I’m transported. I’m in a realm rarely seen, hidden from those who haven’t had the taste.

 

Aye.  I’m swimming nude in a sea of sweet rolls. I tread in this vast ocean stretching as far as the eye can see, smiling as the midday sun makes all the frosting sparkle.

 

“Taste the sugary explosion of the sweet roll ocean, Cornelius,” a fluttery woman’s voice coos. “Dip your chin into the sea and take the bite.”

 

I do as I’m commanded. I let my tongue frolic in the vastness of this realm like a viper convulsing from a heart attack. As I lower my head, there she is. A fair maiden. A princess. The High Queen of this doughy landscape. Her face gleams like the sparkling frosting, and her golden hair is done up in buns, shaped like the heavenly rolls all around us. She smiles mischievously. She beckons me forth, licking her lips of the sweetness.

 

As I propel myself forward, my bare loins brush up against the sweet rolls. A chuckle escapes my chapped lips. I halt, permitting the sensation to pass before I paddle closer to this arbiter of baked goods. Must look masculine. Must appear to have the upper, dominant hand as I make my move. Aye.

 

The rubbing tingles again, but I’m not moving. No. I’m still floating here. But how?

 

My eye opens. I’m no longer in the Sweet Roll Ocean. It’s a dark, dingy dungeon reeking of human filth and rotten meats. Even cave bears keep cleaner homes than this, and here I rest, lying in the middle of this oversized confectionary of death. The Skooma is wearing off. My mind’s coming down away from frosted wenches and baked goods. The only reasonable choice is escape!

 

And so I flee. I clothe my violated flesh and barrel out into the mountains. To Thu’um Fest. To my reckoning!

 

Passing out in the frost, I have awoken once more a broken man taunted by these memories of Daedric trickery. My heart beats ever slower with each minute. No matter. I’ll live. I’ll pull myself up, and I’ll finish my trek.

 

~C. G. Thundercock

Quick Update

Editor’s Note:

I have not abandoned you all. I am just in the process of moving and starting a new occupation. It’s eating up more time than I would like, but I will return soon enough. Have patience. 

Thank you!

Also, if there is anything you’d like to see explored on here, feel free to comment below!

The Bandit Conspiracy

Jarl Elisif the Fair,

 

It is on the eve of my 100,000th bandit slaying I write this letter to you. Sharpening my blade, “Colon Cleanser”, after its consistently wonderful performance in battle, I took pause to let the windmills of my mind churn with the passing breeze of thought. Had I really littered Skyrim’s plains and caves with 100,000 bandits? Were my numerics, etched on parchment I make my traveling servant carry, so accurate and telling? Where did all these bandits come from, and why is there always more?

 

Elisif, my head is now plagued with these questions newly encroached upon my regular daydreams of bountiful, bouncing bosoms and rivers full of mead. It does not seem logical that Skyrim would be home to a population of bandits seemingly quadruple the size of its other inhabitants. With a gang that large, who could they happily loot on a regular basis without the well drying up? What possible collective of citizenry could they befall and torment who still would keep wealth and jewels in their homes?

 

During my adventures, Elisif, I have forcibly broken and entered the homes of many of this land’s residents. Sometimes out of sheer curiosity, sometimes for blackmail, and on rare occasion for a paid task at hand, I have crept quietly into these locked dwellings. Though the bandit population exceeds the pasture of cattle ripe for the slaughter, these homes are typically well-stocked with valuables. They appear untouched, unsoiled by the grubby fingers of salacious sewer men with an eye for ravaging beauty.

 

Were these bandits truly stealing? On my many journeys, I have encountered them in camps and caves. Though they polish their weapons and armor for battle, they never seem to trek forth and pillage. Rather, they hang around and guard the highways. Like private armies of soldiers, they occupy the plains and the mountains, the lost temples and the exits from this snowy country.

 

Was their intention ever to steal? With an army so vast, my mind began to wonder. The sobriety of a dew-filled morning permitted my consciousness to think and ponder, to travel and analyze the true nature of this conundrum. What if these bandits were never meant for theft? What if their camped armies were intended for a darker purpose? Spreading word through the papers and the winds, they just tell us they’re bandits, but their true purpose is hidden, locked away in their hideouts along the road.

