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 Belethor’s General Goods

Belethor,

 

I shall not abide another broken mug! ‘Twas last evening, when the clouds blocked out the starry sky and darkness perpetuated an unseen twilight across the landscape, that another one of your lovely products deceived me. I should have known that such ill-fated weather brought with it a dastardly premonition. Aye. The second mug I have purchased from your pitiful shop has broken within my meaty hands, and I hold you, the purveyor of such an atrocious crime, personally responsible.

 

Were it not for my consideration and respect toward all living things, I would have you slain where you stand without a moment’s hesitation. A smoldering pile of ash behind the counter. Yes. Your insolence would be the least of your worries, foul buffoon.

 

Your faulty mug, with an improperly constructed bottom, burst upon me last night whilst I was attending to company in Breezehome. A young maiden, fair, true, and kindling with vigor giggled most heartily at your clever prank. Sitting on my left, her gaping mouth brought forth a resounding crescendo of operatic laughter as all of my mead dumped into my lap. Not since I awoke to find I committed the beast with two backs with a Hagraven (after a night drinking in the company of Sanguine) have I been so embarrassed! 

 

“Cornelius hath wet thyself it would seem,” this fair maiden snickered, bringing her hands together in a cynical slow-clap. “Were you just enthralled to see me, or didst thou have an accident? Couldst wee Cornelius not make it to the bucket near the door?”

 

I’ll be the first to tell you, for her accursed words, her dessert was not the sweetness of honey treat or any other glazed pastry. Neither was it death. No, this fair maiden now resides somewhere in between, awakening within these very moments in a den of Draugr with no weapon to improve her chances. She’ll certainly think twice before sullying the name of a hero again, should she survive the swords of vengeful corpses.

 

And you, Belethor, what shall be done with you? The first mug I thought was merely a fluke, but this second one – are you toying with me, sleazy clerk? Be this a game to you?

 

Being a Breton myself, I certainly carry favor for my racial brethren. Similar to the kinship of the Dark Elves, when they pound clenched fists against each other while passing one another on the streets, I feel a similar brotherly bond with you. Though your demeanor is typically one of sarcasm and snarky comment, I wage you feel the same, knowing full well that in a land of prissy Nords we need to band together. Breton power. 

 

This is where the sword now dangles above your head. Provide me another drinking vessel, free of charge, and pray it does not break. I can forgo the previous two, but should it prove a false mug, that sword above your head will come striking down, splitting you in twine. Your life dangles by a spider’s thread, my friend. Are we brothers, or are you just another notch upon my belt, another clump of matted organs clinging tenaciously to my scummy boot heel?

 

It’s your funeral,

Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found at Skuldafn

The adrenaline is still surging through me like a serpent having a seizure as I write this. My fingers are still trembling with exhilaration; my life will never be the same. I rode Odahviing today. Aye. We ensnared the ferocious beast first – locked him down in Dragonsreach. The guards began peppering him with rotten tomatoes, but I gave him a listen, for Dova blood flows through me. It’s part of my lineage. Long ago, perhaps a relative of his had lain with a relative of mine, and our two species intermingled?

 

I can see this vision clearly. A cloudless sky late at night. The moon is as vibrant and bright as ever, casting the glow of serenity across an open field. Crickets chirp. A slight breeze rustles some bushes. A fair maiden floats on a small boat in a pond within these plains, her thirst quenched and pouting lips dripping with mead; she’s rendered a sputtering invalid, too inebriated to speak coherently. But that doesn’t matter when passions are high. It matters not when the intensity of love binds two souls into one. The drink is in her system, flooding her veins. She feels amorous. Temptation barrages her cloaked door.

 

Nearby a dragon is nestled next to a rock, slumbering soundly. As she strolls by on her walk home in search of an able-bodied farm hand, the resonation vibrating the ground from the dragon’s calm exhalations tickles her, and in her mead-drenched, anyone-will-do state, she bounds upon the fiery sky beast. She overpowers him in her fury, and a seed is planted, one that unsuspectingly sets in motion a long lineage that results with a warrior blooming now – this day. I am the child of passion’s hostage. I am the result of love’s overwhelming power over two species with disdain for one another.

 

With that knowledge tingling at the back of my mind, I thought it prudent to listen to a creature who may indeed be a distant cousin. As I commanded the guards to quit their baiting of Odahviing’s temper, I listened to the dova speak. Such trust he was asking of me. Would he betray it? Would he not?

