Septimus Signis,
Do you know what they call me, friend? It’s no longer dragonborn. Oh no. Across the many holds, my deeds of blood-letting have not gone unpunished. Like a plume of ominous, foreboding dark clouds mustering up the forces of an inevitably tumultuous rain, word has scattered far and wide, blotting out the sunny disposition of my previous title. Altmer. Bosmer. Dunmer. Orsimer. I’d list Falmer as well, but no rational thinking being in Skyrim considers them worthy of a mention. Fodder for ear collectors is what they are, but the other races? Word spreads. These blood-sheddings for your device are known. Seen. Whispered about in every tavern.
Aye. The milk-drinkers in Windhelm indeed welcomed the news. They threw a party in my name, drinking mead, clothing in white gowns to symbolize purity, and burning effigies of the lesser beasts in a parade. Did I find the sentiment Touching? Certainly, but Windhelm stands alone in that resolve. A solitary city championing my resolve.
The townspeople of other holds speak in hushed voices away from the fires. Hidden in cobwebbed corners, they glance at me as I stop for a mead, their mouths on the constant flapping of dangerous speech. All races. I can see their pointed ears and their rushed spittle spewing forth from an volcanic mouth. Even the Dark Elves, hidden under cover of the shadows – I can witness their disapproving glares by the whites of their teeth when they snarl.
For the pricking of blood, some outspoken, drunken fiends have gone to calling me, “The Prick”. “Hey Prick,” they bellow, their food-encrusted beards dripping with the frothy head of a recently poured drink.
Others have picked up on my targeting of the Mer races. “Mer-maid” these ones call me. “Mer-maid, would you soundly milk us a mead from the keg? And lean forward when you do it, sweetheart. We’d like to see your backside.”
No matter how many foul degenerates I slay, asserting my might and superiority like a child to a rabbit, these names haunt me like apparitions incessantly reanimating the bodies of the fallen. The whispers wisp over the wind. The memories lurk in the crevices of the bar like cockroaches. The disease festers, and there is no change for the Mer-maid. No good old days. No respite. Just raucous laughter and whistles. I’ve gone to “milkin’ the Mer races” they chuckle. Forever more.
And now you’re dead, Septimus. A pile of ash in your own outpost. What is left in consideration for Cornelius G. Thundercock’s troubles? A book I shall most likely never read, let alone one with a title I cannot pronounce. My reputation is in shambles, and you are granted the easy exit from this realm.
Burn in Oblivion, vermin,
Cornelius
Posts Tagged With: Dunmer
Found in Septimus Signis’ Outpost
Septimus Signis,
Do you know what they call me, friend? It’s no longer dragonborn. Oh no. Across the many holds, my deeds of blood-letting have not gone unpunished. Like a plume of ominous, foreboding dark clouds mustering up the forces of an inevitably tumultuous rain, word has scattered far and wide, blotting out the sunny disposition of my previous title. Altmer. Bosmer. Dunmer. Orsimer. I’d list Falmer as well, but no rational thinking being in Skyrim considers them worthy of a mention. Fodder for ear collectors is what they are, but the other races? Word spreads. These blood-sheddings for your device are known. Seen. Whispered about in every tavern.
Aye. The milk-drinkers in Windhelm indeed welcomed the news. They threw a party in my name, drinking mead, clothing in white gowns to symbolize purity, and burning effigies of the lesser beasts in a parade. Did I find the sentiment Touching? Certainly, but Windhelm stands alone in that resolve. A solitary city championing my resolve.
The townspeople of other holds speak in hushed voices away from the fires. Hidden in cobwebbed corners, they glance at me as I stop for a mead, their mouths on the constant flapping of dangerous speech. All races. I can see their pointed ears and their rushed spittle spewing forth from an volcanic mouth. Even the Dark Elves, hidden under cover of the shadows – I can witness their disapproving glares by the whites of their teeth when they snarl.
For the pricking of blood, some outspoken, drunken fiends have gone to calling me, “The Prick”. “Hey Prick,” they bellow, their food-encrusted beards dripping with the frothy head of a recently poured drink.
Others have picked up on my targeting of the Mer races. “Mer-maid” these ones call me. “Mer-maid, would you soundly milk us a mead from the keg? And lean forward when you do it, sweetheart. We’d like to see your backside.”
No matter how many foul degenerates I slay, asserting my might and superiority like a child to a rabbit, these names haunt me like apparitions incessantly reanimating the bodies of the fallen. The whispers wisp over the wind. The memories lurk in the crevices of the bar like cockroaches. The disease festers, and there is no change for the Mer-maid. No good old days. No respite. Just raucous laughter and whistles. I’ve gone to “milkin’ the Mer races” they chuckle. Forever more.
And now you’re dead, Septimus. A pile of ash in your own outpost. What is left in consideration for Cornelius G. Thundercock’s troubles? A book I shall most likely never read, let alone one with a title I cannot pronounce. My reputation is in shambles, and you are granted the easy exit from this realm.
Burn in Oblivion, vermin,
Cornelius
