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My sweet,

Few flowers bloom in the Wrothgarian Mountains, as I understand it. The peaks are as cold and lonely as Skyrim's tundra. But when a flower does bloom, it is true, it is strong, and it is beautiful. A precious thing to be found, and treasured.

So when I refer to you as my tender flower, please don't think I speak of some Cyrodiilic daffodil that wilts on a cloudy day. No, no. You are so much more. I don't think I've ever admired someone as deeply, as I do you.

I know my words lack the polish and poetry you deserve, but I speak from the heart. Maybe when we aren't hunting Daedric artifacts and trying to stop the end of the world, we could talk more. There's so much more I want to say. Maybe you can't see a future with a thief, but honestly, every glimpse of you that I steal is worth far more than gold.

Yours,

Grelok gro-Gluk

Dearest Night Mother,

Your existence is my pleasure. Just to be near you, protect you, to perhaps...hear you? Oh, that would be the sweetest of joys.
What? Mother? Is that your voice I hear? No, no...Just my head playing tricks...but oh, how I long for it to be real.
Your wrinkled face, your delicate wrappings, your very presence brings a hop and a skip to my step. He he he! I relish the thought
of returning from a kill to tell you of its subtle delights, Mother.
Do you hear me when I speak softly in your ear? You do not answer, but I feel it in the air, the gentle silent sound of Mother listening.
What saddens me...saddens the soul of sweet Cicero, is that I am yet to be your Listener.
Perhaps I need to get Mother some flowers...pretty, pretty, flowers. Could I be the one then?
Oh, I've seen other listeners come and go. Ho ho! How they act the part, but do they know you like I do, precious Mother? No, no, they can never know you like I.
I tend to your casket, keep it clean and tidy, don't I? Yes, I would do anything for you. Anything. You only need to whisper, oh the faintest of
whispers, and Cicero would hear.
Our sweet Lady is maiden, mother...and crone, and I worship them all.
I shall leave this note in your casket, Night Mother.
Perhaps...perhaps you shall read it when no one is around? When darkness masks your beautiful flesh and you can read my heartfelt words?
Oh, just the thought of it makes my heart flutter like that of a victim writhing before I slit his throat! Tee hee!

Forever yours
Your devoted Keeper
Cicero

P.S. I left you the corpse of a miner in your chambers. Hope you like it!

Roses are red,
Blood is too,
I want to spend my unlife with you.

-The Dragonborn

Oh how I can count the days, the eons that pass, the countless rose petals I leave upon your maimed followers? I praise you higher than any other, etch poems to sway your love upon the backs of screaming priests. Whisper sweet nothings into the dreams of many

Do not say you deny my affection, of the forbidden allure I wrought, are we not entwined by our domains? Can you not say no other is more perfect than us?

I am like the lunar glow to the hunter. The rot within the graves. The darkest dreams upon the insane. You may wish to deny it, but upon creation we were bound to one another. You? The one whom beholds the beauty of this world you helped create. And me? The one who will perverse it to new possibilities.

And yet, while I look upon those creations, I cannot help but look at you, and it is you I wish you tempt beyond any other. To make you my own and warp you in my lust. But alas, I will stay myself, for a time. For as much as I desire, I too desire to look upon your purity all the longer. Is it not the white fleece all the more lovely before stained in red?

And so, I will continue as I always. Tempting your domain into the darker desires. Spreading my love upon your creations like a blight. Sending daily letters via blood stained doves

So I ask again, do not deny what is natural. Do not deny what is already so. And most of all, do not deny yourself of what you truly want. Me, obviously

I await for your word, oh my sweet Dibella

Sincerely;
Sanguine, the Passionate Prince

Dear one,

I know I’m not what you deserve. I know I’m not even what you need right now, with my clumsy words that left Maramal wincing all those winters ago. I’m not a poet, or even an artist, but still you call to me, to say things I have no business saying, especially not in writing. Even when I’ve been at the bottle.

But this isn’t about me.

You’re hurting, my love, and I don’t know how to make you smile again. But I will try, because no one else will, because it is my vow, because I love you. Your smile, your tears, your anger — I love all of you, though it pains me too. Even when your mood whips back and forth so fast I can’t keep up, I love you. You’re perfect, even if you don’t believe you are.

You have never taken anything in halves.

When the world is good to you, you embrace it with your entire being, and your laugh could open Aetherius.

When the pendulum swings back, as it must, and you can’t leave the bed for the weight of your sorrow, I just hold you.

When you beat against my chest and scream into my face, teeth bared, eyes alight in the fire of your fury, I just hold you, too.

Because you always come back to me, all of you, your joy, your grief, your rage.

You are yourself, dear one, and that will always be enough for me. Forget the city folk, with their cruel whispers. To take delight in another’s suffering is the true mark of the Mad God, as far as I am concerned, and they are none to judge. For you, alone, are true to yourself. You, alone, are my everything.

Yours forever, my love.