Posts Tagged With: Dragonslayer
Children, I write this to alleviate your worries. I am taking the time to mesh quill with parchment in a wholesale slaughter of ink to let you know that there is an afterlife, that Sovngarde does indeed exist. Though pompous ‘intellectuals’ and cheap strumpets spewing the woes of a hardened life from their drooping and sore-laden lips may doubt me, I have seen the other side with my one good eye. Aye. My person, a mortal, has crossed between the fabric of our realm and the next. I have seen the hills and valleys of Sovngarde and the wondrous construction of Shor’s Hall. Indeed, it is a mysterious place, one littered with the souls of those fallen in battle. I have witnessed Stormcloaks and Imperials, bitter enemies in life, embrace hands tightly in Sovngarde as they skipped cheerfully to the mead halls. The chirping of birds filled the air with beautiful melody as they smiled knowingly at one-another, happy to end a bitter feud for the more important treasures of the afterlife – free booze. Aye, mead. And pork. Yes children, pork. Hogs impaled on spits roast over ever-raging fires in Shor’s Hall, always roasting and always replenishing the fine meats from their backs once they are stripped. All of the great warriors of Skyrim’s past stand round, filling their unquenchable bellies with the finest and sweetest meads ever to be concocted. Stumbling about like infants learning to walk, they piddle in the air with no worry of retaliation, for here cleanliness is eternal. I imagine that many of the older residents of Sovngarde sport bellies larger than a mammoth’s girth, having whiled away many ages incoherently babbling at the inanimate objects from an ever-plentiful supply of drink. And it was in this place, my children, that your dragonborn savior tasted the drink of Heaven. Imbibing the spirits of our land’s ancestors, an even 24 glasses in all, I worked up the courage to approach the only thing juicier than fresh hog jowls – Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, one of the original three who battled Alduin many sunrises ago. Unfortunately, my well-articulated words were no match for a queen of frost. With the mauling strength of a snow bear, Gormlaith diminished my often-envied stature – her flattened hand striking my face. “I will not submit my honor to the whims of a hero only concerned with boasting rights upon his return to Skyrim,” she harped. “Have you forgotten your reason for violating our realm so prematurely?” Indeed, I had. When I first entered this place, children, I was lost in the enchanting sound thundering from all about. It was not the harkening cries of Alduin, soaring above like a mesmerized child strolling through a field of butterflies. No, dear children. The very realm of Sovngarde flows with natural music. Trapped within the soil, a symphony of men hum and cast their voices aloud. “Dovakiin! Dovakiin!” they bellow, their deep voices rumbling to depths more trembling than the greatest thunderstorms rolling across the land. Hearing the chant of a hero’s welcome, aimed directly at the greatest hero in all of Tamriel, how could I not lose myself? How could I not follow the echoes into Shor’s Hall, partaking in the stuffing of my gullet with a free buffet? How could I not venture out and explore that which boasted my name to all of creation? Wouldst thou hold this against me too, my wee acolytes, like that prudish wench who knows not the price of a similar buffet back in Skyrim? To think of the nerve that free-loader had, casting me out like rubbish when I had only just begun to line my pockets with biscuits for the trip home. Of course you wouldn’t! Being children of the orphanage, shriveled stomachs force-fed with manure-smelling stew aptly called “gruel”, you know how it feels to be lost away in the enchanting aroma of a freshly baked pastry passing by Honorhall’s windows. The mesmerism is overwhelming, like the sway of well-practiced hips to a rhythmic ballad or a buy one, get one free sale at a caravan trader. But fret not, my children! No matter how dark and hopeless your lives may seem at times, being boring, whiny, undesirable orphans with atrocious fashion sense, there is a land of abundance waiting for your arrival. There is a land where the ferns and bushes stay sprinkled with the dew of drunken frivolity, and the fires stay fueled by the drizzling, boiling blood of pigs awaiting a hungry soul. It’s there, and no matter what life you may lead, only your death matters to gain entry. So carry a sword as frequently as possible, as you will not know when the final toll summons your presence. Your pal, Cornelius G. Thundercock P.S. And as for Gormlaith’s claims of my premature arrival in Sovngarde, let it be known that Cornelius G. Thundercock never arrives premature. To say otherwise is a slanderous myth. Take it to the streets, my acolytes. Tell your sole remaining guardian, if you would be so kind. It would aid a dragonborn in need.