In a Hostile Country: The Saga of Cahmel (Let’s Play Morrowind, Part 30)

(I swear to God, the instant there’s something worth taking a screenshot of, like in next week’s edition, I’ll have screenies for you. In this entry, there’s really nothing you guys haven’t seen before.)

When we last left our hero, he’d been teleported to somewhere in the neighborhood of Too Damn Far away from his quest objective as a result of the luridly irritating bonewalker curse that swaps your tendons out with warm taffy. Now I’ve just got to get myself right and get back to work.

Thanks to you guys, I remembered that temples have altars where you can pay for an attribute restoral, as well as get blight and disease removed. Put in some pocket change and you get all of your maladies instantly obliterated. It’s kind of like crossing Jesus with a vending machine, only they’re all over the place. I bet there are businessmen who’d love to get their hands on one of these altars—you could make a killing, taking it from town to town.

Anyway, that takes care of stat restoration. Once again I was Cahmel, action figure, fast tracker, and occasional exhibitionist. Women want me; men want to be me. Well, they want to be me some of the time, anyway. Like, whenever I’m not doing some menial chore or getting my shiny keister handed to me. Which is…when I’m…asleep, I guess. And as awesome as I am, I can’t really claim any preternatural sleeping prowess, so nobody’s really envious of that.

But women still want me. Honest. Not native women, obviously, since they all insult me. The same with the Nords, who are all jerks. Elves are mostly snobs, so they won’t give a filthy unpointed one like me the time of day. And I guess Imperial women have all sorts of negative stereotypes about the Redguards. And to be honest, everyone else is usually a little put off by the fact that I’m perpetually soaked in gore and covered in cliff racer feathers. And I stink of the thousand rotting animal parts I carry in my backpack.

Now that I think about it, it appears that I suck.

…what was I doing?

Right! Right, got to get back to the dungeon. Got to do this dangerous and fantastically pointless quest for employers that I hate. Awesome. Can’t wait.

First order of business is, how the hell am I supposed to get back? It’s literally about a mile south of my position, traveling over monster-infected land and unexplored territory. It sounds about as much fun as pogo-sticking through a minefield, but I don’t really have an alternative, do I? It’s not like I can take the bus.

When I get rich, I’m buying my own silt strider. I’ll figure out how to drive it, then make it carry me around everywhere. I’ll tie it to trees when I’m screwing around in dungeons, and I’ll mount weapons on it so it can kill cliff racers for me. I’ll just point it in the right direction (maybe hire a plain-spoken Dunmer chauffer who’s wise beyond his years), then kick back, sip Flin from a snifter, maybe eat some scrib jerky. Maybe even take a nap. Really, anything would be better than sawing my way on foot through a bottomless horde of hostile critters and random demons.

Eventually I find myself back outside the doors to Odrinarn. I rest up, get my gear laid out, take a deep breath, and step back inside.

Fifteen seconds later, I’m at the loading screen. There’s a single dead ghost in the forground, a bunch of random undead in the back, and a skeleton standing over my body playing hacky-sack with my pancreas.

I press the reload key.

I go down. This time, I fend off the ghost for a second, then get dogpiled by some more skeletons.

I press the reload key.

I go downstairs. I die.

I press the reload key.

I go for the door.

It is at this point, standing outside Odrinarn, hand poised on the doorknob to have another brief vacation in the realm of pain, sword-arm weary from murdering more skeletons in the past week than there have been people in all of history, that I come to the rational and impassive conclusion that Hlaalu can go piss up a rope.

That’s not another toothless insult, either, another impotent barb slung at my corporate overlords. I’m serious this time.  Hlaalu can eat scrib and die. They can kiss my south end, except for Crassius. They can take a spear and shove it, sideways. They can continue in whatever manner suits them, so long as I am no longer in their employ. I’m done. I quit.

As of right now, Cahmel’s not doing any more of their goddamned dirty work. From the start, it’s been nothing but thankless, pointless, soulless tasks that oscillate between being something you could give a disabled monkey and being too dangerous  to give to anyone more expendable than me. The pay has been terrible, the jobs have been abysmal, my bosses have harassed me in every way it is possible to be harassed, and I’m not going to take it anymore.

This decision produces the epitome of a natural high. I’m free of these bastards. I can do whatever I want now! No more working jobs that are every color of the crap rainbow. No more enduring the creeptastic come-ons of Crassius Curio, equal-opportunity sexual harasser. No more taking orders from gnarled Dunmer who are varying degrees of stupid and evil. Cahmel’s a free agent, baby, working for whoever promises the most money for the least slogging around!

And now, to celebrate my newfound independence, I’m going to roll over and go right back to sleep. Meanwhile, not fifteen feet away, a group of Hlaalu agents is fully expecting me to return (through the other door, mind) with their leader’s daughter and let them skip away with all of the credit. Since they’re currently showing the initiative of a crusty dinner roll, I’m guessing they’re going to die of old age in there. Suits me just fine. Rot in hell, asshats. It’s not my problem.

My only problem lies in figuring out what to do next. Eh, nothing to worry about—I’m sure I’ll think of something.

NEXT WEEK: TRIBUNAL BEGINS.