 

Then it hit me, Elisif. It smacked me as viciously as you smacked me last time I drunkenly stumbled about your castle, vomiting in your favorite plant, much to your lack of amusement. (I certainly cursed myself to practicing my one-handed that night.) What if it was all just play? Theatrics? What if we had so mistakenly been led to believe we had freedom to leave and go as we wished, but we refused to travel in fear of bandits who would rob us of our currency? Aye, we have the illusion of leaving, should we prove strong and bold enough, and that’s all we need, correct? But what if this illusion was set in place to maintain a balance between fear and perceived freedom? What if something far more sinister lay in the fog of our reality?

 

These armies of bandits do not seem to do much of anything beyond preventing us from travel. On occasion, they pillage some poor, naive buffoon who roams the plains. For the most part, however, these roving gangs of ruffians lie in encampments around key access points, waiting for something. Better yet, they’re guarding something, Elisif. These bandits guard our roads of exit from this country. We’re merely cattle herded inside Skyrim by a force much larger than we realize, disillusioned slaves huddled in cities awaiting our numbers to come up.

 

I’ve slain 100,000 myself, and there are still more out there. Where are they coming from? Who’s breeding them? Is there a bandit den somewhere in Skyrim where breeders lie atop stone tablets pumping out newborn kinsmen for this army? Is there a unified leader hidden away somewhere, orchestrating this facade, so that we may not know the true purpose?

 

‘Tis too many questions to answer at this moment, but believe me when I tell you this, my dearest, sweetest  mountain blossom of a high queen, I will unravel this mystery. With Colon Cleanser sheathed at my side and a small team of companions, I shall penetrate the darkest depths of this conspiracy and answer these wild thoughts. Something is very wrong here, and there’s only one man who can uncover this distortion. Me.

 

Much love,

Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found in the Riften Orphanage’s Mail Bin (Ancestor Glade)

My dearest children,

 

For those of you who sent me kind letters asking of my travels, I respond with an adventure most exciting for your little ears. Aye. In my most recent escapade, I ventured steadfast into another cave. Having raided hundreds of caves, I expected the typical odorous malady of Skyrim’s drafty inner sanctums – the stewing filth of a bear’s backwoods outhouse littered with half-eaten corpses and wastes that did not agree with said creature’s digestive system. ‘Tis a dirty job, my friends, but there is money to be made. With high boots and clean britches tucked in, one can wade into these festering lagoons and retrieve jewelry long abandoned, cleaning them up at the nearest river for a quick profit back in town.

 

While I envisioned this place another brooding den of uncivilized animals recklessly evacuating themselves in every nook and cranny, much like any tavern in Markarth, this hidden crevice was different. This locale, known as the Ancestor Glade, was a blissful paradise of trees and crystal clear ponds. Not an animal dropping in sight! 

 

Though I had a task to perform, I looked to my lovely Serana with the most innocent glee of childlike visions dancing in my head. Aye. We were both covered in blood and bits of brain from our encounters on the road, and the repugnant stench of dead bodies and sun-spoiled blood mucked our usually scintillating auras. Still, a kindling of love and inspiration seized my heart as one of my grubby, grimy, mud-encrusted fingers gently plucked a scrambled bit of skull fragment dried to her cheek. Having seen that water and having gazed into those glowing eyes of her, I knew what would fire up that romance between her and I, once and for all.

 

“Shall we bathe, my dear?” I asked gently, washing my mouth beforehand with brandy so my breath didn’t waft of the raw goat meat lodged between my teeth days ago. (Always travel with toothpicks, wee ones.)

 

“Together? Don’t we have a job to do?” she responded, placing a hand upon her waist in a pose that suggested indignation I would ask such a thing.

 

Aye. We did, children. We did, but a hero cannot fully focus lest he experience the joyful moments of life, lest he break the tension between two travelers obviously secretly in love with one another. It’s kismet, and a hero needs the mindful happiness that only skinny dipping in a clean pool getaway carefully tended by priests can provide. Remember that, dear children, and boys, remember the Ancestor Glade, should you ever wish to woo a woman out of her dress.

 

But the task at hand? It was the regular doldrum of carving bark from a tree and running about like some world-ending, prophetic buffoon as moths followed suit. Attracted to the scent, once enough moths floated about, I returned to a beacon of light shining upon an island in the middle of the chamber. My irritability was growing. I was sober. I was tired. I was covered in death, and now a pack of moths crawled all over my flesh like bloated city guards at an all you can eat pork roast. And that water? So crisp and clear – so refreshing! I could imagine it cleansing me of my sins and purifying my spirit of the diseases of Skyrim coating my flesh. Alas! If only I could swim about in the water and squeeze just one of Serana’s bare bosoms. For good luck.

