10-14-2008, 10:21 PM
Just to prove those Dunmer don't spend all their time writing adventure novels and way-out-there philosophical and religious texts. Here's some of the finest funny stories and poems from Morrowind. Again, they're a little too short individually to make a good book, but combined they make an excellent one:
The Self-Proclaimed Hero
by Rhineville the Journeyman
Being a mer of portly size
The kwama egg is my demise
But should my sword begin to rise
It would soon be your end,
Though I've yet to prove myself
And show you my immortal health
And my sword still sits on the shelf
My patience is my friend.
They often say "oh there he goes
To battle his unworthy foes!"
And then bend laughing to their toes
When I would saunter by,
Shield in hand and sword in place
A smile of daring on my face
As I walk with a haunting grace
To purchase my Nord rye.
Though I did not fight today
I know that they will surely say
"He killed another god this day!"
When I prove them my worth,
Soon I will have enough gold
Once I get my pack gaur sold
To buy the armor that will hold
My ample-weighted girth.
But for now this mer will sit
Forget about the foes he?ll hit
And write with his unusual wit
Another egg he'll eat,
I'll swing my sword some other time
For now I think that I shall rhyme
But I will battle gods divine
Just let me rest my feet.
Root of the Confusion
by Razorwing (needs a nom de plume)
"You're doing it wrong", Decatho noted.
Marellius, rubbing his back, glared back at him. "Really? And you're suddenly an expert, are you?"
"Guess it depends on what you compare it to, now doesn't it?" Decatho scoffed.
Marellius just groaned in pain, holding his back.
"But I know from watching you chew and spit out ten leaves that that's not the way to do it!" Decatho exclaimed, as he tossed another log on the fire.
"Doesn't the book say *anything* else?"
Decatho picked up the rugged book next to him and flipped through the pages. "No, it just says the Dunmer love to grow the stuff and that it has healing properties. Maybe you're supposed to boil the leaves?"
Marellius stared at him with an annoyed look in his eyes: "That's your solution to everything, Decatho! No, we're not making tea again!"
Decatho rubbed his neck. "Well it couldn't hurt... my throat is killing me."
"Quit whining", Marellius snarled. "Like your cough compares to a rake in the back."
"So you got a whack and ran off. Who had to carry the bags all the way from the farm? It's not like we thieved herbs or anything, these damn things are *heavy*!" Decatho complained.
Marellius just sighed, leaving their discussion to taper off into a shared feeling that life was hard and unfair to both of them.
Reminded by the pain in his back, he poked a finger at Decatho, signalling him to throw over the book. He browsed through it for a few minutes...
"Right..." he thought out loud: "We know that Dunmer love to grow Corkbulb, that it has healing powers, and that you don't get healed by chewing the leaves."
"The healing part might just be superstition", Decatho pondered. "I mean, like thinking that drinking soup cures you of your cold because you get better if you do it for a week. You don't know that you'd get better, whether you drank it or not, so you just keep on drinking soup because you know you'll get better if you do."
"Wouldn't surprise me... maybe this thing is a vegetable and the locals eat the root. Like it does something good for their health," Marellius said. "Right. Well, let's boil it up and see what happens."
Decatho chopped off a piece of the fat root and threw it in the pot. "After it's done", he inquired cautiously, "can I throw a couple leaves in?"
"Yeah, yeah", Marellius laughed, "Go ahead my friend."
Decatho suddenly felt something tap him on his shoulder, and jumped into the air, screaming his lungs out, with Marellius following suit a split second behind him, wildly spinning around as he clutches his injured back.
In the flickering light of the logfire they could make out three figures staring at them. Two of them had the distinct silhouette of Redoran guards, but the third was harder to distinguish. Then he stepped forward, glaring at them with beady, fiery-red eyes, whiteknuckled hands clutching a rake.
There he stood, quivering before them, staring at the chopped-up corkbulb root boiling in the pot and the spitball leaves around Marellius's feet, furiously scratching scratched his head. Baffled, he thundered: "What the hell are you thieves doing to my firewood?"
Jokes about Dunmer (from Daggerfall)
A Dark Elf man killed his wife after catching her making love with another man. When the magistrate asked him why he killed her instead of her lover, the man replied, "I considered it better to kill one woman than a different man every week."