 

Having slain many of his kind, I worried not about his potential betrayal. Like all the rest, he would fall should he choose dishonor. But this trust, this communication, was when it happened – the most amazing sensation I have ever felt. Not even when I was mounted upon my beloved Camilla, wrapped in nothing but freshly carved bear pelts dripping with blood and unleashing my thu’um to the winds in ecstatic joy, had I ever felt swelling sensations as life-changing as this.

 

I rode a dova. I’ll repeat it, so it sinks into the mystified mind that reads this. I rode upon a dova in flight. Clutching tenaciously to his back like a newborn to its mother’s breast, Odahviing took to the air. It was the single-greatest moment of my life, as I know now what it feels to be a bird or a butterfly. I know the perilous, gut-wrenching thrill giants and bandits indulge in when I shout them off a mountain’s peak. I merely laughed at them as they tumbled through the air, but they were the real winners. While I understand that they comprehend the imminent nature of their deaths, I imagine they find solace and peace for a few moments as they experience something very few ever feel. A trade-off. A swirling vacuum of delight. Plummeting felicity.

 

What’s it like? The best I can describe it is along the lines of plunging nude into the rocky depths of a waterfall. One can clutch for dear life onto some sort of an object, but there is no safety, only the twist of fate and chaos. Divine intervention. Luck. Whichever you may believe. Up amidst the wings of flight, there is a calmness that washes over the chaotic frenzy – a clarity. Where there is no safety, there is a realization that safety is an illusion, and that thought alone jolted thunder down my spine I haven’t felt in a long time – not since I had that dream where it rained sweet rolls for weeks. 

 

Odahviing took notice, flashing me a bewildered glance as I stood there, awakened and alive like I have never felt before. My body was rigid, every appendage stiff with excitement. As he flew off, Odahviing cast one final glance, shaking his head. Was I so shell-shocked? Was I so enthralled? Perhaps…

 

How will I ever be able to find joy again in life?

Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found in Whiterun

[This letter still had the heavily saturated stench of mead permeating off it when found. Combining that with the inconsistent style of writing and unintelligible portions, we have reason to believe that Cornelius G. Thundercock was drunk when he wrote this. We have confirmed, however, that this handwriting is indeed his.]

Whiterun Guard,

 

You think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you, gutter trash? “Is that fur coming out of your ears?” Oh, is that blood coming out of YOURS? Oh, it is?! How did that happen? Did some heavy-handed, moral citizen with a sense of common f……..[unintelligible]….ing courtesy and decency teach you some lessons in basic etiquette?

 

How many times must I slowly strut through this blustering town, with my hair billowing in the wind and my chest glistening with oily man sweat, only to have you blundering guards chastise me about my pallor or rumored crimes? Drenched in the blood of  eviscerated bandits, bears, and dragons and sporting a breath blending the aromas of fish, garlic, leeks, and skeever tails, I return home to Whiterun for a bit of leisure. I pound a few meads at one of the inns. I slink over to Ysolda to whisper spicy tales of perilous adventure, and I stroll home to sleep soundly, belching out a verse or two to “Ragnar the Red”.  I cast not my empty bottles to the roadside like some littering scum. Rather, I line them up by my bed, should I have need for a late night deposit. I relieve myself not in the bushes of some poor fellow’s home, thundering my dutiful task to the winds like a child demanding attention. I restrain from lolly-gagging. I follow your ordinances agreeably, so that  I may spend my gold, rustle my mistress, and pass out on my own bed covered in the filth of  drunken ecstasy and my glistening man muscle. Is that too much to ask? Am I, the great hero and Thane of Whiterun, demanding too much in being spared your snide remarks? Over and over and over again?

 

Or are you so blinded by your own self-righteousness and sense of importance to understand? All day long, you buffoons march up and down the streets in your unwashed, ugly smocks and sweltering helmets, barking orders at anything that moves. A man. A child. A bird. Does it matter? Folding your arms across your chest, you put out the feel of authority and coldness, wafting in the air a sense of your own inflated purpose while you survey a peaceful market of peaceful people going about their daily business. How many dragons have you killed? How many crimes have you halted? As far as I can count, none, but I’m certain you’ve distributed your fair share of fines, no? You flea-ridden dog! I spit at thee! [unintelligible....]

