Posts Tagged With: Solitude
Jarl Elisif the Fair, It is on the eve of my 100,000th bandit slaying I write this letter to you. Sharpening my blade, “Colon Cleanser”, after its consistently wonderful performance in battle, I took pause to let the windmills of my mind churn with the passing breeze of thought. Had I really littered Skyrim’s plains and caves with 100,000 bandits? Were my numerics, etched on parchment I make my traveling servant carry, so accurate and telling? Where did all these bandits come from, and why is there always more? Elisif, my head is now plagued with these questions newly encroached upon my regular daydreams of bountiful, bouncing bosoms and rivers full of mead. It does not seem logical that Skyrim would be home to a population of bandits seemingly quadruple the size of its other inhabitants. With a gang that large, who could they happily loot on a regular basis without the well drying up? What possible collective of citizenry could they befall and torment who still would keep wealth and jewels in their homes? During my adventures, Elisif, I have forcibly broken and entered the homes of many of this land’s residents. Sometimes out of sheer curiosity, sometimes for blackmail, and on rare occasion for a paid task at hand, I have crept quietly into these locked dwellings. Though the bandit population exceeds the pasture of cattle ripe for the slaughter, these homes are typically well-stocked with valuables. They appear untouched, unsoiled by the grubby fingers of salacious sewer men with an eye for ravaging beauty. Were these bandits truly stealing? On my many journeys, I have encountered them in camps and caves. Though they polish their weapons and armor for battle, they never seem to trek forth and pillage. Rather, they hang around and guard the highways. Like private armies of soldiers, they occupy the plains and the mountains, the lost temples and the exits from this snowy country. Was their intention ever to steal? With an army so vast, my mind began to wonder. The sobriety of a dew-filled morning permitted my consciousness to think and ponder, to travel and analyze the true nature of this conundrum. What if these bandits were never meant for theft? What if their camped armies were intended for a darker purpose? Spreading word through the papers and the winds, they just tell us they’re bandits, but their true purpose is hidden, locked away in their hideouts along the road. Then it hit me, Elisif. It smacked me as viciously as you smacked me last time I drunkenly stumbled about your castle, vomiting in your favorite plant, much to your lack of amusement. (I certainly cursed myself to practicing my one-handed that night.) What if it was all just play? Theatrics? What if we had so mistakenly been led to believe we had freedom to leave and go as we wished, but we refused to travel in fear of bandits who would rob us of our currency? Aye, we have the illusion of leaving, should we prove strong and bold enough, and that’s all we need, correct? But what if this illusion was set in place to maintain a balance between fear and perceived freedom? What if something far more sinister lay in the fog of our reality? These armies of bandits do not seem to do much of anything beyond preventing us from travel. On occasion, they pillage some poor, naive buffoon who roams the plains. For the most part, however, these roving gangs of ruffians lie in encampments around key access points, waiting for something. Better yet, they’re guarding something, Elisif. These bandits guard our roads of exit from this country. We’re merely cattle herded inside Skyrim by a force much larger than we realize, disillusioned slaves huddled in cities awaiting our numbers to come up. I’ve slain 100,000 myself, and there are still more out there. Where are they coming from? Who’s breeding them? Is there a bandit den somewhere in Skyrim where breeders lie atop stone tablets pumping out newborn kinsmen for this army? Is there a unified leader hidden away somewhere, orchestrating this facade, so that we may not know the true purpose? ‘Tis too many questions to answer at this moment, but believe me when I tell you this, my dearest, sweetest mountain blossom of a high queen, I will unravel this mystery. With Colon Cleanser sheathed at my side and a small team of companions, I shall penetrate the darkest depths of this conspiracy and answer these wild thoughts. Something is very wrong here, and there’s only one man who can uncover this distortion. Me. Much love, Cornelius G. Thundercock