A Dark Elf woman was being shown around Daggerfall. When she was shown the magnificent Castle Daggerfall, she smiled sweetly to her guild and whispered, "It reminds me of sex."
"That's odd," said her guild. "Why does our Castle Daggerfall remind you of sex?"
The Dark Elf sighed, "Everything does."
Yelithah told Vathysah that she was having dinner with a Dark Elf named Morleth that night.
"I hear he's an animal," said Vathysah. "He'll rip your dress right off you."
"Thank you for telling me," said Yelithah, "I'll be sure to wear an old dress."
My After-Life: A Lich Unarmed
by Havidius the Lich (date unknown)
Allow me to begin by addressing your opinions of Liches and our role in the world. Yes, we are evil. We will likely kill you on sight and consume your soul for magical study.
I am Havidius. Prior to embarking on the long journey toward becoming a Lich, I was an Imperial Battlemage and a damn good one.
Now, I am an undead Lich. So, to dispell (figuratively, of course) a long-standing myth, Lich are not mindless creatures. Rather, we are typically quite clever.
Widely, heroes have sought Liches for battle, as we tend to possess magical artifacts and valuable worldly items. While an enjoyable pastime for the hero, I can personally attest that the practice is very disturbing to the Lich.
It has seemed over the centuries that every time I come close to acheiving a significant necromantic discovery, a hero barges in (or a group of heroes) and begins hacking away at my summoned guardians or unloading fire spells upon them. Defeating well-armed and well-trained opponents is time-consuming and distracts me from my work.
Contrary to your suspions, this story is not about a hero, necessarily. Well, that is to say, not your typical hero. Some time ago, I was in the process of developing a significant spell which caused my touch to whither a live being. Precisely, my intent was to cause live beings to age 20 years with each touch I placed upon them.
As I studied the requirements for this spell's success, I realized that one essential element was that I enchant my left arm utilizing 100 Grand Souls and 100 Black Souls. I'll not discuss the specifics for the spell's creation. The enchantment of my left arm was essential and is elemental in this story that is why it is mentioned.
Eventually, the enchantment process required that I detach my left arm and soak it in a pool of freshly spilled Argonian blood. Typically, I would simply wait for an Argonian hero to come die at my feet, but not this time. I was anxious to continue the process.
So, I hunted an Argonian farmer and killed him slowly in order that he might shed a lot of blood. Eventually, there was a sufficient quantity of blood so I magically detached my arm and dropped it to soak in the pool of blood at the Argonian's feet.
Timing is everything in life. It is also important to the undead. At that very moment, a group of Imperial Horsemen and four Battlemages arrived. Well, I killed them, of course. I was bothered that they had interrupted my work, so I spent some time trapping their souls to torture and manipulate later.
In my distraction, I had missed a very important detail. The Imperial Guards were not alone. In the chaos of battle, I had failed to notice a guard dog with them. As I floated back to the pool of blood, I found my arm had been taken!
I began casting spells to divine the thief's location. Immediately, I discovered that the culprit had escaped and was trotting toward Reich Parkeep. The little dog was very clever, because fast as I flew I could not seem to find or catch it.
It was around midnight that I found the Guardtower in Reich Parkeep where the dog had finally stopped. I entered and greeted the guard inside. He gave his Nord name, Tarn Bapley. I began to consume his soul and reclaim my arm.
Before I could complete my spell, I was summoned! In my haste to recover my arm, I had errantly dropped my magical defenses. Like I said, timing is everything! Unfortunately, I was summoned right into the thick of a battle. Before I could react (as being summoned into a battle is disconcerting), another wizard cast some sort of stasis spell on me. As a result, I lost the link to my previous location and to the necromancer who summoned me.
The battle's outcome is unimportant. What is important is that I have been forced into servitude and have thusfar been unable to break my bondage. My master's cruelty has extended to limiting my access to magic. He really must be quite powerful.
It is very bothersome to acheive immortality only to spend it in service to another. All this aside, my master has permitted me to write the story of how I came into his service and now it is written.
