Posts Tagged With: Riften
My horse, A hero couldn’t have asked for more from you, dear friend. Riding dutifully along the countryside, carrying myself plus 300 pounds more weight of trinkets and food on your back, you never complained. You never whinnied. You never griped, even when we fled from the perilous deluge of arrows launching from unseen enemies hiding in bushes. When I traveled on foot and attackers came forth to rob us of our treasures, you fought valiantly. A noble steed was your charge, and you performed magnificently, trampling upon the pitiful wretches with your fisticuff hooves. Their caved-in skulls carried the mark of a warrior beast. Aye, you were a good horse. Never a finer beast could a man in this realm ask for. So patient. So kind. So caring. It saddens me to see that you have plummeted from a cliff. Like a girl’s doll tossed from Skyrim’s highest peak, you tumbled down upon jagged rock after jagged rock. Not one shriek in death rose from your pulverizing tomb. Not one noise, save for the tearing of flesh and hide upon stone. I followed you, dear friend. When you fell, I ran in quick pursuit, leaping down rocks and stumbling after my most faithful companion. I lost an apple along the way, but I left it. You were more important. You were more valued. Bloodied and lifeless, I found only the husk of your empty corpse. You had not suffered long, though I imagine pain was but a state of mind to you. You saved my life, friend. Whilst we were surrounded by dirty rogues looking to carve us up for gold, you ran forth like a loving mate defending her life partner. Had you a broom and braided hair, my very eyes would have mistaken you for a tavern keeper’s wife. As I write this, my quill scribbling upon tear-stained parchment, I can’t help but enjoy your tender meat. Smothered in leeks, never have I tasted a meal so powerfully delicious. With each succulent bite placed upon my tongue, I think of you, dear horse. As those lumps of flesh grind under my teeth and swim in the juices of my spit, I remember every moment we spent together as if it were but an image embedded in the chewy muscles traveling to my stomach. I apologize for all the times I broke wind upon your back and blamed it on some nearby animal. You would have known I had lied, having felt the rippling air wriggling upon your skin. I apologize for all the times you carried me home inebriated from the tavern, my head angled to one side with bile spewing forth. My aim wasn’t always accurate, but you never changed course or shared your displeasure. Like a stalwart soldier, you galloped on, ignoring the trickling bits of carrots and apples and cabbage slithering down your side. I hope you’ll forgive me, and I hope you’ll cast one last loving glance before you leave this realm, expressing pleasure in knowing your sweetness will not be wasted. I will eat you, horse. I will eat you whole, even if my stomach bursts through my armor. This way, we shall be forever intertwined. Your blood shall be my blood, and your strength shall boil into my own. Is this what they mean by horse power? And the children of Riften, their orphanage will be able to carry stock of new supplies. Your hooves will be made of glue and your bones whittled into eating utensils. Your death is not in vain, and you will not be wasted. Rest in peace, faithful steed. Yours, Cornelius G. Thundercock
My sneak-thieves, As I have been recently appointed “Master” of the Thieves Guild, I have some new rules that will help this club run more smoothly. New Thieves Guild Rules:
- Cornelius G. Thundercock, your new master, drinks gratis.
- Should the belly of your new master rumble with a ferocious hunger and ravenous pains of a stomach unfulfilled, it is Vex’s duty to end the suffering. The preferred meal is a slice of smoked venison on bread with two fried rock warbler eggs adorning it. Layer on two slices of a tomato and some cabbage. Add spice. Serve with a side of sliced apples and Cyrodiilic brandy. Whether this be at the wee hours of the morning or midday, when hunger strikes, it must always be satiated, lest one dares temper the wrath of Dovahkiin.
- When Cornelius has returned from a long adventure, his chosen bed-mate is the strong-willed and always dazzingly beautiful Sapphire. Let no other thief’s hand lay upon her, or death is an imminent future. His most gracious leader has already called “dibs” as it were.
- If Baron Thundercock chooses to indulge in a bit of gambling with cards, his gaming buddies are Delvin Mallory, Brynjolf, Vipir the Fleet, and Rune. All named must play, and no one leaves until Cornelius calls adjournment. No one else may play unless approved by the master.
- When roaming the countryside of Skyrim, all thieves are encouraged to pick flowers and other sorts of flora that smell decent enough. The Ratway reeks of bloated corpses and overflowing chamber pots, which wafts merrily into the Guild. These good aromas should help cleanse the taint of death that carries with the winds.