 

Your pitiful life consists of eating, marching, sitting, and sleeping. Unhappy with your lot in Skyrim, you waggle your tongue with the boldness of an unruly child that deserves a spanking, and so in keeping with that discipline, I’ve spanked you, and I will continue to go on spanking you… [unintelligible scribbling]…

 

After widening your mouth with my knife to let all that fired-up spittle you call speech dribble out, I’ve taken to removing your pants and boot-stomping your tender hams. One. Two. Brrrrrrruuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrp! THREE! Arrow to the knee? You took an iron heel to your secret cave entrance. Or was it exit only? How do you like that, bed-wetter? You crying yet? You want me to douse you with mead now?!

 

……………Oh……..

 

You’re dead? I thought your health was low. I’m… truly… sorry. May the guard who finds this send condolences to his family (if he has one). I’ll chip in a few gold to help put his kid through the College of Winterhold – also so his wife can buy some cabbages to eat. Tell them I am in remorse. It was an accident.

 

If you’re looking to get a hold of me, my name is Brenuin. You can find me at the Bannered Mare.

 

Sorry,

B-

 

P.S. I’ll slip the money under the barracks door.

Found on a Hireling in Forelhost

Dear Janessa,

 

Perfect irony, isn’t it? The archer done in by the arrow? For a woman who claims such strength, your intelligence certainly isn’t keen. When you step off the trigger plate, the arrows will stop firing. I learned this many dungeons ago, and admittedly, I thought this training would pass on toward you through mere observance. How wrong I was to fail to realize how easily fooled elven descendants are. I should have known better.

 

And now here you lie in this forsaken place, a freshly killed mistress to the draugr who wish to relive worldly pleasures. Will they feast upon your flesh? Will they perform other cruelties to their freshest prey? I know not, left merely to ponder how the rot will overcome you, pillaging your brutish figure like Borkul the Beast pillages the innocence of newly interred prisoners in the Cidhna Mines. Once this rot has entered, the horrors stay a lifetime, embedding themselves in the bones like an unwanted skeever infestation – always gnawing at you.

 

In the mines, I saw many a men cry themselves to sleep at night – haunted by their demons, by the face of a grueling orc smiling at their sweaty, grime-covered legs. The terror. The sick glee of it all. It consumes the soul and curses the flesh once the spirit has abandoned it.

 

Will the ravages of the draugr curse your flesh as well? Will their inhuman cruelties and immoral recklessness turn you? I know not for sure, but I have a wager with Elrindir at the Drunken Huntsman in Whiterun that it shall. I have 350 gold riding on it, so if you return from the grave and read this, know that your death was not in vain. I made an honest wage.

 

Speaking of wages, Janessa, when I hired you, I took you with me on adventures immediately. There was no time for lolly-gagging or leisurely spending. What happened to the gold I gave you? Where did you hide it? Does it still remain, stuck up some hidden sanctum?

 

I shall never know.

 

Don’t step on anymore trigger plates,

Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found in Arcadia’s Cauldron

 

Dear Arcadia,

 

I beg of your aid in my time of need. With your expert knowledge in alchemy, you above all should be able to help me, and I hope you would pay me this kindness in exchange for the accursed dragon I slew for Whiterun. 

 

My wife, Camilla Thundercock, is unable to bear children. Many moons when I have been home from my adventures, we have furiously sought, with unrestricted penetrating rage, to sew seeds. We’ve tried every concoction possible, sometimes dining fiercely on Mudcrab Chitin or whatever else we may have heard or read. We’ve tried every maneuver as well (rightside-up, upside-down, left-ways, right-ways, sabre cat-style, wheelbarrow-style, and with/without the use of sparks to provide a stimulant to her adrenaline). 

 

Yet, when the Dainty Sload sets sail through the gates of  wonder, I find only the realm of Oblivion lying open in wake. It’s a sweltering, arid, barren cavern where my essence will find no lush soil for purchase. The wondrous spark of Thundercock can cast no magic here.

 

And it hurts. So desperately it pains me. As Dragonborn and soon-to-be king, I dreamed of one day fostering a bloodline to rival the Septims. How I dreamed of raising an heir, a son named Claudius Bilge-rat Thundercock (or perhaps Horatio Bear-blower Thundercock?).

 

Alas, it was one of the driving decrees of my continued existence. Not for Skyrim. Not for Camilla (though, Mara bless her soul). Not for me. 

 

For my bloodline.

 

Arcadia, I beg of you to right this wrong – to morph the volcanic rock of my wife’s womb into awe-inspiring light of any forest brimming with wildlife and flora. I put my faith in you that the Dainty Sload will dock one day, and the treasures it unloads will sew the foundations of new legacies to come.

