Dragonborn
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I am a dragon.
My fiery mane twists and tangles, remaining unkempt and unpredictable
My spine twists and turns in ways it shouldn’t
Sketches and unfinished paintings hang from my wall like tapestries.
I speak to the dead,
After I have wasted three and ninety lockpicks
Just to get a potato out of a long forgotten box.
How is it not rotten?
I really need to get to Whiterun but
Lydia blocks me in the hallway.