– An effigy smolders in Solitude tonight. A mannequin mockery of a long dead king soaks in the vengeance-filled incinerations of jubilation over his death. Poor King Olaf – the traitor who betrayed the Nords to the Dov. Were I allowed to interrupt the scorching of his damned soul, I would give him respite by relieving myself upon his still charring figure. No. It’s to the alleyway with me, to some hidden location where I can unleash my gut-eviscerating swill into one of these empty spiced wine bottles. Sorex Vinius will not know what hit him when he takes a swig of this, swishing it around in his foul mouth like an unappreciative brat with no sense of taste. Still, I’ve had so much of Evette San’s wonderful drink flood my belly that my flowing river may, perchance, lead to his belligerent drunkenness, an indulgence of pre-filtered alcohol. I suppose that’s a win? One bottle down, another started. The waterfall will not cease, nor shall parasitic beavers I carry from my travels damn it. I shall repay the bloke who told me there would be free meat pies and then handed me an apple pie instead. Dastardly bastard – No meat in that pie, none at all. The wolf inside me doesn’t appreciate liars, especially ones that tantalize his predator brain with salivating tales of meat-filled pastries. Think of it. The best of both worlds joined forces – pastry and flesh. The only way such a combination could be perfected would be the union of venison and sweet roll or rabbit leg and honey treat. Augh! These thoughts bounce within my skull as a creek of spittle oozes down my chapped lips and over my scarred chin. Molten saliva. Is it my own steadfast dementedness from drink, or is it my hunger for such a concoction? I know not. Aye. The only thing I do know is that in my stupor, in my imaginative voyage to the realm of baked goods, I overfilled the second bottle and soiled my boots. Jordis the Sword-Maiden will have need to wear out her knees scrubbing tonight. Perhaps I should suggest some low-cut nightwear? –Cornelius
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
— The bottle slides from my clutches. I let it fall. I want it to fall – the splintering of evidence across dampened streets. No longer mine, it could have belonged to anyone. A vagrant, perhaps? A child sneaking Skooma when his parents were away at the Winking Skeever rekindling that fire that had long since died between them? The clamoring ear-screeching of a shatter is overshadowed by the thunder rolling across the skies. Prepared wincing made moot as rain sets in. A cleansing from the Divines washes all the grit and grime down the sewer drains. Pigs’ blood, spit, fried grease from an animal’s flabby arse, mud, skeever droppings, and lost dignity blended with broken dreams all rinse away. My skull shudders to imagine where these wastes sail ashore, what lands they voyage to speckle and blemish like rotten eggs unwarily purchased from that shyster Sayma’s general store. No. That shuddering is the skooma kicking in – the moonsugar concoction adding the sweetest pleasures of the best candies afloat in my mind. A war wages between the occupants of my thinking capsule. Scantily-clothed women, violent beasts, and the sugar clash swords and sully one another betwixt the muck.Who will win? Who shall reign champion of my fantasies on this eve of exploration? Two hands press against the doors of the Winking Skeever. The tingling of the moist wood against my skin is exhilarating – a trip into the ecstasies of the unknown. What is this new found feeling? Where have these joys hidden themselves? Even in the greatest of my days, spending my Sundas morns lying nude in my bed and tearing into the flaky crusts of a fresh sweet roll, had I not experienced mind-altering sensations of this sort. New. Euphoric. World-shaking. In the wrong hands, this could be dangerous, but in mine… Five mugs of mead spiral down my throat before I even notice what’s happening. Corpulus Vinius begins to utter something, but his voice is droned out in the harmony of music filling the air – sweet, organic music chiming through like divinely-crafted winds. My ears prickle as if the hot, sticky breath of some deceiving puppeteer were whispering to me, beckoning me forth to follow its lead. These melodies ring from the pipes of Pantea Ateia, local bard and fashion disaster who cloaks herself in her mother’s drapes. An animal fur adorns her shoulders, covering up the holes meant for a pole to slide through. Pantea’s smile incites the moment, and before I could withhold that which runs wild, my hand paws her dainty cheeks. I touch her softly at first, but a disconnect between my hands and my body unleashes a hidden strength that sends all of Skyrim into a whirl. Winged gauntlets attack, their flighty, pummeling fists barraging me from all directions. I cannot see them. I cannot predict them. To only watch the blurring of my vision is my cursed fate as I am bludgeoned to near mortal doom. The bruises ember like hot coals upon my flesh, searing deeply that which may never heal. I knew now how my dinner felt, scampering across the field tonight until my incinerating hands roasted it alive. Joyful. Playful. Tasty to some unwashed barbarian smitten with the disease-like hungering pains of a demanding stomach. Like an unruly wench, it demands constant attention and care. Should you give it