Silus Vesuius,
You opened this gateway to the unknown. Your lust for shiny knives and child-sized blades brought about this grisly demise, calling upon you to pay the ultimate price for your meddling. Never hire a stalwart adventurer to carry out your own wishes, and never waltz around publicly in bath robes, ancestral or not. Victory is earned, not bought. You want something? You take it, and you do it in an attire that does not loudly decree lackadaisical unemployment.
Alas, it is too late to carry on this message to you. Your disrobed husk has tumbled down the mountainside – food for the bears and wolves that tend to this region. Your blood-stained clothes will provide comfortable lounge-wear when I decide to relax from my labors, sitting before the fire with mead and coloring in the sketches the book publishers forgot to fully ink in my library.
A pity befell me when I first wrenched my hammer into your innards, plunging my boot into your gut to yank free that which had nestled deep into your intestines. Blood and partially-digested stew carpeted the snow as you fell, hands feverishly clenching your gaping wound. Shock glossed over your face – some unenlightened wonder at your own perilous end. Why? Had you not known who I was? Had not soldiers spoke of my travels or citizens bragged of my crypt-robbing zeal? Had not women bequeathed my name to Sovngarde in quivering voices, their bodices shivering with temptations rekindled anew?
Aye. A fool’s errand it was, murdering you. A sensation of apology swirled about me as I watched the color drain from your face. A furiousness. A spiteful resentment for dragging me into this. You were but a imaginative fool who felt strong enough to face Mehrunes Dagon without any sort of training or experience. Milk-drinking buffoon.
Yet, all this pity soon dissipated into the billowing winds of the frosty mountain peak. Dagon, himself, unleashed a kind of beast my eyes had not witnessed before – one that petrified me to the icy grounds upon which I stood – a Spriggan made rigid.
Dremora. Coated in the blackest night and painted with the entrails of their victims, these beasts were of the most vicious demeanor I have ever encountered. Pure hate and spite. Rage and ferocity. Looking into their eyes was like glancing in through the windows of the most sadistic creature’s torture dungeon. Inklings of pain are a blessing there, as sensations abound are much, much worse.
Warmth trickled down my leg as the Dremora unsheathed their weapons. Armored in the macabre garbs of a hidden sexual escapades dungeon, they trudged confidently forward, steadfast and sinister. A lick of the blade. A sardonic grimace. That warmth down my leg chilled to a bone-shivering wetness.
Pondering of my fate seized my mind. Were I to lose, would I simply perish? Or would they keep me alive, forever a servant bondaged in servitude for their savage uses? Cornelius G. Thundercock. Dragonborn. Skyrim’s savior. Rendered a tightly wrapped gift with his bare bottom left open to the whims of the world.
There was a reason Mehrunes Dagon was locked away from Tamriel, Silus. His soldiers are the champions of deviance, and now they are manifested here. I see it now, as I tower above these fallen creatures. Your death was a blessing. Should more come and flood the countryside, you will be spared. Had you lived and survived this encounter, you would not walk away a victor. Silus, you would trudge away a haunted man. Even in my most drunken evening of debauchery, I had not seen wickedness of this sort, but now that I have, my mind cannot be emptied of those salacious smiles.
You knew not what you were getting into,
Cornelius
Posts Tagged With: Mehrunes’ Razor
Found at the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon
Silus Vesuius,
You opened this gateway to the unknown. Your lust for shiny knives and child-sized blades brought about this grisly demise, calling upon you to pay the ultimate price for your meddling. Never hire a stalwart adventurer to carry out your own wishes, and never waltz around publicly in bath robes, ancestral or not. Victory is earned, not bought. You want something? You take it, and you do it in an attire that does not loudly decree lackadaisical unemployment.
Alas, it is too late to carry on this message to you. Your disrobed husk has tumbled down the mountainside – food for the bears and wolves that tend to this region. Your blood-stained clothes will provide comfortable lounge-wear when I decide to relax from my labors, sitting before the fire with mead and coloring in the sketches the book publishers forgot to fully ink in my library.
A pity befell me when I first wrenched my hammer into your innards, plunging my boot into your gut to yank free that which had nestled deep into your intestines. Blood and partially-digested stew carpeted the snow as you fell, hands feverishly clenching your gaping wound. Shock glossed over your face – some unenlightened wonder at your own perilous end. Why? Had you not known who I was? Had not soldiers spoke of my travels or citizens bragged of my crypt-robbing zeal? Had not women bequeathed my name to Sovngarde in quivering voices, their bodices shivering with temptations rekindled anew?
Aye. A fool’s errand it was, murdering you. A sensation of apology swirled about me as I watched the color drain from your face. A furiousness. A spiteful resentment for dragging me into this. You were but a imaginative fool who felt strong enough to face Mehrunes Dagon without any sort of training or experience. Milk-drinking buffoon.
Yet, all this pity soon dissipated into the billowing winds of the frosty mountain peak. Dagon, himself, unleashed a kind of beast my eyes had not witnessed before – one that petrified me to the icy grounds upon which I stood – a Spriggan made rigid.
Dremora. Coated in the blackest night and painted with the entrails of their victims, these beasts were of the most vicious demeanor I have ever encountered. Pure hate and spite. Rage and ferocity. Looking into their eyes was like glancing in through the windows of the most sadistic creature’s torture dungeon. Inklings of pain are a blessing there, as sensations abound are much, much worse.
Warmth trickled down my leg as the Dremora unsheathed their weapons. Armored in the macabre garbs of a hidden sexual escapades dungeon, they trudged confidently forward, steadfast and sinister. A lick of the blade. A sardonic grimace. That warmth down my leg chilled to a bone-shivering wetness.
Pondering of my fate seized my mind. Were I to lose, would I simply perish? Or would they keep me alive, forever a servant bondaged in servitude for their savage uses? Cornelius G. Thundercock. Dragonborn. Skyrim’s savior. Rendered a tightly wrapped gift with his bare bottom left open to the whims of the world.
There was a reason Mehrunes Dagon was locked away from Tamriel, Silus. His soldiers are the champions of deviance, and now they are manifested here. I see it now, as I tower above these fallen creatures. Your death was a blessing. Should more come and flood the countryside, you will be spared. Had you lived and survived this encounter, you would not walk away a victor. Silus, you would trudge away a haunted man. Even in my most drunken evening of debauchery, I had not seen wickedness of this sort, but now that I have, my mind cannot be emptied of those salacious smiles.
You knew not what you were getting into,
Cornelius
