A cut from a Draugr’s rusted axe is not a cut—it is a promise of lockjaw by nightfall. A wolf’s bite to the calf will not kill you swiftly, but the putrefaction that follows will unmake you joint by joint. I have seen strong men lose a finger to a frostbitten gauntlet, only to lose the hand, then the arm, then life itself, as the black crept inward.
A warrior without food is a sword without a tang—soon to shatter. The cold doubles this law. Your body will consume its own fat, then its own muscle, then the marrow from your bones. You will begin to see warmth where there is only wind. You will hear your mother’s voice in the howl of ice wolves. Skyrim Hard-Lore Enhanced mod pack
A broken leg in the Rift is a death sentence. A broken arm in Eastmarch is a plea for mercy. Do not pretend you can fight with splintered ribs. Do not believe the old tales of warriors who walked off a cliff-fall. They walked because they were already ghosts. A cut from a Draugr’s rusted axe is
Eat the fat of the horker before the lean. Chew the sinew. Drink the blood of your enemies if you must—but boil it first, lest the gut-rot take you. And never, never trust a snowberry bush that grows beside a hot spring. The sweet drupes are a lie; the water is poison with minerals that crack the teeth and loosen the bowels. A warrior without food is a sword without