Found in the Palace of the Kings

Future Jarl of Windhelm,

 

The battle is finished. The war has ended. Bards will sing silly tales of this day for centuries to come and tavern tabs unfulfilled. Over the next few weeks, the smoldering plumes of smoke will signal to the rest of Skyrim that this divide has fallen upon Ulfric Stormcloak’s homestead – that an ultimatum has been decided while the sweeping infernos are laid to rest.

 

Many have given their lives this day, and their souls, for their sacrifices, have passed on to eternity. Among them was the would-be High King of Skyrim, Ulfric. His death came not at the hand of the Dragonborn, as he desired. Aye. Tullius was the one to do him in, to silence his whimpering sniffles once and for all.

 

An eerie, perturbed specter ensnared the very air of in the Palace of Kings. Though our iron hearts scorched with the fiery spirit of a blacksmith’s forge, the long-tendriled fingers of this ghost swayed us. It paralyzed us, plucking deep within our chests the very source of adrenaline and replacing this potion with an elixir of dread. Of fear. Of pain and undesired silencing and of gooey-eyed sadness.

 

Ulfric Stormcloak cried this day. His beady orbs, lodged between his overgrown forehead and widened snout, wept manly tears as we three, Legate Rikke, General Tullius, and I, cornered him. A sullen figure, he now stood alone in his vast, empty hall. Averting his gaze downward, I saw what he hid. The sparkling gleam of fresh tears shimmered in the afternoon light as the droplets splattered upon the floor. Manly, manly tears. So masculine were his tears, that even General Tullius began to bow his head and weep.

 

And there they stood, the two of them. Hands upon each other’s shoulder, they sniffled somberly at first. An inhale of a nostril here, a wipe of the eye there. As the specter’s grip clenched tighter upon their spirits, they began to unleash all the little emotions built up since the war started. Tullius and Ulfric then embraced, and Jarl Stormcloak did indeed place a small peck upon the General’s cheek.

 

“Your beard tickles, Ulfric,” the Imperial commander whispered, his voice riding high above the emptiness of this chamber. It was then that brother slew brother – that one child amidst the intensity of a strategy game administered death to his greatest foe, his best friend, and his spited lover.

 

When I set out on this quest to wage war for the Empire, I did so with the intention of preparing my take-over as the newly chosen Emperor. “Emperor Cornelius G. Thundercock” had a ring to it so tempting, I could not pass up such a chance to actualize this destiny. Now, however, my heart beats a different rhythm. A witness to an atrocity such as this Civil War, I no longer want any stake in the Empire.

 

It was at that moment, dear future Jarl, I walked. Away from the title of Emperor and away from the kissing cousins, I did indeed begrudgingly trudge. My weapon is weary, and my arms are exhausted. I shall relieve my blade from its service to the Nords of Skyrim. Cornelius walks a lone man, a burnt out, desolate wanderer in this realm of children. Upon my death bed, no military commander shall lay a kiss upon my fear-seized cheeks.

 

Leadership comes with a price,

Cornelius G Thundercock

Found on the Whiterun Battlefield

Ulfric Stormcloak,

 

You didn’t care for that battle axe? It was a perfectly good weapon. Hefty. Sharpened. Unworn handle. Bash that axe against the back of some poor bandit’s skull, and you’ll split his head in twain – two bowls big enough to carry around some fresh troll fat. A well-crafted weapon – a masterful piece. Yet, you sent it back.

 

Were you simply stating you were too good for that weapon? Too big and proud and comfortable in those robes of yours for the bludgeoning tool of a warrior? Too much of a Jarl well-practiced in the art of sitting to accept? Whatever your reasoning, your invasion forces were crushed, Ulfric. Like my attempt at Ingun Black-Briar’s purity, your attack failed.

 

Whiterun is a wasteland of death now. A town whose entryway is drenched in bloodshed and whose air is saturated with the final muffled shouts of soldiers stripped of life. More men died here than any living survivor would happily wish to count, averting the eyes away from a sea of red and blue-clad corpses posed in grisly positions. Even the sadists cast their gazes elsewhere, pointing out aloud the random butterfly landing upon an undisturbed flower. Feigning excitement, they voraciously ignore the stench of demise in the air and the sound of flies beginning final approach to the scavenger meals. Were I sober, I would avert my eyes as well.

 

Alas, my spirits run strong with the fill of drink. My sensibilities are dulled. Sandwiched between an oaf of a Stormcloak soldier and an Imperial skirt-wearer, I find myself unable to escape my trap, forced to face the gazes of the deceased. Too much to sip, my vision began to spiral high like a soaring dragon, and I found myself tumbling over the jutting blades and shredded armor of dead brethren. One of your buffoons rolled atop my frame, his belly a mighty rock no muscled stone-chucker could dare toss. Beneath me rests a slain kinsman, his skirt turned upwards and his bare hind flesh pressing against my right cheekbone. Though gone from this world, silence has not yet ensnared this one. His body rumbles. His innards release themselves of pressure. The air he breathed escapes slowly back to the skies.

 

A slit of light filters in like a beacon of freedom, one through which my hands can craft these words before me on a piece of parchment lying in the fields. Though trapped, I sense a kinship between us, Ulfric. You, too, are trapped. Your army is decimated. Your spirit is broken. How long will you hold out? How long will you continue this bitter feud?

 

The Jarl of Whiterun boasts a speech atop his drawbridge. “For Whiterun,” he cries. “For the Empire!” Aye. For the Empire, indeed. My Empire.

 

Do you get it now, Ulfric? Do you understand? This realm is not yours to control. It never was. Fate’s dangling sword has unleashed a fury upon you as the whims of the Divines rally around a new caller, one whose blood boils of dragon and Breton. Dovahkiin. Dragonborn.

 

Though, at the moment, this hero finds himself indisposed between two hulking creatures, one of whom’s final death knell is rumbling awfully loud and close to the cheek. A storm is coming, and from this torrential downpour, there is no escape. 

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