In a Hostile Country: The Saga of Cahmel (Let’s Play Morrowind, Part 35)

When we last left our hero, he was studying the noble and delicate art of hacking things apart with a sharp bit of…whatever the hell this sword is made of. I probably don’t want to know. It’s most likely the tibia of some jagged abomination, or a petrified length of demon stool, or something equally unsettling. Anyway, I seem to have the basics of shortswordplay down, so it’s time to get back to Mournhold and see what I can do about the cabal of steampunk Sam Fishers that have, for the past week, served as a stunningly violent alarm clock.

I go back to Balmora, take the Strider to Vivec, take the boat to Ebonheart, and start heading for the grand council chamber where the teleport guy is. This is a bit of a lengthy trip, which gives me plenty of time to second-guess taking it in the first place. I mean, Mournhold’s a great place to visit, if you’re into a place that has more assassins than citizens or your idea of a fun shopping trip consists of buying flatware, eggs, rodents, and particularly foul articles of clothing. I can’t really imagine living there, though. I have to say, there’s a definite temptation to just BAHAHA

I can't decide if his hat reminds me more of a sundial, or one of those things where you pull the cord, the doohickey spins around, and it makes an animal noise.

Sorry, gets me every time.

Anyway. There’s a temptation to just blow these Dark Brotherhood guys off as irrelevant. But, then again, what else am I going to do? I’m kind of between jobs, at the moment. I might look for a job here, but I’m going to go out on a limb and bet the references Hlaalu gave me kind of sucked. He spent half of his time naked and the rest of it sending his own employers up the river. We never actually got the opportunity to verify this, but we assume he wasn’t a team player. He was whiny, he took several weeks to do some of the missions we gave him, and his idea of a tasteful resignation letter was cold-cocking one of our liasons in the face. Files prompt reports, does not smoke.

Oh, yeah, speaking of office violence, how’s it going, Mr. Hlaalu? Just between you and me, you might want to get your face looked at. It’s swollen, misshapen, and a disconcerting shade of blue-purple. Actually, never mind. I guess it’s just like that all the time.

What’s that? You say I have to make reparations if I want to re-join your house? Alright, sounds good. How about we do lunch? I have a sandwich for you, right here.

"Wait, thaaaat's not a sandwich. Oh, you rascal, you."

Run, bribe guard, come back. The cycle that satisfies.

Alright, enough screwing around, time to get back in the game. Take the teleport, end up in Mournhold, now let’s…

Wait. Was I supposed to exit the building this way? Okay, I’m going upstairs now, that can’t be good. Dammit, if these buildings weren’t all moss-gray and blocky, it’d be easier to get around them. Where am I now?

Okay, here we go. I’m pretty sure this is the exit.

Uh.

This is…not the exit. This is the throne room. I’ve just, I sort of straight wandered into the throne room.

So, hi, guys. I see the king’s not here…? So, should I leave? You don’t care? You don’t care. Okay, I mean, I guess I’ll just sort of…hang around, then.

…

You really don’t mind me being here? You’re just going to ignore me.

Hm…

Cower, cretins, for a new age has dawned! The day of the hollow tyrant, of the puppet kings of the Tribunal, has passed. Long live Lord Cahmel! Yea, he shall free our souls from the bonds of servitude and our loins from the oppression of trousers. He shall rule this land with a bug-shelled fist, and his legions of…of…

Ratsy. Come on, man, you’re killing the moment! Get behind the throne or something. No, I don’t, don’t cry, I’m just saying that…well, when you’re out here, you…

Okay, you know what, I’m starting to get the sense I’ve worn out my welcome here anyway, so I’m just going to grab my pants and leave (man, I have to say that a lot). Uh, you might want to wash this throne before Lord Helseth comes back. And if not, he might—might—want to check with a healer. Maybe. I don’t actually know if you can pick it up that way, but better safe than sorry.

Okay, which way’s the exit? Thanks. You’re a peach.

Walked in on these two, just sort of locked in this soulful gaze. Then, five seconds after I came in, they turned around simultaneously and left. At first, I wanted to make a crude joke, but then I just felt guilty, like I'd thoughtlessly broken something beautiful.

I manage to locate the proper exit, and bump into an old friend: that worthless mercenary guy.

I'm trying to decide if Ratsy over there is delighted to see a hireling more overpriced and worthless than he, or if he's just offended at the physical reek of a guy who stands outside, shirtless, in full armor, all day, every day.

How’s it going, what’s-your-name? Working hard, or not working at all because nobody wants to pay 250 gold to babysit an NPC?

I don’t even remember what the terms of your little contract were. Refresh my memory about the rules, again?

Blah blah blah, you’re carrying a certain amount at all times, plus the wages I give you, I can never take more than that amount from you. I can heal you if you get in trouble, and supply you with health potions to ensure your survival. It is in my best interests to keep you well-healed at all times.

Yeah, sure it is. Let me see if I’ve got this straight: I pay X amount to hire you. You’re carrying 2X amount of gold, in addition to an assortment of gear. So it is in my best interests not to get you killed, so you remain the sole custodian of all of that swag. And you’re confident that I’m going to take good care of you and your valuable cargo so that you don’t die an accidental and tragic death, which would accidentally and tragically double my investment. So confident, in fact, that you’ll let ME buy the health potions.

I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Oh, one thing. I can give you gear, right? So, like, if I gave you a shirt, would you…put on the shirt? Please? You would? Thanks. Here, take mine. No, I’m good, trust me. Keep it.

I got to ask…didn’t that chain mail sort of…chafe?

Never mind.