Farewell. Let this pleading accompany you as you depart these pages. Should you come upon a one-armed Lich, seek out his master and kill him. Either destroy my master or me, but do not leave me to suffer an eternity as I am. Oblivion would be a welcome change.
The Self-Proclaimed Hero
by Rhineville the Journeyman
Being a mer of portly size
The kwama egg is my demise
But should my sword begin to rise
It would soon be your end,
Though I've yet to prove myself
And show you my immortal health
And my sword still sits on the shelf
My patience is my friend.
They often say "oh there he goes
To battle his unworthy foes!"
And then bend laughing to their toes
When I would saunter by,
Shield in hand and sword in place
A smile of daring on my face
As I walk with a haunting grace
To purchase my Nord rye.
Though I did not fight today
I know that they will surely say
"He killed another god this day!"
When I prove them my worth,
Soon I will have enough gold
Once I get my pack gaur sold
To buy the armor that will hold
My ample-weighted girth.
But for now this mer will sit
Forget about the foes he?ll hit
And write with his unusual wit
Another egg he'll eat,
I'll swing my sword some other time
For now I think that I shall rhyme
But I will battle gods divine
Just let me rest my feet.
Root of the Confusion
by Razorwing (needs a nom de plume)
"You're doing it wrong", Decatho noted.
Marellius, rubbing his back, glared back at him. "Really? And you're suddenly an expert, are you?"
"Guess it depends on what you compare it to, now doesn't it?" Decatho scoffed.
Marellius just groaned in pain, holding his back.
"But I know from watching you chew and spit out ten leaves that that's not the way to do it!" Decatho exclaimed, as he tossed another log on the fire.
"Doesn't the book say *anything* else?"
Decatho picked up the rugged book next to him and flipped through the pages. "No, it just says the Dunmer love to grow the stuff and that it has healing properties. Maybe you're supposed to boil the leaves?"
Marellius stared at him with an annoyed look in his eyes: "That's your solution to everything, Decatho! No, we're not making tea again!"
Decatho rubbed his neck. "Well it couldn't hurt... my throat is killing me."
"Quit whining", Marellius snarled. "Like your cough compares to a rake in the back."
"So you got a whack and ran off. Who had to carry the bags all the way from the farm? It's not like we thieved herbs or anything, these damn things are *heavy*!" Decatho complained.
Marellius just sighed, leaving their discussion to taper off into a shared feeling that life was hard and unfair to both of them.
Reminded by the pain in his back, he poked a finger at Decatho, signalling him to throw over the book. He browsed through it for a few minutes...
"Right..." he thought out loud: "We know that Dunmer love to grow Corkbulb, that it has healing powers, and that you don't get healed by chewing the leaves."
"The healing part might just be superstition", Decatho pondered. "I mean, like thinking that drinking soup cures you of your cold because you get better if you do it for a week. You don't know that you'd get better, whether you drank it or not, so you just keep on drinking soup because you know you'll get better if you do."
"Wouldn't surprise me... maybe this thing is a vegetable and the locals eat the root. Like it does something good for their health," Marellius said. "Right. Well, let's boil it up and see what happens."
Decatho chopped off a piece of the fat root and threw it in the pot. "After it's done", he inquired cautiously, "can I throw a couple leaves in?"
"Yeah, yeah", Marellius laughed, "Go ahead my friend."
Decatho suddenly felt something tap him on his shoulder, and jumped into the air, screaming his lungs out, with Marellius following suit a split second behind him, wildly spinning around as he clutches his injured back.
In the flickering light of the logfire they could make out three figures staring at them. Two of them had the distinct silhouette of Redoran guards, but the third was harder to distinguish. Then he stepped forward, glaring at them with beady, fiery-red eyes, whiteknuckled hands clutching a rake.
There he stood, quivering before them, staring at the chopped-up corkbulb root boiling in the pot and the spitball leaves around Marellius's feet, furiously scratching scratched his head. Baffled, he thundered: "What the hell are you thieves doing to my firewood?"
Jokes about Dunmer (from Daggerfall)
A Dark Elf man killed his wife after catching her making love with another man. When the magistrate asked him why he killed her instead of her lover, the man replied, "I considered it better to kill one woman than a different man every week."
