The Dovahkiin's Soliloquy.

To kill Cicero, or not to kill Cicero? That is the question: Whether 'tis saner in the mind to suffer the pains and trials of outrageous wisecracks, or to take arms against a sea of riddles, and by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep no more. For during sleep, would I not be confronted by the Wrath of Sithis, that most faithful and insidious of all the Night Mother's agents? Would I not face the condemnation of Sithis himself after my death? Yet how am I to keep hearing the same tired nonsense from that jester and not become insane myself? How can I laugh when he sings about burning bards and still retain my fragile grasp on reality? Is he truly a servant of the Night Mother, or a lackey of Sheogorath's? It is because of him that I sometimes do not know the difference between a hobby and a handsaw, no matter the direction from which the wind is blowing. Alas, poor Cicero. I knew him, Veezara; a killer of infinite jest, and a fellow of most putrescent fancy. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

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