- The official merchant policy is, “No shirt, no shoes, no service.” Those who do not adhere to this code will be refused service.
- Nocturnal, the Night Mistress, does not like to be referred to as,”Oh, baby.” The thief who keeps shouting it repeatedly before her statue at night when he thinks we’re all asleep should refrain from continuing. Also, it would be considered a kindness if he were to clean up the stains left near her place of worship.
- A polite thief is an unsuspected thief. Slay them with kindness, my friends, and make sure to dress well. Dressing as a “thief” merely gets you noticed.
- The pond near the Ragged Flagon is not for bathing. It’s merely for decoration. While we may be thieves who jam our fingers into pockets and sneak into houses at night, we’re still civilized.
Kharjo, The hallway twists and turns with a relentless rhythm. Am I on a ship? Is Riften one gargantuan vessel I had missed on my way into town? Are we leaving port on some journey far from the chaotic winds of Skyrim? I dare not trek outside my room to search for these answers, friend, for I fear the collapsing of my knees under such duress. I fear the unbalancing act that will take place, and the spiraling of my mind that is sure to follow. Most of all, I fear the current of mixed alcohols threatening to erupt. Yet, you’re out there somewhere, lurking in this dangerous lizard den as the very world around us distorts itself. Through the rafters, I hear the cooing slither of reptiles in heat. Talen-Jei and Keerava consummate their union again, their tails once more knocking books and goblets off shelves. Tooth against scale is a louder noise than one would imagine, especially when blended with the occasional raspy shrieks of our fair innkeeper. Her excitable yelps are as gurgled and gruff as that of a sickly, elderly man repeatedly poked with a hot iron. Still, the nocturnal call of love-making fuels the renewed sensation of blood flowing through me. Mjoll has since left for Honeyside, but there are others who may subside this fire. Is Sapphire still awake? If not, Maven Black-Briar may suffice, though I fear she may still lie unconscious upon the floor. We fools, Kharjo, we simple, drunken, riotous buffoons. We just had to test our bare skulls’ sturdiness against the power of an empty bottle? Aye. As you heartily joked, mine was thicker than yours, but as I soundly proved involuntarily of her free will, Maven’s was thickest of all. And now she’s as good as a floor decoration, chalk smearing her face from when you decided to paint her Redguard. Still, we were merry fools, Kharjo. With the aid of our fellows, we downed every last drop, and let me say this to you, slayer of moon sugar and concocter of Elseweyr Fondue, you are a master of the chugging arts. Though my superiority complex claims I still won that drinking contest, you are no lightweight to scoff at. Even Mjoll’s eyes balked in astonishment as you drank so ferociously, and she’s had the misfortune of watching me gluttonously chug mead, nude, atop a mountain only to regurgitate several seconds later in a failed attempt to prove my manhood to the Divines. But you had to smuggle in the moon sugar and the Skooma, didn’t you, Khajiit? They made the winged demons come – the Cliff Racers as Mjoll so astutely observed. I thought they left, but suddenly it seems, I can hear them once more. My ears still listen to their wings flapping down the halls, fluttering once or twice as they wait. What are they waiting for? Are they watching in wonder at the Argonian love fest still raging at this hour? Are they devouring the others at this inn? It matters not. My women are down there, and wee Cornelius burns with an intensity unmatched by any beast. I know now what I must do – what we must do together, brother. We must slay these beasts. We must skewer these winged spawn with the purity and smoldering reckoning of intelligent beast’s oldest tool – fire. Through this act, we shall warden them off for good – strike the paralyzing terror of being incinerated alive. I shall construct a torch, and then I shall come for you first, so that we may fight side-by-side. In the off-chance you have met your maker or whatever silly charlatan you creatures pray to, I shall hold a ceremony in your honor and construct a memorial effigy. Kharjo, you are and always shall be my greatest friend. Know that, and know that its truth is eternal. Fare thee well, Cornelius G. Thundercock
Constance Michel, The radiant beacon of light glowing within you illuminates more powerfully every time I lay my eye upon you. It matters not that y0u dress in the stitched-up hides of broken, old horses who no longer can serve their masters. Or that your matted, greasy hair is a tangled home to all species of insects looking to build stable homesteads and parasitic families. Predator. Prey. They all seek refuge in that unkempt nest that oozes oil down your neck, giving your skin that waxed sheen. Still, this light of goodness shines beyond your features, conveying an aura of beauty that even the tick and chigger-infested hot, damp corners of your body cannot tarnish. You are a divine soul in the husk of a pig-keeper’s daughter. You are a godly spark that smolders through the untreated flesh of hard labor and disregard to personal hygiene. Devoted to your cause, you know no time for bathing, as the children of Honorhall are your “constant” priority. I respect this, lady fair. I admire this. It is in this admiration that I seek to aid you in your purpose. A man well-traveled, I have gazed upon the doors of Oblivion and scoffed at the horrors which lie