A Dark Elf woman was being shown around Daggerfall. When she was shown the magnificent Castle Daggerfall, she smiled sweetly to her guild and whispered, "It reminds me of sex."
"That's odd," said her guild. "Why does our Castle Daggerfall remind you of sex?"
The Dark Elf sighed, "Everything does."
Yelithah told Vathysah that she was having dinner with a Dark Elf named Morleth that night.
"I hear he's an animal," said Vathysah. "He'll rip your dress right off you."
"Thank you for telling me," said Yelithah, "I'll be sure to wear an old dress."
My After-Life: A Lich Unarmed
by Havidius the Lich (date unknown)
Allow me to begin by addressing your opinions of Liches and our role in the world. Yes, we are evil. We will likely kill you on sight and consume your soul for magical study.
I am Havidius. Prior to embarking on the long journey toward becoming a Lich, I was an Imperial Battlemage and a damn good one.
Now, I am an undead Lich. So, to dispell (figuratively, of course) a long-standing myth, Lich are not mindless creatures. Rather, we are typically quite clever.
Widely, heroes have sought Liches for battle, as we tend to possess magical artifacts and valuable worldly items. While an enjoyable pastime for the hero, I can personally attest that the practice is very disturbing to the Lich.
It has seemed over the centuries that every time I come close to acheiving a significant necromantic discovery, a hero barges in (or a group of heroes) and begins hacking away at my summoned guardians or unloading fire spells upon them. Defeating well-armed and well-trained opponents is time-consuming and distracts me from my work.
Contrary to your suspions, this story is not about a hero, necessarily. Well, that is to say, not your typical hero. Some time ago, I was in the process of developing a significant spell which caused my touch to whither a live being. Precisely, my intent was to cause live beings to age 20 years with each touch I placed upon them.
As I studied the requirements for this spell's success, I realized that one essential element was that I enchant my left arm utilizing 100 Grand Souls and 100 Black Souls. I'll not discuss the specifics for the spell's creation. The enchantment of my left arm was essential and is elemental in this story that is why it is mentioned.
Eventually, the enchantment process required that I detach my left arm and soak it in a pool of freshly spilled Argonian blood. Typically, I would simply wait for an Argonian hero to come die at my feet, but not this time. I was anxious to continue the process.
So, I hunted an Argonian farmer and killed him slowly in order that he might shed a lot of blood. Eventually, there was a sufficient quantity of blood so I magically detached my arm and dropped it to soak in the pool of blood at the Argonian's feet.
Timing is everything in life. It is also important to the undead. At that very moment, a group of Imperial Horsemen and four Battlemages arrived. Well, I killed them, of course. I was bothered that they had interrupted my work, so I spent some time trapping their souls to torture and manipulate later.
In my distraction, I had missed a very important detail. The Imperial Guards were not alone. In the chaos of battle, I had failed to notice a guard dog with them. As I floated back to the pool of blood, I found my arm had been taken!
I began casting spells to divine the thief's location. Immediately, I discovered that the culprit had escaped and was trotting toward Reich Parkeep. The little dog was very clever, because fast as I flew I could not seem to find or catch it.
It was around midnight that I found the Guardtower in Reich Parkeep where the dog had finally stopped. I entered and greeted the guard inside. He gave his Nord name, Tarn Bapley. I began to consume his soul and reclaim my arm.
Before I could complete my spell, I was summoned! In my haste to recover my arm, I had errantly dropped my magical defenses. Like I said, timing is everything! Unfortunately, I was summoned right into the thick of a battle. Before I could react (as being summoned into a battle is disconcerting), another wizard cast some sort of stasis spell on me. As a result, I lost the link to my previous location and to the necromancer who summoned me.
The battle's outcome is unimportant. What is important is that I have been forced into servitude and have thusfar been unable to break my bondage. My master's cruelty has extended to limiting my access to magic. He really must be quite powerful.
It is very bothersome to acheive immortality only to spend it in service to another. All this aside, my master has permitted me to write the story of how I came into his service and now it is written.
Farewell. Let this pleading accompany you as you depart these pages. Should you come upon a one-armed Lich, seek out his master and kill him. Either destroy my master or me, but do not leave me to suffer an eternity as I am. Oblivion would be a welcome change.