Found on Nurelion’s Corpse

Nurelion,

 

Quit hitting yourself. Quit hitting yourself. Quit hitting yourself, vile filcher. Your corpse lies cock-eyed before the fire now, its body strewn lopsided over a chair. It looks as if you rose from the grave, stumbled drunkenly, and plopped uncomfortably before the kindling, then proceeded to pummel yourself in the face with your own fists.

 

Aye. Your knuckles are as rosy and bloodied as a fair maiden’s bedchamber on a wedding night. Your face is as pulpy and demolished as that leftover fruit from this morning’s breakfast – the one I had bashed repeatedly with my mace.  To the casual onlooker, it’s a scene of remorse. Or perhaps one of self-mutilation at the horror of  gazing into such a pitifully small fire? Had not your father taught you how to lay logs? In all your years, did you not understand the simplest concept of building a campfire?

 

Whatever your excuse be, it matters not, Nurelion. Your heart’s kindling has burned through its last smoldering embers. A curmudgeonly old man, you have gasped your final, hoarse cough. Our first encounter, you snubbed me of my payment for procuring the White Phial for you. Your assistant, Quintus Navale, convinced me to help repair the mold. And so it stands, the last vision you witnessed was that of your precious Phial rebuilt. A life’s quest fulfilled. A greedy, self-centered and vicious heart finally released of its obsession. So long to reach this moment, wasn’t it? So short-lived it was too…

 

As it stands, this story seems quite familiar. I know of a man whose very obsession haunts and leads him astray, dragging him down dark alleyways on wobbling legs. An otherwise heroic fellow with a towering frame of hardened muscles, his single-tracked mind has led him down a road of mixed opinions. Some admire him for his fleeting moments of good deeds. Some feel spited by him. Others find him repulsive, relating him to their companions as nothing more than a womanizing drunkard obsessed with his own prowess and mirrored complexion. I just cannot seem to remember his name.

 

Oh well.

 

~Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found in the Imperial Headquarters

General Tullius,

 

Adventure and heroic duties across Skyrim have led me on many quests as of late, but in these trying hours for the Empire, I unfortunately bring dangerous tidings. While I still have not picked a side in this civil lover’s spat of yours and Ulfric’s, I feel you are capable of helping alleviate this threat from within the countryside. Aye. I speak of the various mountains, tombs, and caves themselves dotted throughout the landscape that may require your attention.

 

Recently, my altruistic duties and diplomatic tours to confirm my name’s place in history texts have taken me to the far reaches of Forsaken Cave, a place aptly named by an illiterate cretin with no sense of imagination when it came to vocabulary and diction. Sent to recover the fabled White Phial, I quelled the rumblings of fear that skittered down my spine at such a foreboding name. Admittedly, a determined look from the fiercely capable Aela the Huntress, my companion in this journey, aided in demeaning my perilous worries.

 

With that said, our beginning trek into this seemingly impenetrable dungeon began with a bout of war against the most fearsome beasts in Skyrim – bears. Aela as my bait, I triumphantly sought the high ground, launching arrows from above with an impeccable aim that would make any fair maiden swoon. Ah yes. I even saw Aela’s tenderness shine through her glimmering eyes as bears mauled from all around her. Like a child ganged up upon by insecure guards looking to scribble lolly-gagging citations, she proved no match to the combined power of these animals. Still, she did not need to, as my quiver’s inventory proved more than capable to deal death to these beasts.

 

Treading deeper into this feared crypt, Aela and I battled a battle-hungry army of Draugr. Corpse after decayed, rotting corpse fell to our blades, but as we walked deeper, more powerful ones ambushed us. Aye, Tullius. These were no mere filthy, stinking Draugr. Death Lords rested here – powerful Draugr with the ability to harness the thu’um of the dov.

 

I wish I could say they were no match for my party, but in doing so I would be made a serpent-tongued liar. Death Lords are a worthy foe even to the Dovahkiin (and sultry sidekick). With their thu’um, they can break wind so powerfully that even a dragonborn finds himself scuttling backward across the stone floor, grasping pillars fearfully four grounding. But Tullius, as an understudy of the dragon tongue, there are other words these beasts may master. There are words that could very well turn tide of who rules Skyrim, casting all of us into a dark damnation with no respite where living flesh is merely a circus act to reanimated husks.

 

Ever hear of Raan Mir Tah? Shout that word with a well-trained thu’um, and the call of the wild will answer. Now think, Tullius. What guardians of this dwelling did I say Aela and I initially faced? Bears. Big ones. Deadly ones. Right within reach of the Death Lords. Should ever two species meet, an alliance can be formed with the language of the dov. It’s simple.

 

Imagine it, General, in your mind’s eye. Imagine one day you’re spending a Sundas morn off in a field of flowers with your youngest daughter. She skips playfully betwixt the blooming meadow, her little fingers plucking that which is beautiful to her innocent eyes. Suddenly, an army of bears storm from behind a rock, their backs supporting the weight of Death Lords clutching reigns. You climb to your feet and draw your sword, but it’s too late. You are overrun, and your daughter is mauled to death, her body shredded in half by a bear’s claws and her head decapitated by a Draugr’s blade. Out of spite, the accursed wretch juggles her skull and then tosses it to you, chuckling a raspy laugh all the while. Before you succumb to his damning judgment, the last thing you glimpse is your daughter’s face resting in your hands like a head of cabbage. A twist of fate jabs deep within your intestines as she still wears a smile – caught in that moment where she was so sweet and peaceful, content at a world that conspired against her. And it was all because you heeded not the power of a Death Lord bear army.

 

What shall we do to prevent this, Tullius? What CAN we do? I know not all the answers, but I do know we need more men. We need soldiers to prevent this nightmarish vision from becoming reality, from bringing about the apocalyptic visions of a Tamriel conquered by the dead. Give me command of your legion, and I shall make sure every crevice is cleared of undead creatures. Give me command, and with my thu’um, I shall offer an olive branch of peace to bears before the Death Lords do. Let us ride strongly into battle upon bears.

 

Think of the consequences if inaction is chosen,

Cornelius G. Thundercock