 

“Care for a dip?” I asked, letting my tongue rest upon my lower lip as I looked her directly in the eyes. She couldn’t dare resist me this time, children. No woman could resist the charms of an adventuresome Breton when he lets loose that warm, tingling vibe of animalism. I flexed an arm muscle to seal the deal. Though she remained silent, I would wager in that mind of hers she squealed girlishly at my forearms.

 

“Don’t we have a job to do?” she responded, her voice autonomous with the same frequent banal musings and commentary I’ve heard ever since we started this journey together.

 

Indeed we did, children. I had yet to read the Elder Scroll strung to my back. And so I performed this mighty feat, not once stuttering a single word. Though I read heartily and deeply, I paid little comprehension to the sentences rolling forth from my mouth. The sound of that trickling water pushed other visions forward. I saw Serana and I splashing water at one another, smiling. We would drink mead and throw the bottles at trees. Swimming about like carefree maidens, we would try to drown each other, and then we would embrace. Ravenously. With fatal attraction tempered by the methodical hand of destiny. I have been on many adventures, and this is how they always work. Two adults caught in the intensity of a Skyrim-threatening mission? How could they not give into the emotions thickening the air?

 

As the private party in my mind’s eye sweltered with passionate lust, something abysmal entered the arena. A gang of vampires descended upon us, growling and hissing like a parade of socially awkward, home-schooled dolts attempting to strike fear into the hearts of proven warriors. Was the freak show in town? Who were these disillusioned rapscallions?

 

Dousing my throat with a spiced mead, I unsheathed Dawnbreaker and prepared for war. No pitiless creature, be it man, animal, or diseased, undead legionnaire, shatters my daydreams! No infernal slave of Molag Bal’s wretched carnival interrupts my fated romps and perverse fantasies! They’re mine! Mine!

 

With a blue-balled fury of rejection, I diced those vampiric scum like boiled potatoes. I was the master chef, and they were merely ingredients for my corned beef hash. One by one their entrails sullied the pond. What once was sparkling and clear darkened to near black stew littered with sinewy chunks of flesh.

 

Unfortunately children, this tale has no happy ending. After all the bloodshed and warring subsided, that fantasy in my head couldn’t come to fruition. Though I dreamed it so vividly, that beautiful pond was more murky than the worst swamp you can imagine. My dearest fans, that was how Lord Harkon defeated my advances upon his daughter. That was how the monster in Castle Volikhar clenched his fists around the beating heart of love and snuffed it out of existence. Poof. Finished. Gone. A moment lost in the throes of time.

 

Would we ever make love, children? Would we forever remain star-crossed lovers? I have not the answers, for I am just a simple man cursed with the endowment of a dragon waiting to spread its gift upon the world. Perhaps someday, the curse of blue-eyed rejection will be lifted.

 

Your friend,

Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found at the Entrance to the Soul Cairn

 

–

 

There’s a vibe unlike anything I have ever seen within this Soul Cairn. Walking through this desolate wasteland littered with ruins and lost souls is like treading through a light fog with a purplish spectral haze enveloping all. It’s in the sky, swirling with the brief jolts of lightning. It’s in the air, filling my chest with a sickly moisture and dampening my skin. A strange rhythm of despair, it slithers underneath the flesh and blood and weakens the bones.

 

In this place, I am not Cornelius G. Thundercock. Here, I’m just another fool being consumed by the atmosphere, consumed by the air in which this place’s rulers, the Ideal Masters, witness all. But in this downtrodden perception, there is a certain freedom that liberates the mind. There are no rules or desired social niceties to follow. There are no pitiful wars between power-grabbing clans. Only subjugation exists here, ensnaring all under the watchful gaze of axe-wielding servants known as “Bonemen”.

 

Commanding these lowly peons are armored skeletal brutes known as “Bonekeepers”. Neither would be a challenge for my dovah blood, but here I am weakened. In this place, I am less the man I was on the outside. Less the drinker. Less the lover. Less the Skooma-raging, crypt-robbing addict on sporadic binges. Aye. My namesake has been reduced to just another wanderer in this grim realm where time ceases to exist.

 

But that surreal liberty beckons forth. It glimmers in the lightning storm with some sense of hope. Though I may never leave here, I am free to do as I wish. Pillage? Yes. Ransack? Yes. Attack the spectral forms of animals? Indeed. It’s a bizarre groove where the mind is enslaved but compelled to carry on immoralities granted to reign unchecked.

