In a Hostile Country: The Saga of Cahmel (Let’s Play Morrowind, Part 32)

When we last left our hero, he’d gotten himself rather explosively ejected from House Hlaalu. Punching my superior in the noggin might not have been the most creative way to quit my job, but hell if it wasn’t satisfying. Ultimately, it was in all of the best traditions of House Hlaalu—illegal, dangerous, ill-advised, and a drain on my finances—save one, which is that it was ultimately in my best interest. Actually, I might just start doing this on a regular basis. Now that I’m unemployed, I figure I should get a hobby, and I don’t have the patience for silstriderspotting.

Anyway, I find the person who can teleport me to Mournhold, the city where the Dark Brotherhood have their headquarters. I say the word, and bamf—there I am.

Generally, when transporting someone to a realm of enchantment and wonder, it’s best to hit them immediately with a sight of unimaginable grandeur. Appropriately, my first view of Mournhold is that of a government drone standing in an ugly, ill-lit room.

Nothing says High Adventure like brown walls, a distracted man in a dress, and a few flowers.

There’s an Argonian fellow who can teleport me back, as well as a red-shelled guard standing by the door. As soon as I approach him, he says, “Mournhold…City of Light, City of Magic!” Uh, okay. Thanks for the…advice? Information? Stock tip? Whatever, get back to guarding this near-empty room.

I was told to find a guard captain who could help me out, but I decide not to do that just yet. After all, Mournhold’s a pretty big place. Might as well wander around, catch the local color, visit the shops, inevitably solve the petty problems of everyone in a ten-mile radius, maybe get a light lunch. You know, touristy stuff.

I exit the entry area. The guard outside, upon seeing me, immediately says, “Mournhold…City of Light, City of Magic!” Um, thanks, I’ve heard. Are you guys getting kickbacks from the tourist board, or…? Never mind.

Also standing by the door is a man dressed in splintmail. He introduces himself as a mercenary—basically, he’ll follow me around for 30 days, help me in combat, carry stuff for me, and take a small percentage of the loot. So, let me get this straight, then. You want to follow me around, charge every enemy I see, get stuck on the geometry, run off and get lost (while carrying my stuff), and get in my way at all times…and you want me to pay you for it.

No.

(The next hour or so of gameplay consists of a few random incidents. They’re more or less unrelated, so I’ll break them up into chapters.)

Chapter One: A Boy and His Rat

As I’m wandering through the exotic (and extremely empty) market streets, I happen upon a small-time vendor of rats. He’s got several different varieties, all of which are various flavors of useless. I mean, who wants a small, very weak animal that will get stuck on the geometry and killed very quickly in combat?

Me, apparently. I buy a pack rat for a hefty sum.

A pack rat, lukewarm pun aside, is the rodent equivalent of a pack mule. It’s a fuzzy little critter about the size of a cat who has an improbably large pack on his shoulder. He can carry something like 100 pounds, so he’s actually quite useful…provided you don’t lose him and/or get him killed. To recap, he’s a filthy little pest who’s unsuited for polite company, too fragile to go into the field with you, and ultimately more of a hassle than he’s worth. I name him Crassius Junior.

It’s worth noting that flaws aside, this little bugger is fast. You’ll run full speed ahead, watching him amble behind you, and just when you start to wonder if he’s going to fall behind he breaks into a sprint and close the distance instantaneously. So, it’s actually not terribly easy to lose him. You’d have to do something stupid, like letting him get stuck on the geometry and not noticing and then realizing he had some gear with a decent sell value on his back and that it’s been a half-hour since you last saw him and you don’t want to go back and check but you really ought to sell that pauldron.

Chapter Two: Everyone’s a Critic

I come across the crowded market square (why, there’s one whole person who might potentially be a customer of some kind!) and find a strange sight: what looks like a permanent stage, surrounded by eager spectators. Except, there’s only one woman on stage, and she’s not doing anything. The onlookers are grumbling, and it’s clear there’s some sort of unexpected holdup. Curious, I head around to the open-air backstage. Jeez, I’d hate to see these people try to change costume.

The theater director informs me that there’s been a crisis. The main actor has taken ill, and there’s no understudy, so the play is ruined! Unless…say, there, outlander, you look somewhat like the actor in question! Which is relevant, for some reason! Tell you what, why don’t I give you the lines to the play, and then you go onstage when you think you’ve memorized them in their entirety. You will? Oh, thank you so much! Here’s the book. Aaand done already? Wow, outlander, you were only holding the book for five seconds or so, but okay, I trust you. Just give me the book back, thank you. Now, the people are waiting for you. Break a leg!

"My optimism is as genuine as these flowing locks."

I step onstage. There’s a guard standing there—he’s not part of the play, he just randomly wandered onstage. The scene begins, and we start exchanging dialogue, trying to ignore the guard as he wanders about and eyeballs my rat. Considering I only had the patience to skim the lines, I start off pretty well, only botching one line, when a member of the audience screams, “Die, actor scum!” and bumrushes the stage with a sword.