disagreeable gifts, it picks fights and rejects thy wondrous presents. Up the gift canal they go [Return to Sender]. These shall be the reasons why I prefer a good mule to a wife. Droplets of rain once again adorn my face. Haggard and defeated, I find refuge under an awning and enough parchment to scribble my decree. My vision fades. The euphoria evaporates. Only emptiness remains and the screaming of a family household turned upside down. The wife is angry, and the husband is belligerently hammered, spouting nonsense of the like even I have never babbled before. Pots clash and wares clobber against one another – then a solitary thud. Silence resumes temporarily until the thunderous fluting of a horn breaks the calm for a split second. A vaporous expulsion of mead, signifying that the unjust have won in this twisted realm. Aye, I was on her side. Woe is the man who comes down from a skooma high to find himself the loser. His heart broken. His face battered. A realization washes over him as he considers his skooma habit. Perils of an oncoming onslaught assume command, and percolating questions rumble to the top of the stewing volcano. What further misdeeds will uneven the road? What repercussions will I face? Shall I ever relocate my pants, which seem to have disappeared this fateful night? Guardians, guide me safely home as I stick to the bushes. A serpent traversing the jungle, I shall remain hidden from the eyes of Solitude’s watchdogs. A dragonborn would be shamed should he succumb to a public nudity ticket. –Cornelius G. Thundercock
Jordis the Sword-Maiden, Do my eyes deceive me, or are you the fair-faced snake-handler that comes with purchase of my new home? They breed you life-sized companions well these days, don’t they? Tall. Strong. High cheekbones. Longing eyes. Pray tell me, sidekick, are you prepared for what’s to come? Have you fully realized your duties as Cornelius G. Thundercock’s dainty-wristed hand in the blood-soaked night? Are you prepared to stare into Death’s perilous eyes without fearful reproach, barreling into tombs that have not been violently penetrated with such treasure-hunting ferocity in centuries? Aye. Sizing you up upon my grand entrance to this manor, my good eye speaks volumes of your strength, dexterity, and endurance. You will be broken in successfully, my apprentice. Still, I feel I should outline some ground rules for your employment:
- I take my meals promptly at Dawn’s first chirping of our feathered friends. Two Rock Warbler eggs fried with nirnroot, five links of horker sausage, a chalice of mead, and the morning’s paper are required on the table before I traipse down the stairs. Flowers resting within a vase are optional.
Before I have eaten, cast not your gaze upon my face. I desire not to look another in the eye when my belly pains with the ravaging of emptiness’ cursed occupation. Should I stumble down the steps wearing only the stained undergarments of the night previous, drenched in mead and bile from my own drunken and ill-fated regurgitations, make no notice. However, you may salaciously admire my bulge. While I eat, you are to sit quietly, occasionally chewing on your daily allotted loaf of bread and nothing more. DO NOT EVEN THINK about stealing nibbles of food here and there. I shall notice.
Should I be in a grim mood, remove thy armor and jump on the bed. Your bouncing should cast out the unwelcome mood that has embedded itself betwixt my skull.
When we enter various caverns and dwellings throughout Skyrim, you need not speak. I care not for incessant chatter reminding me that the rock crevice before me is, indeed, a cave. My vision does not deceive me, and you should not take presumption that it does. My name is known throughout Tamriel for a reason, my dearest.
Do not stand before doorways, lest you desire to be charged into the floor.
Should I vanquish a foe, you will applaud and commend my efforts, be it skeever or dragon.
Any sweets you are asked to carry are not to be mistaken for gifts you are welcome to eat. Ask permission should your tummy rumble with the ravenous desire to gobble my sweet rolls. I simply cannot afford to repeatedly spend the coin on your munching habits. Property taxes are fast approaching, and I own four homes already as it is.
- Lastly, always remember that we are heroes. Would it appear that I am brutally torturing a poor, defenseless old woman in a Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary near Dawnstar, know simply that it must have been a kooky dream or figment of your imagination. Cornelius G. Thundercock would never repeatedly beat an elder with a rusted mace simply for pleasure (or money). He’s a man of grace that brings warmth and the blossoming of flowers whichever way he walks. The sun shines happily upon him, and rainbows ride across the sky in his wake. Elders, no matter how frail and slow, are his friends. Always. Even if they appear to flee with hands flailing in the wind.
