Stormcloaks,
One never raises arms against the Dovahkiin. Aye, to do so tempts a severance betwixt head and neck of unfortunate odds and damning probabilities. Assuredly the more cowardly choice of action, one never attacks the riding beast of the Dovahkiin either. As your incapable brethren garrisoned at Fort Sungard discovered, this is a grave choice that solidifies a death most unpleasant.
With the intention of strengthening my one-handed skills, as I find my solitary bachelorhood rather quiet as of late, I charged forth into this battle with a readiness to empower my right arm. An eagerness to bulge those muscles fueled my insatiable desire to swing wildly in a berserker rage, to slash unrestrainedly at your whimpering dogs in blue. In my mind’s eye, your brethren would keel over like lambs amidst the slaughtering of a wolf pack.
Alas, my one-handed workout never came to be. No release of pent-up tension dissolved itself. No volcano of frenetic energy spewed forth its bombardments. Aye. My faithful Shadowmere did all the work.
Strong and tireless, my horse barreled forth like a castrated bull. Cloaked in darkness with eyes that glow more sinisterly than the combined gleaming orbs of the Daedric lords, Shadowmere trampled an entire army of Stormcloaks single-hooved. An arrow protruding from his rump, the beast rampaged to correct this violation of his rear entryway.
Let me tell you, surviving fellows, that being trampled to death is no pretty sight. Shadowmere knows not the slowness of exhaustion. He knows not the face of weariness or the signs of it in his joints. Eternally stalwart, my steed kicked recklessly until every last soldier’s skull was akin to a squashed tomato. Pulverized and juicy, the fort was a battleground of raining fruit this day. No staircase nor height could save any fleeing rebel from Shadowmere’s vengeance. With that solitary arrow, all had sealed their fates.
Know this, he who may find this letter, these men did not die honorably. Overcome by a domesticated beast, their deaths were as dishonorable as deaths can be. More accolades and bravery would have been welcomed from tripping into an open well or slipping haphazardly down a staircase like a common drunkard. Aye. ‘Tis a petty way to die.
Do not curry a horse’s vengeance,
Cornelius G Thundercock
Posts Tagged With: Imperials
Found in Fort Sungard
Stormcloaks,
One never raises arms against the Dovahkiin. Aye, to do so tempts a severance betwixt head and neck of unfortunate odds and damning probabilities. Assuredly the more cowardly choice of action, one never attacks the riding beast of the Dovahkiin either. As your incapable brethren garrisoned at Fort Sungard discovered, this is a grave choice that solidifies a death most unpleasant.
With the intention of strengthening my one-handed skills, as I find my solitary bachelorhood rather quiet as of late, I charged forth into this battle with a readiness to empower my right arm. An eagerness to bulge those muscles fueled my insatiable desire to swing wildly in a berserker rage, to slash unrestrainedly at your whimpering dogs in blue. In my mind’s eye, your brethren would keel over like lambs amidst the slaughtering of a wolf pack.
Alas, my one-handed workout never came to be. No release of pent-up tension dissolved itself. No volcano of frenetic energy spewed forth its bombardments. Aye. My faithful Shadowmere did all the work.
Strong and tireless, my horse barreled forth like a castrated bull. Cloaked in darkness with eyes that glow more sinisterly than the combined gleaming orbs of the Daedric lords, Shadowmere trampled an entire army of Stormcloaks single-hooved. An arrow protruding from his rump, the beast rampaged to correct this violation of his rear entryway.
Let me tell you, surviving fellows, that being trampled to death is no pretty sight. Shadowmere knows not the slowness of exhaustion. He knows not the face of weariness or the signs of it in his joints. Eternally stalwart, my steed kicked recklessly until every last soldier’s skull was akin to a squashed tomato. Pulverized and juicy, the fort was a battleground of raining fruit this day. No staircase nor height could save any fleeing rebel from Shadowmere’s vengeance. With that solitary arrow, all had sealed their fates.
Know this, he who may find this letter, these men did not die honorably. Overcome by a domesticated beast, their deaths were as dishonorable as deaths can be. More accolades and bravery would have been welcomed from tripping into an open well or slipping haphazardly down a staircase like a common drunkard. Aye. ‘Tis a petty way to die.
Do not curry a horse’s vengeance,
Cornelius G Thundercock
Found on the Whiterun Battlefield
Ulfric Stormcloak,
You didn’t care for that battle axe? It was a perfectly good weapon. Hefty. Sharpened. Unworn handle. Bash that axe against the back of some poor bandit’s skull, and you’ll split his head in twain – two bowls big enough to carry around some fresh troll fat. A well-crafted weapon – a masterful piece. Yet, you sent it back.
Were you simply stating you were too good for that weapon? Too big and proud and comfortable in those robes of yours for the bludgeoning tool of a warrior? Too much of a Jarl well-practiced in the art of sitting to accept? Whatever your reasoning, your invasion forces were crushed, Ulfric. Like my attempt at Ingun Black-Briar’s purity, your attack failed.
Whiterun is a wasteland of death now. A town whose entryway is drenched in bloodshed and whose air is saturated with the final muffled shouts of soldiers stripped of life. More men died here than any living survivor would happily wish to count, averting the eyes away from a sea of red and blue-clad corpses posed in grisly positions. Even the sadists cast their gazes elsewhere, pointing out aloud the random butterfly landing upon an undisturbed flower. Feigning excitement, they voraciously ignore the stench of demise in the air and the sound of flies beginning final approach to the scavenger meals. Were I sober, I would avert my eyes as well.
Alas, my spirits run strong with the fill of drink. My sensibilities are dulled. Sandwiched between an oaf of a Stormcloak soldier and an Imperial skirt-wearer, I find myself unable to escape my trap, forced to face the gazes of the deceased. Too much to sip, my vision began to spiral high like a soaring dragon, and I found myself tumbling over the jutting blades and shredded armor of dead brethren. One of your buffoons rolled atop my frame, his belly a mighty rock no muscled stone-chucker could dare toss. Beneath me rests a slain kinsman, his skirt turned upwards and his bare hind flesh pressing against my right cheekbone. Though gone from this world, silence has not yet ensnared this one. His body rumbles. His innards release themselves of pressure. The air he breathed escapes slowly back to the skies.
A slit of light filters in like a beacon of freedom, one through which my hands can craft these words before me on a piece of parchment lying in the fields. Though trapped, I sense a kinship between us, Ulfric. You, too, are trapped. Your army is decimated. Your spirit is broken. How long will you hold out? How long will you continue this bitter feud?
The Jarl of Whiterun boasts a speech atop his drawbridge. “For Whiterun,” he cries. “For the Empire!” Aye. For the Empire, indeed. My Empire.
Do you get it now, Ulfric? Do you understand? This realm is not yours to control. It never was. Fate’s dangling sword has unleashed a fury upon you as the whims of the Divines rally around a new caller, one whose blood boils of dragon and Breton. Dovahkiin. Dragonborn.
Though, at the moment, this hero finds himself indisposed between two hulking creatures, one of whom’s final death knell is rumbling awfully loud and close to the cheek. A storm is coming, and from this torrential downpour, there is no escape.