 

The perfect prison? Far from it. Alas, drink does not exist in this world. My parched throat will find no savior in front of the barrel of brewed sweetness. Though my belly may flatten and attract the lustful gazes of women here, my mind will know the banal horrors of perpetual sobriety. I’ll have to listen to them gab for an eternity with the full faculties of my mind. Each waking moment will be one where a rigid alertness seizes hold and threatens never to release me.

 

What madness lies in a realm without spirits? Sobriety is a sin that fades the beauty of the natural world. The creek outside Whiterun? More spectacular when drinking. The stars at night? Utterly awe-inspiring with swirling on Skooma. Serana? More irresistible when Honningbrew rouses wee Cornelius.

 

I shall not stay here. When the right moment arises, I shall make my escape from this barren wasteland, so help me Talos.

 

~Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found in Dayspring Canyon

Isran,

 

I have met this vampire lord desiring to lay claim to our world, friend, and he is unlike anything I have ever lain eyes upon. At first, he appears in the form of an uptight noble with a silver spoon lodged indefinitely up his posterior. Those orange, glowing eyes of his are the among the few signs giving away his descent into vampirism – that and his effeminate manner of speech. Aye. Not a hardy drinker this one. More like a cold-hearted aristocrat who spent his years merely sipping at the finer beverages this land has to offer, not drinking. ‘Tis how you know a good man. Good men let flow spirits from their tankards. False men let trickle their immeasurable barrels of liquor as they let trickle their coin to their begging subservients.

 

At any rate, this Harkon fellow has more in common with an alchemist’s pet project than he does with even the ugliest of all men in this realm. Even the orcs, compared to Harkon’s true form, have a more sensually-appetitizing swagger than this aborted spider sacling. Indeed. I’d rather watch a bloated Orsimer female in tight garb wobble about in a pitiful attempt at seductive dance than Harkon gyrate his vampiric hips.

 

Skin as sickly as a fetid swamp under the sun’s gaze, this ancient ruler received the terrible end of a bargain gone wrong. An orcish snout lies smashed between his eyes, as if Molag Bal beat him upon the face with a war hammer. Harkon’s eyes are as seemingly absent as a Falmer’s, and his ears are stretched back behind his skull in a manner that suggests prolonged torture. Behind his back flutters two wings, hanging strands of skin dangling from them like the remnants of broken cobwebs.

 

Nothing is more atrocious about his person than his manner of dress. I tease you not when I say that this “lord” wears the skirt of a slave ’round his pelvis and what looks like a training brassiere for adolescent girls. Upon his head rests some manner of hollowed, horned, and jeweled gourd. This “crown” seems to decry, “Here stands king of the gourd! Watch him demolish watermelon aplenty!”

 

And to think, my sweet Serana is kin with him? The bizarre position I suddenly find myself in is not lost to me. Underneath the cloak of darkness and away from the concentration of maintaining a mortal form, does her beauty fade into an atrocity such as that? Within that soft, youthfully innocent form, does a creature uglier than a hagraven lie in exile? Wee Cornelius knows not whether to remain standing tall or seek comfort in hiding within foliage. Only a more learned man than I will know, and since none exist, I shall have to see this mystery out – to pursue or not to pursue?

 

At any rate, I shall leave this wretched parlor slithering with aristocratic stiffs sniveling over their dusty treasures and return as soon as possible. If I am detained, know only that I seek renewed vitality from this vampire hall and that I have visited many a brothel and meadery on vacation.

 

Your eyes in Skyrim,

Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found in Fort Dawnguard

Isran,

 

I have traversed the inner sanctums of this abysmal Dimhollow Crypt, plunging my blade into the sternums of the vampires seeking excavations here. The architecture, littered with gargoyles and designed by some strange being with an overindulgent taste of gothic constructions, wafts of an eerie omnipresence. Even as I behead all my enemies and paint the walls with their coagulated clumps of chilled blood, I sense eyes upon me. Vengeful eyes. Inhuman eyes. I feel reminded of the time I took to bathing in a stream near that orc camp, my naked buttocks tingling with the sensation of peering orbs of the accursed people, the drooling pig children. Many flowerbeds were certainly tainted with Orsimer saliva as those beastly abominations watched my firm thighs and my full-breasted backstrokes, gazing onward like the voyeuristic incarnates they are. 