within. Though my stories of this world’s darkness are numerous, I have not the time to equal these teachings to your poor, unappreciated babes. Skyrim needs saving, and I cannot forsake the imminent doom of others for the nurturing education your children may receive from suckling my hardened, worldly teats. It’s in literature that we must find solace. Books written by noble men to teach generations to come of their sacred knowledge. With this letter, I have provided one such work of wonder I feel is appropriate to your children. A quick lesson, it allays the danger many seem to forget in this modern era. Orcs. Pigs and their spawning piglets. A violent species of bandits still trying to lay siege upon our civilization. In this book, you’ll learn of the barbarity these beings exhibit, which our Jarls dare not speak in fear of offending mass hordes lining the countryside. In teaching children this, you’ll give them an awareness and attentive nature that may suit them well and spare their lives. Some creatures simply cannot learn to work with society, Constance. Some creatures cannot be taught to eat with the common utensils a decent society demands. Share this knowledge with them, my dear. Regurgitate it to them like a mother bird does to its young, spewing forth these well-written words from your mouth to theirs. I shall send others when I can. Thank you, Cornelius G. Thundercock
My sweet rose, Ingun, When I said I wished access to your trunk, I had not meant so literally. I appreciate the ability to plunder your ingredients, but my actions were not merely out of friendship or lack of work. I have plenty to do, and I have plenty of folks across Skyrim to label as friends. Do you not see, my dear, that when a man crosses the far reaches of Skyrim in search of Nirnroot, that it is out of an unquenchable passion? Do you not see this when he repeats these ventures for Deathbell and Nightshade, slaving away to see that glimmer of a smile carve just slightly across your beautiful face? I wish to plunder YOU, Ingun, not your ingredients. Think on this, my angelic vision. I did it for you. I did it ALL for you. The alchemy supplies. That cave bear pelt on by your front door this morning (as I noticed a bit of a chill in the air). Your murdered family (you expressed distaste for them, and you’ll find them taken care of by the time you get home). Every whim or musing you let fly from those pouty lips of yours, I can have arranged. I’m sure you noticed the sweet roll that this was bundled to. Accept that as a token of my affections. The frosting should have a heart with our names carved inside of it. With murderous love, Cornelius G. Thundercock P.S. I’ll try to fix the blood on the floor when I kill your family, so it’ll look like little hearts splattered all over the place.
Marcurio, I know not where your corpse now lies. We battled bravely against a dragon and a giant, one right after the other. While you survived the dragon, the giant sent your body soaring through to air to lands which I know not. I blame myself for your demise, friend. I used my dragon shout, Marked for Death, in the heat of battle, and you ran into my range during the midst of it. I doubt you survived, but your loss pains me so. Many hours did we spend together under the warm sun, sharing grilled leeks and catching butterflies. You would crack jokes, and we would laugh in a most splendid, carefree fashion over roasted rabbit. A pat on the knee here, a playful nip on the ear there – it will be our afternoon picnics I miss the most, after the adrenaline of battle wore down and sturdy, celebratory slaps on the buttocks were given all around. I remember most your knowing smile. That slight curl of the lip you had when something deviously clever escaped your arrogantly foul lips. You would flash it often before we finished our bottles of mead, when there was only one left to split between the two of us. I’d grab the bottle, as I was quicker of the two of us, and you’d tackle me. We’d roll joyously down the hill together – laughing. Always laughing. A sad smile crosses myself as I write this, knowing you are gone forever. I sit before a stream at the stroke of midnight, watching the glimmering water. It reminds me of your sparkling tears, when you would tell me your deepest secrets behind the campfire’s glow on a cool, moonlit evening. We would talk for hours, and you’d tell me all about your adventures. When it was too cold, we would snuggle close and converse with each other by code names. –my little lamb I will miss you, friend – more than you ever shall know. I hope the afterlife, should there be one, treats you as gently as you treated me, my hairy lamb. Forever your friend, Cornelius G. Thundercock
Marise, Surprise! Enjoy the “present” in your stall this morning, you tricksy Dunmer? You thought you could sell me a bad sweet roll and get away with it, didn’t you? Give a moldy, diseased treat to the Dragonborn, eh? He’s only going to save our lives; what’s the trouble? Why not? Aye. That present is the aftermath wrought from the wretched roll you sold me. It snaked its way through my bowels, churning into a filthy, sloppy froth of a stew with an uncanny stench of ultimate evil even Daedra fear. I thought I’d share it with you, seeing as it was your intention to poison me. And now, because of your treacherous ways, Janessa thinks my bladder incontinent. You want to make me a fool? So be it. I shall destroy you yet when you least expect it. Best regards, Cornelius G. Thundercock P.S. You can wash my leggings your sweet rolls so ruefully soiled. I wrapped them around your cabbages.