Jarl Elisif the Fair, I hope this letter finds you on a most delightful of mornings and with the pleasant color you shine so radiantly when I have visited you in the Blue Palace. My fairest Jarl, I have matters to discuss with you concerning the health and nutrition of the children in Solitude. As you are already well aware, Solitude is the finest city in all of Skyrim with the cleanest streets and friendliest of peoples, public executions withstanding, and it is a beacon many other cities should, if they do not already, look up to for guidance. That having been said, I am most certain you will agree with me that this fair city needs to produce the most intelligent and strongest individuals. Not only for the war effort’s sake, these individuals should shine above the others as illuminating figureheads of Solitude’s dominance and continuous cultural progression. Aye, my fair Jarl, wearing a face whose beauty is unmatched by the stars sneezed across the sky from Akatosh’s blessing, I am certain you agree. Why? Because a heart beats under those wonderful bosoms of yours. Were I to nestle in close and blow them a raspberry, the tingling of your warm heart would evoke the loveliest of giggles from your soft-spoken, pouting lips. And as we know with the latest medical breakthroughs, a tender giggle, like yours, is the sign of someone who is fair, just, caring, and kind to all souls who deserve it. And who to be more deserving of your graciousness than Solitude’s children? Further insights into the latest medical breakthroughs reveal that devouring the flesh and bodies of tough creatures produces tough individuals. The heart of a bear leads to stalwart soldiers with ferocious howls even dragons have a hard time to restrain. Me? I consume the souls of dragons, and within me beats the combined thu’ums of over thirty ancient beasts. It’s why I haven’t been slain yet and why I shall carry forth without death’s fateful knock drumming against my door, but this isn’t about me. It’s about the children. It’s about instilling within Solitude’s young a fervor and resilience unmatched by any of Skyrim’s other children. Unfortunately, the bear population isn’t possibly large enough to sustain our ever-increasing child-base here in this fine city. Also, slaying a bear is quite dangerous, and it can tie up many resources that are better spent fighting this dreary war effort. However, I have a solution. A man of the lands, I have come across many caves and dungeons and seized many ingredients that can put forth the power of unmatched beasts in our young. This is why I write to you. I am proposing a new lunch program for the children of Solitude. My beautiful Jarl, would you agree that frostbite spiders are a force to be reckoned with? Would you agree that, grown to full adulthood, they are fearsome creatures that have slain many fine people all across this realm? Aye. I thought so. I imagine you’re quivering this very moment, reading this alone in your chambers where you can let your guard down and allow the fear to swell betwixt your loins. Your eyes glimmering with terror and your tongue effortlessly brushing against your perfect lips – I would hold you close at this moment. I would tremble with you, whispering gently in your ear that it will be all right, that no spiders would harm you, so long as I am with you. But what if we can harness that power that petrifies you so, Elisif? What if we can endow our young with the terrifying might of the frostbite spider with relative ease? Believe me, we can do it, and I know how. On my many journeys, I have rammed my sturdy gauntlets into more sacs than you would believe. Without a thought, I have jammed my fists into so many egg sacs, it seems so quaint and boring now – a typical afternoon. But what do I do with these frostbite spider egg sacs? Whom do I aid with them? Solitude, I thought to myself. I aid the people of the most glorious city in all of Skyrim. With them, we can feed our children with the proper nutrients laced inside these eggs, and we can also grace them, at a young age, with the power and force of one of the most deadly creatures in all of Tamriel. Are you with me? Are you inferring my plan? I speak plainly of mandated school lunches. Think of it, Elisif. All of Solitude’s children clenching their jaws around juicy egg sacs peppered with the best spices gold can afford. Tasty. Delicious. Healthy. In no time, our children will grow big and strong enough that they’ll overtake our commanders in sport and fight, paving the way for a superior race of frostbite spider-infused Nords. Are you drenched in the sweat of excitement and ecstasy yet? Get back to me as soon as you can. I shall visit your palace on my next journey back. In the meantime, think it over, and we’ll discuss a price. My life for your rule, Cornelius G. Thundercock