 

But I disgress, Isran.  I write to tell you of my discovery here. Should I fail to leave this pit of imminent doom alive, I wish to send word as to what the vampire hordes were after. Aye, my friend, ’twas a woman.

 

I cannot blame them for attending to such painstaking tasks to acquire this one. In all my journeys across this land, rarely have I seen a flower so blossoming with beauty. Her darkened hair, though locked in a tomb for centuries, still has the pristine shine of freshly washed and maintained locks. Some strands braid around her head like a crown of womanly pride, as if the last thing she did before her incarceration was ask her mother to make cute her hair for a party teeming with boys. Aye, and her dress – so tasteful and appealing. Unlike the commoners populating this realm, this one doesn’t wear the rags torn from deceased relatives lying about in muddied fields. No. Serana has style. She has grace, like a swan gliding elegantly about a slimy pond.

 

Even that name, Isran, rings with the succulent sweetness of morning dew on ripened fruits. Serana. Seraaaaaaaanaaaaaa. It’s as if I’m crooning music in this echoing chamber as I gaze upon this woman’s unforgettable form. I daresay, I know why the vampires would have wanted her. Her waist is tight and firm, but her rump is as round as a pair of perfectly grown cabbages. Good breeding stock, this one.

 

It’s a good thing I lifted a bottle of brandy before I trekked this far. It’s time to pop the cork and release the magic of Cornelius the charmer tucked away inside. Cornelius the strong. Cornelius the brave. Cornelius, the quick-witted and stout-hearted. With this nectar, I am invincible. With this nectar, no woman may resist, even if her eyes glow of the vampiric color of asparagus-laden urine.

 

~Cornelius G Thundercock

Found in Nightcaller Temple

Dear Cornelius,

 

If you can read this, I have successfully forced Brother Casimir to stop and write this letter amidst an orc raid at some moment in the past. Should I be unable to remember this event in the future, this letter will serve as a record indicating that Vaermina’s Torpor works. It shall also prove that, while I barrage my mind with alcohol, skooma, and the smoldering scents of harvested flowers in the blooming meadows, my consciousness is stronger than this fellow’s.

 

Aye. I just made Casimir dance. It is a pity no one noticed. The souls here are too enthralled in their war, too busy stabbing each other to witness the feats of a possessed monk dancing his troubles away. He has a strong body – a flexible build. Had this buffoon chosen entertainment, he could have warmed the hearts of all of Skyrim with his nimble prancing. Wooed women. Or men.

 

Heh. I made him touch himself too.

 

I would choose to indulge in some drink, as my throat fairs poorly under the most parched conditions, but Vaermina’s Torpor is a powerful drug. I feel what he feels and see what he sees, but there is a weirdness to it. My vision is hazy and glassy-eyed. It is as if I’m peering at the world through a crystalline object as I waddle around touching damp stones and all sorts of alchemical objects. And now the colors set in – vibrant hues in a rainbow of squiggling eels darting through the air. Did I imbibe Skooma before swilling this juice? I can’t remember. I think so, but my thoughts aren’t absolute. I’m too smitten with this discoloration forcing itself upon me.

 

Not since the Augur of Dunlain have I seen imagery so vivid. So full of life. It’s as if the  divine lord of color sucked in all the hues of the world, inhaling them into his gargantuan belly, only to explode in a brilliant eruption of rainbow-entrails. 

 

And now my hand… My hand is no longer a hand. It’s a feathered turkey resting upon inked parchment. I have the urge to trace it, to capture its beauty upon this page. Aye, Cornelius – I drew a turkey for you. Look below.

 

The clashes of swords grow nearer as more bloodcurdling screams echo through this musty temple. The pig children overwhelm us. I must finish my mission. I must yank the chain to release the miasma. YANK. THE. CHAIN.

 

We’ll meet again, old friend.

 

Love,

Brother Casimir Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found in the Ragged Flagon (Posted above Bar)

My sneak-thieves,

 

As I have been recently appointed “Master” of the Thieves Guild, I have some new rules that will help this club run more smoothly.

