The unruly throbbing in my skull will not end. A bunch of barbaric children run rampant in the back of my head, flailing clubs recklessly and beating my brain senseless. They will not stop. They will not let up until every pulpy mound of flesh has been satisfyingly pulverized, and even then, their fiery, demonic spirits may still carry on out of sheer boredom, as they have been for several moons now.
Just a friendly drinking game, huh Sam? I’ll admit it was divine. I remember little of the night, but the aggravated characters I had to visit to find Sam again were nothing shy of exhilarating. I just hope, when I visit a physician of some sort, I have not contracted any disease from that hagraven, Moira. This disturbs me. It sets me on edge to think Little Cornelius may have sailed into the tepid pond of something as foul as that feathered hag. What evil lurks in there? A disease? A monster? My worst horrific visions imagine some deformed Khajiit – Argonian baby with buck-teeth and patchy skin treading out of that swamp, calling for its paternal guardian with lop-sided, uneven arms extended. “Dah-dah,” it croons, marching forward with bulging eyes and lengthy tuffs of hair jutting out from a uni-brow on its Argonian-shaped head.
Then again, I suppose it’s a relief to know that the backwoods in which this happened is an isolated one, so I can keep it quiet – passing off any visible signs of illness my sprouting Spriggan may have on my next encounter with a fair maiden as a mere sinus infection. “Mmmm. He’s a little under the weather, but he’s okay.”
Aye. Those wounds are easily hidden with the right word choices, but this headache – no magic incantations will cease its stalwart bludgeoning. Here, in this dead sanctum, I listen to it. Sitting in a pool of Cicero’s blood and inhaling the whiffs of my own regurgitations emanating from a corner, I wait for Sanguine’s last trick to pass. Like a kidney stone passing through some poor bloke’s bladder, this headache wishes to shred every bit of visible innards to mush. Drunken debauchery indeed, but there is a price to pay.
Cicero, if your spirit can read this, I intended no hard feelings. I merely came here to talk with you, but your shrill cries and trumpeting screeches pained my sensitive ears. I could feel my own blood oozing from the sides of my head as you cried and shouted throughout the sanctuary. Has anyone ever told you that your screeches are not dissimilar from the inharmonious cries of a whole college of bards razed? Like the music of Lurbuk at the Moorside Inn, your very whisper could disintegrate minds not strong enough to withstand horrifying pitches of your magnitude.
Let it be known that I simply could not deal with your whimpers anymore, particularly on a day like this. Sanguine’s drinks brought about a hangover of the likes I have never felt before, and your voice simply could not be withstood. It was not for Astrid’s petty revenge, probably willed about by womanly scorn over a lost knitting needle, Cicero. It was merely for my own sanity and respite.
Though I am not one to typically degrade bodies, I left yours nude and exposed to the moist air of this dungeon. Fungal growth will soon set in (I apologize), but I found your clothes rather whimsically endearing. I felt with the right flair, I could perhaps better improve my chances with the ladies. Unfortunately, I will have to visit a tailor, as it seems my rear looks rather pudgy and disarrayed in these pants, like a sack of lumpy potatoes. Again – no hard feelings.
Your friend,
Cornelius G. Thundercock
Posts Tagged With: Sam Guevenne
Found in the Dawnstar Sanctuary
The unruly throbbing in my skull will not end. A bunch of barbaric children run rampant in the back of my head, flailing clubs recklessly and beating my brain senseless. They will not stop. They will not let up until every pulpy mound of flesh has been satisfyingly pulverized, and even then, their fiery, demonic spirits may still carry on out of sheer boredom, as they have been for several moons now.
Just a friendly drinking game, huh Sam? I’ll admit it was divine. I remember little of the night, but the aggravated characters I had to visit to find Sam again were nothing shy of exhilarating. I just hope, when I visit a physician of some sort, I have not contracted any disease from that hagraven, Moira. This disturbs me. It sets me on edge to think Little Cornelius may have sailed into the tepid pond of something as foul as that feathered hag. What evil lurks in there? A disease? A monster? My worst horrific visions imagine some deformed Khajiit – Argonian baby with buck-teeth and patchy skin treading out of that swamp, calling for its paternal guardian with lop-sided, uneven arms extended. “Dah-dah,” it croons, marching forward with bulging eyes and lengthy tuffs of hair jutting out from a uni-brow on its Argonian-shaped head.
Then again, I suppose it’s a relief to know that the backwoods in which this happened is an isolated one, so I can keep it quiet – passing off any visible signs of illness my sprouting Spriggan may have on my next encounter with a fair maiden as a mere sinus infection. “Mmmm. He’s a little under the weather, but he’s okay.”
Aye. Those wounds are easily hidden with the right word choices, but this headache – no magic incantations will cease its stalwart bludgeoning. Here, in this dead sanctum, I listen to it. Sitting in a pool of Cicero’s blood and inhaling the whiffs of my own regurgitations emanating from a corner, I wait for Sanguine’s last trick to pass. Like a kidney stone passing through some poor bloke’s bladder, this headache wishes to shred every bit of visible innards to mush. Drunken debauchery indeed, but there is a price to pay.
Cicero, if your spirit can read this, I intended no hard feelings. I merely came here to talk with you, but your shrill cries and trumpeting screeches pained my sensitive ears. I could feel my own blood oozing from the sides of my head as you cried and shouted throughout the sanctuary. Has anyone ever told you that your screeches are not dissimilar from the inharmonious cries of a whole college of bards razed? Like the music of Lurbuk at the Moorside Inn, your very whisper could disintegrate minds not strong enough to withstand horrifying pitches of your magnitude.
Let it be known that I simply could not deal with your whimpers anymore, particularly on a day like this. Sanguine’s drinks brought about a hangover of the likes I have never felt before, and your voice simply could not be withstood. It was not for Astrid’s petty revenge, probably willed about by womanly scorn over a lost knitting needle, Cicero. It was merely for my own sanity and respite.
Though I am not one to typically degrade bodies, I left yours nude and exposed to the moist air of this dungeon. Fungal growth will soon set in (I apologize), but I found your clothes rather whimsically endearing. I felt with the right flair, I could perhaps better improve my chances with the ladies. Unfortunately, I will have to visit a tailor, as it seems my rear looks rather pudgy and disarrayed in these pants, like a sack of lumpy potatoes. Again – no hard feelings.
Your friend,
Cornelius G. Thundercock