I can’t say this is entirely surprising. From a metagame perspective, I hardly expected I’d be running the entirety of the play. From an in-character perspective, come on, it’s not like nobody’s tried to kill me before. This is pretty much another day at the office for everyone’s favorite nefarious naturist.

The assassin pretty much takes me to the cleaners. Often, he’ll hit me so hard I’m knocked prone, and then just hack me apart before I can even get up. It’d help if the guard on the stage actually lifted a finger to help me. He was helpful enough to inform me, as I stumbled past him with fresh wounds oozing hot blood onto the floor, that Mournhold was a City of Light, Magic.

Eventually, I manage to start a sort of running game where I’m always one step ahead of him, hacking, dodging, bobbing, and weaving. It’s a tough fight, but I emerge victorious.

Looting time. Let’s see: crappy shirt, crappy pants, crappy shoes, sword that’s worth ten times what I’ve got on me HOLY CRAP.

It is Christmas in Mournhold. This daedric shortsword is worth a frankly embarrassing amount. The hard part would be even finding a merchant I could sell it to without a massive amount of fuss—hell, even with my whole massive liquidation trick, I’d have to shop around before I could find one I’d get a due profit off of.

Plus, it’s way, way better than any weapon I’ve got. I don’t use shortswords, but…damn. I mean, this is the kind of thing where I might start using shortswords just because of this weapon. I might straight-up find a trainer and enroll in Stabbing Things With A Slightly Shorter Sharp Thing Than Usual 101.

Oh, right. For a second there, I got so wrapped up in my Phat Lewt coma I forgot the whole assassination attempt. Let’s go get that sorted out, shall we?

I head over to the theater dude. His explanation is this:

“Oh, yes, see, our actor isn’t really sick. He slept with somebody he shouldn’t have, so we knew there’d be an assassin in the crowd tonight. We figured hey, he’d go for you, then if he managed to kill you we’d be in the clear. I’m sure you understand our situation. As it happens, you managed to kill the assassin, so we think they got the hint. Good job.”

I’m speechless. He continues:

“Oh, and as far as your compensation goes. Well, I’d love to give you a full salary, but you did flub a line. I’m sorry to say that it quite ruined the performance. Really, you’re lucky the whole assassination business distracted the audience from your egregious error. Anyway, I’ll go ahead and deduct some money from your salary for that.”

…

Let me get this straight.

First, you give me three seconds to memorize an entire script. Secondly, you put me on stage as live bait for a highly-trained murderer without even warning me about it. Thirdly, you dock my pay because I flubbed a line, which is ENTIRELY IRRELEVANT.

It’s only the threat of legal retribution that stops me from beating this man until the jackass leaks out of his earholes.

I storm away, fuming. In the process, I brush past my fellow cast member, who comments, “You were very brave.” No, god dammit, I wasn’t. I was uninformed. Brave would be if I was actually aware of the fact that I was being screwed over. Really, though, ypu’d think I’d have developed a sixth sense for that by now.

Hey, remember that part where I said my days of getting unjustly used by bastards were over? About that.

Chapter Three: Looking For Love (In Exactly the Wrong Place)

I decide to visit a local pawnshop. The owner’s a bit different than most—our conversation goes something like this.

“Hello, customer. Life sucks. Life sucks almost as much as women. Boy, I hate women. Woman aren’t good. I think this for a variety of reasons.”

“Uh, okay. So…like, what are the…”

“I DON’T LIKE YOU ENOUGH TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT THAT.”

“Okay, okay. Here, have ten bucks.”

“Right. As I was saying…”

My eyes glaze over as he launches into this boring story about him and his wife. Eventually, I get fed up and leave.

Some time later, I meet a woman who has her own story to tell. She never meant to be living in this city, you know. She once had dreams. She wanted to blah blah blah blah oh who are you kidding, nobody cares about this stupid woman’s problems. Anyway, long story short, she wants a man, and since she’s far too busy standing at the top of this staircase to go looking for eligible bachelors, she wants you to go find them for her.

I go to the pawnshop.

“Hey, moody blues, I’ve got a date for you.”

“What? No. I hate women. Go away.”

“No, come on, it’ll be fun.”

*sigh* “Alright. I’ll go on a date with her. But just so you know, and you can quote me on this, women suck.”

I go back to the woman and let her know I have the hottest of hot dates lined up. She’s skeptical, but is willing to take a risk.

Three days later, the day of the date comes. The woman nervous, the man apprehensive, they depart for the designated meeting place. One is a gentle romantic, the other a cold and ill-used cynic. The one is in search of the love, the other in search of meaning. Nobody would predict that they would be perfect for each other. Certainly not me, anyway.

Meanwhile, I’m cleaning the abandoned pawn shop out.

I steal the flatware. I steal the decorations. I steal the food, the weapons, the money, the ingredients. I steal his clothes, I steal his effects, I steal the folded cloths and scattered cups.  I walk out of there with over 200 drakes in merchandise.

The next day, I see them both. The pawn shop owner claims that the date went horribly, and refused to talk about it. The woman flat-out refuses to speak to me ever again.

And I’d made a profit. So, a win in every possible respect.