 

New Thieves Guild Rules:

 

• Cornelius G. Thundercock, your new master, drinks gratis.
• Should the belly of your new master rumble with a ferocious hunger and ravenous pains of a stomach unfulfilled, it is Vex’s duty to end the suffering. The preferred meal is a slice of smoked venison on bread with two fried rock warbler eggs adorning it. Layer on two slices of a tomato and some cabbage. Add spice. Serve with a side of sliced apples and Cyrodiilic brandy. Whether this be at the wee hours of the morning or midday, when hunger strikes, it must always be satiated, lest one dares temper the wrath of Dovahkiin.
• When Cornelius has returned from a long adventure, his chosen bed-mate is the strong-willed and always dazzingly beautiful Sapphire. Let no other thief’s hand lay upon her, or death is an imminent future. His most gracious leader has already called “dibs” as it were.
• If Baron Thundercock chooses to indulge in a bit of gambling with cards, his gaming buddies are Delvin Mallory, Brynjolf, Vipir the Fleet, and Rune. All named must play, and no one leaves until Cornelius calls adjournment. No one else may play unless approved by the master.
• When roaming the countryside of Skyrim, all thieves are encouraged to pick flowers and other sorts of flora that smell decent enough. The Ratway reeks of bloated corpses and overflowing chamber pots, which wafts merrily into the Guild. These good aromas should help cleanse the taint of death that carries with the winds.
• The official merchant policy is, “No shirt, no shoes, no service.” Those who do not adhere to this code will be refused service.
• Nocturnal, the Night Mistress, does not like to be referred to as,”Oh, baby.” The thief who keeps shouting it repeatedly before her statue at night when he thinks we’re all asleep should refrain from continuing. Also, it would be considered a kindness if he were to clean up the stains left near her place of worship.
• A polite thief is an unsuspected thief. Slay them with kindness, my friends, and make sure to dress well. Dressing as a “thief” merely gets you noticed.
• The pond near the Ragged Flagon is not for bathing. It’s merely for decoration. While we may be thieves who jam our fingers into pockets and sneak into houses at night, we’re still civilized. 

Follow these rules, my thieves, and we shall ride further into the blissful glory of success.

 

Master and commander,

Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found in the Silver-Blood Inn

 

Kleppr,

 

I apologize for the mess. It was not my intention to spill mead upon the floor and paint your tavern walls with the fortuitous splatters of fresh blood. Aye. ‘Twas Cosnach who provoked me. His vile serpent tongue danced a bosom-less temptress’ ritual outside his lips as he spoke to me, and by trusting my own eyes, I accept the weakness of my character for such a strut. My sense of identity released itself from its contained fire pit, incinerating all who dared diminish the unrelenting fury of that inferno.

 

Cosnach called me out, plain and true. The boastful porter challenged me to a duel of fists over coin. Were I to deny his request, who would whisper word of my refusal in darkened corners? What bards would carry forth the songs of the witnesses who, hiding behind their meads, giggled in contempt of my backing down?

 

In no less than a day, Markarth would swoon with the foul songs of my cowardice. The free mead wells would dry, daring the Dragonborn to pay for his pleasure with his own stolen coin from robbed Draugr dens like some pitiful commoner. The fair maidens would lower their skirts, ceasing the visitation of fresh fish markets for dear Dovahkiin. Even the wee children would stop hounding the slayer of the World-Eater, chancing no more games of hide and seek or seeking autographs from he who may or may not be their father.

 

All because of one misstep. All because of one failure to beat silly a Breton who favors the strength of his hands rather than the power of his hips with lovers aplenty. Make love, not war, as the old proverb tells us. Aye. Citizens love seeing a savior run his course. They love to hear of a man’s ultimate rise only to witness the plummeting of his drunken mistake, gulped from the tankard of hero worship and self-aggrandizing poetry.

 

And so, like an Orsimer father forced to eat the vegetarian slop provided by a mate desiring to “try new things”, I let loose my fists and beat on Cosnach like the proverbial child he was. I pulverized his face until it resembled the tenderness of well-stewed beef. I knuckled his cheeks until the vile imbecile tumbled to the floor and whimpered out of panic and embarrassment for soiling himself.

 

And then, I took his coin. I took his coin for all the little orphans in Riften. I took his coin for all the city guards no longer able to adventure. I took his coin for all the wandering Khajiit, their caravans in need of gold for the skooma trade to continue!

 

While I may not be there to help you clean the Silver-Blood Inn, know that I am out in Skyrim somewhere, doing good for those less fortunate. Tomorrow night the orphans, the guards, and I shall partake in a transcendental journey – carried aloft by the wings of sleeping tree sap and skooma, so that we may discover ourselves. Some may call it madness. Me? I call it charity.

 

I leave a small amount of coin for the mess within,

Cornelius G. Thundercock