Ungrien, Recognize this face? Do your pitiless Bosmer eyes recognize the severed head of this man? Aye, your dark orbs do not deceive you. It IS the head of that band of rogues you dispatched after me. In the flesh… Excuse my raucous laughter if it filters too strongly through this letter, but I am rather amused at your little antics, you scurvy little frostbite spider. You DARE accuse a Dragonborn of theft? Under what grounds? Pray tell me, foul, lowly creature, and tell me in person next time. Account for yourself and your false, wild accusations of a delusional mind overcome with spirited mead! I beseech thee. No. I demand it. However, if you still prefer hiding and sending another band of poorly-trained, ill-dressed rogues, I will welcome the sport. I’ll enjoy collecting your fine payments again as I did the last time, stumbling out of Dead Man’s Drink in Falkreath to encounter a collection of goat teat sucklers with the battle-readiness of an old grandmother. To a petty Bosmer, they may have seemed tough, but then again, even a sickly skeever can come across as equally challenging. Go ahead. Keep it up. Make my day. When I bore of receiving your poorly spent gold, I shall come for you, and you’ll know what real pain feels like. Ever rip fur off a live rabbit with your bare hands? Imagine the excruciating pain that rabbit must go through. Think about it. For that very fate may be in store for you, you wretched bunkhouse stain. Your Death-Bringer Materialized, Cornelius G. Thundercock P.S. Next time, send them with a few decent home-cooked meals. I often hunger whilst drinking.
My dear friend, I am terribly sorry. I understand that means nothing to you now considering you’re dead, but my infinite sorrow is the burden of remorse I shall carry with me for the next few hours (or until another skirt with mysterious eyes walks past). I hope your spirit is not a vengeful spirit because this is a rather odd tale. You asked of me to help alleviate those debts you owed Sapphire. I went in The Bee and the Barb and gave her a piece of my mind, scaring that uppity bandit-woman with the darkest of my sinister intentions. She complied – agreed that your debts were nullified, and then business drew me away from Riften. As you may have noticed, I was away for days, weeks, maybe even a month. There were caverns to clear, bandits to kill, and a woman at home to lay with. If you would have seen her, you would agree that Oblivion gates that fantastic-looking should not be ignored. When I did next find myself in Riften, I realized I would conveniently be passing by your stables, and so I had every intention of telling you that your credit was no longer suffering, that you were debt-free! …then a dragon descended from the perilous skies. Like a true warrior, you ran toward it with a dagger, screaming harsh words and thrusting your blade at a beast a great distance above you with absolutely zero chance of damaging its thick hide. Possibly in fear of your mad frenzy, it honed in on you and incinerated every fiber in your body. I watched as what once was a brave, stupid man morphed into a smoldering husk of skeever food. Fortunately, your gold and lockpicks were undisturbed, so I acquired those as payment rendered for my services. Still, I feel I must tell you, if there is an afterlife or if you were still concerned with the physical realm, I relieved you of your burdens. Your legacy is intact. When people reflect on the life you led, they won’t say you were a good-for-nothing stable boy with a heavy debt on his shoulders. They’ll say you were the daft stable boy who, while debt-free, charged a dragon with a dagger, and they’ll gleefully drink to your name. I know I will. Farewell, my friend. May you be blessed with the fortunes of the afterlife. ~Cornelius G. Thundercock