 

Yours in need,

Cornelius G. Thundercock

Found on the Thundercock End Table

 

My dearest wife Camilla,

 

You have not the faintest clue how frail the fabric of our pleasant existence is. Just the other day, while I was setting up that snobbish Sabjorn for his triumphant fall from grace, I stumbled upon a hive of disease and death that could have wiped out life as we know it. No, it was not one of those dragons that people are so worried about. It was something much smaller, something hidden in the subterranean realm of the Honningbrew Meadery.

 

His name was Hamelyn, and he was one of the cast-aways of society that time had forgotten. Hidden in his lair, he had built himself an army of skeevers altered by secret concoctions of his own alchemy. These ingredients he stole from the meadery, and left to his own devices, eventually, he would have usurped us all. 

 

At first, I felt as if this was Destiny’s wish upon me – to stop this lunatic excommunicated from the College of Winterhold. That was before I took a stroll around Whiterun. Before I passed a drunken Brenuin lazing about on the thoroughfare, relieving the little Brenuin in the local flora. “My favorite drinking buddy,” he called to me, the air of Argonian Ale still lingering on his breath and the stench of gas expulsion permeating the air around him. Oddly enough, I cannot recall a single encounter when he hadn’t the stench of sun-baked excrement on his person, wafting like the odorous perfume of an asylum resident. I averted my gaze as he cast the glassy-eyed, pleasant grin he usually wears upon me.

 

Then, I stumbled into Lillith Maiden-Loom. What a miserable wench that one is! “Come to chat with an old woman, hmm? Do your good deed for the day?” she called to me, slithering her foaming tongue across those desiccated lips of hers. Each time I pass her, she announces the same expression, hinting with her hungering eyes that I ought pay her a kindness. While her voice sounds otherwise, I can feel the longing stares upon my neck. Lillith was strolling nearby when Ysolda’s howls of ecstacy tore through the night… err… day when I provided her with the mammoth tusk she asked for. The old hag has acted differently ever since.

 

Camilla, it just irritates me so – boils within me in a rage more ferocious than any dragon! Were it not for me, that heaving wretch Brenuin, who vomits in our bushes nightly, would have been strewn apart by Venomfang Skeevers! Were it not for me, Lillith Maiden-Loom wouldn’t be able to dodder around on her frail bones like some circus act! Braith wouldn’t be able to spend her waking hours tormenting Lars Battle-born! Olfrid wouldn’t be able to bumble around bragging about how successful and wonderful his clan is, even if they do nothing beyond circling Whiterun! The world as we know it would cease to exist, and none would be the wiser. Yet, since Whiterun is still here, business carries on as normal. Lowly peasants with festering lesions ask for favors. Smelly beggars cry for coins. Delusional worshippers run their mouths about the divines!

 

Why? Because of ME! The Dragonborn! The one maintaining the whole of Skyrim, be it through exchanging letters or slaying whole hordes of bandits and draugr single-handedly! I swear this to you, Camilla. I am to be emperor. By force or by popular opinion, it matters not. One day all these disease-ridden horker turds will kneel before me, and they’ll obey my every word. I swear this to you.

 

Hugs and kisses,

Cornelius

 

P.S. I left my fine boots on the table. There’s a hole in one of them. Can you fix it?

Found Lodged Inside a Flute at the Bannered Mare

 

Mikael,

 

You ever touch Carlotta Valentia again, and I will feed you to the lowly skeevers that spawned you, right after I lock you in a chamber packed with amorous, forceful male Argonians with an insatiable appetite for “Nord” men. My fists were only the beginning of your suffering, should you choose to continue on the path of most resistance. I guarantee, should you choose to continue making passes at Carlotta, you shall bleed from every orifice. No mage nor healer will be able to repair the damage done to your form, you wretched filth of a liar. (On the plus side, you will have some great experience with Argonian instruments, were you to desire to push the agenda.)

 

And your musical toys? You’ll have to expel air from a different hole, if you desire to hear your harmonious tunes ever again.

 

Get it through your skull. The Valentias are under my protection. And every other woman in Whiterun for that matter (at least protected from you). 

 

This is your warning,

Cornelius G. Thundercock

 

P.S. I read your book. I found it mundane and littered with the fantasies of a deadbeat, scum-devouring tavern bard. The only female you’ve showered with love has been a petrified spriggan.

Found in Ysolda’s End Table

Ysolda,

 

My sweet rose…

 

That’s not the only mammoth tusk I have. Meet me in Whiterun’s Hall of the Dead at the “stroke” of midnight.

 

~Cornelius G. Thundercock