To Whomever, Again, I find myself battling the most bitter forces from beyond the grave. An army of Draugr stood in wait, commanded by Potema as she led me into her inner region. Like a shepherded lamb armed with potions, weapons, armor and magick, I obediently answered her ghostly calls, intent on slaying her one final time. (But will that mean she’s re-dead, dead-dead, or just again dead?) The wench commanded that I join her, that I bow down and welcome a release from my body in order to fall under her command. I wouldn’t dare join them. I wouldn’t fathom an eternity outside that which makes me flesh and blood. I have slain so many Draugr, it makes me wonder if I am slaying the same ones over and over again. I pondered previously if there might exist a club of some sort in the afterlife, filled with sorrowful spirits longing for a chance at revenge. Is Potema the orchestrator of this club? The vile mistress of a ghost city hidden from the eye where vengeful spirits lie in wait, biding their time as they float about with nothing to do? Are there no games they can play? Are there no mead halls or drinks or ancient, famously beautiful women remaining there that they can give chase? Or does my blade secretly hold an enchantment that sends them to a limbo, one devoid of an afterlife the priests so often preach? As I sit here holding Potema’s skull betwixt my blood-soaked digits, I wonder the magnitude of this limbo. After all, I have slain more Draugr than I, or any gold manager, can reasonably count. There can’t possibly be that many trapped souls lying in wait, hidden inside the mangled and desiccated flesh of a Draugr. Imagine that – an entire hidden empire of sorry chaps tricked into accursed damnation when they were weakened by spirits, forced to sit uncomfortably inside a rotting body until some lowly adventurer shows up. Or is it this merely the infernal club I so often think about? Am I slaying the same four or five men over and over again? Are they just reincarnating throughout the land in an orderly fashion, like customers waiting in line at the local grocer? What if Camilla is reincarnating with them, angry with me for slaying her deceptive hide? I can’t imagine her simple mind, having been keen on eating bread and staring at blank walls all day, inhabiting the body of a Death Lord. Rather, were she to possess a Draugr spirit, I believe her ineptitude at existence would only command enough strength to muster up an ordinary corpse, one that acts as fodder and a barrier for the more powerful Scourge running behind. If that be the case, then who is this Scourge? Is it a man I have met in battle many times before? An angry bandit or vampire stricken with spiteful hatred because he was slaughtered so easily by a charismatic master of the arcane arts? Or what if I am incorrect, and this entity is no mere man – but a beast?! A poor little rabbit scorned by flames as it was scurrying to grab a quick drink at the creek! No. An army of poor little rabbits fed up with my rampant slaying spurned out of my own boredom whilst on the road. In their inaudible, filthy obscenity-soaked rages, Potema would have no problem convincing them to inhabit corpse after corpse strewn about dungeons like old furniture. Sit in a coffin here, my child. Lie under a table there, my acolyte. And here I am, the fool in this charade. My careless wholesale slaughter of the cute and soft will bring about my own demise, as these spirits only seem to become more persistent and powerful when my own strength increases. Is there no way to destroy their rabbit souls permanently, so that my own passage to the afterlife will carry on safely? Perhaps I should try and negotiate with Alduin… ~Cornelius G. Thundercock
Erdi, I noticed your clamor of excitement at new folk coming to town, particularly myself. At least, I think you were looking in my direction, sizing me up – your eyes slowly climbing that mountain of man muscle tightly pressed underneath that beautiful Nightingale armor of mine. The slow flick of a tongue across the lower lips as you looked into Mask of Morokei, piercing through it with your gaze to penetrate deep within my good eye. Sh. Sh. Shush. Don’t fret. Don’t scurry for a denial in fear of being ousted. But please, blush. I felt it too. That’s the feeling that rolled across your face like a gentle breeze on a lush valley, wasn’t it? You know the one. We all do. It’s that flighty wrenching of the gut that can come from only two things – love at first sight or severe constipation. Yes. It washed over me as well. Seeing your embroidered rags you call a dress, woven together in front like a child’s sewing project, spiraled me into a swoon of never-ending torment. I must have you. I must gaze in your oceanic eyes while we lie in my bed made from dragon bones. Yes. Dragon bones, my blossoming maiden. I am Cornelius G. Thundercock, Dragonborn legend and Skyrim’s savior. I kill them. With my voice. My shouts. The tumultuous mead-fueled belch of fire that tears through the sky like plaguing death! Their damning screeches meet the damnations of my thunderous bellows with swift demise! Pip, pip, huzzah! But for you, my dear, my ripening fruit, for you it can be a gentle whisper. The hot wind alongside the lobe of the ear. The cooing sound of a singing bird on the dew-carrying leaves of a tree. The solitary drop of water plunking into a serene pool of its brethren. Don’t you see what I am saying to you, Erdi? I am but your heartfelt slave swimming in the sticky, uncooked mixture of love’s sweet roll. Bound to you by desire, I am lust’s hostage, and you are the negotiator. Speak the words, my dearest, and you shall set me free. Speak the words, my mountain flower, and our ingredients shall mix to concoct a potion so powerful, our alchemy skills will jump tenfold. You are the unexplored dungeon, and I am the stalwart adventurer. Let me scavenge your murky depths and loot you of your riches. With undying passion, Cornelius G. Thundercock