In a Hostile Country: The Saga of Cahmel (Let’s Play Morrowind, Part 50)

Oh-kay, I figured out what was wrong with the headset. Initially, I’d thought it was a driver issue that’d take forever to hunt down and sort out.  Thankfully, that’s not the case–experimentation has demonstrated that the headset’s just plain broke. So, I’ll figure that out, I guess. In the meantime, here’s a nice full-length Cahmel to tide you over.

When we last left our crusading hero, he was stuck dredging the crappiest pub in Sandytown for directions—and what kickawesome directions they turned out to be, by the way. Really, it’s wrong to call them directions–it’s just direction, full stop, and that direction is north. Wander out that way, start combing the badlands, and see if the cliff racers kill you before you work up the courage to do the job yourself.

People threw a hissy fit when Beth threw a quest compass into Oblivion, claiming that it removed the sense of exploration and independence from the game. That would be a legitimate complaint if the quest directions in Morrowind weren’t so invariably godawful—as it is, complaining about Bethesda putting in a quest compass because it dumbs down the game is like complaining that they put out a house fire because now it’s too cold. Speaking in my official capacity as a long-time devotee of Morrowind: less of this rubbish can only be a good thing. Of course, it’d be really nice if Bethesda just started making quest directions make sense, but if I’m being frank, I don’t credit them with a lot of finesse. A hack solution’s better than no solution.

Anyway, luckily, I’ve done the whole systematic-sweep-of-the-island thing about a hundred times before. That won’t make the process less time-consuming, but it does mean I won’t try to reflexively bludgeon myself unconscious around hour fifteen. I’m also making good progress on the sobbing around hour six, and I’m progressing slowly but confidently in phasing out the hour eight pants-wetting. In the process, I did accidentally train myself to go fetal whenever anyone gives me directions, but I’m pretty sure freshman orientation was going to be awkward anyway.

Where was I? Oh yeah, hopelessly lost. I ended up taking a few modes of fast travel to get to the general area indicated, which, thankfully, wasn’t actually that big. It was a sort of archipelago north of the mainland, a good hike/swim away from the nearest town and loaded with all kinds of crazy caves and junk. It wouldn’t even be that tricky to search, except for a few things:

1.)    The islandettes are surrounded by irritating cliff racers, slaughterfish, and dreugh.

2.)    The place is hilly as heck, and not only is it difficult to see what’s ahead of you, it’s sometimes difficult to walk ten feet in a straight line. This means you go around the hills, which usually means taking a little swim, which means another exciting journey into the magical realm of nautical manslaughter.

3.)    There are about a thousand different nooks in this place, and they all look the same—it’s actually possible to fly by the place you’re looking for because you mistakenly believe it’s another tomb you just passed, which makes you think you’re going in circles, which just perpetuates the rather pathetic cycle.

4.)    BLAARGH DAEDRIC RUINS RUN

Thank god I have the boots. They let me outrun all of the cliff racers and slaughterfish and stuff, and cut down some of the travel time, and it’s still a tremendous chore sweeping this place. I’m starting to wish I had a GPS and, like, a helicopter. Actually, this whole thing would be more interesting if I was Rico Rodriguez, but we can’t all be that lucky.

At one point, I accidentally let some dremora get a piece of me—I’d have taken a screenshot, but I was too busy getting murdered to press any key not related to getting the hell out of there. If you really want to see how it went down, kidnap Richard Simmons, give him a pair of roller blades, drop him into a drained pool, then pay a couple of ex-MMA fighters to go down and kill him with machetes. You might want to alert the proper authorities first; they may want to watch. Anyway, point is, I was in a bad way and needed to rest up a bit. At first, I couldn’t find any point far enough from the cliff racers to do so, but then, out of nowhere, I stumbled onto this cottage.

I could've sworn I had a screenshot of the house. Have this instead, I guess?

Man. It’s bad enough having to come out here on business, but can you imagine living out here? This place is for people who can’t take the fast-paced hustle and bustle of the suburbs, so they traded their neighbors for bleached unhealthy-looking plant life and the Homeowner’s Association for omnipresent blood-crazed vultures. Okay, actually, that last one’s not much of a change, but you’ve still got to wonder about the sort of deranged mind it’d take to look at this patch of crusty rock and think, “Let’s get a white picket fence up in this bitch.”

Not that I care, of course. It’s a house, and right now, it contains two things that I am passionate about: 1.) a place to rest, and 2.) an absolute vacuum of cliff racers. Of course, they’ll have to not mind me crashing their place, but I’m getting a hermit vibe from this establishment, so their religious vows probably dictate that they have to help me. I don’t know about you guys, but when I think hermit, I think hospitality.

I guess hermits aren't big into night-lights. Or lanterns that work.

See? She looks like a nice sort. She even respected me by greeting me with a formal insult. I don’t know about you guys, but I think that’s pretty classy. What’s your name? No, don’t tell me, I don’t really learn NPC names—it’s kind of a thing at this point, and also I’m lazy. I’ll just go ahead and call you Crazy Hut Lady, or Lunatic House Woman for short. Sound good to you? I’ll take your sizzling xenophobic glare as a “yes please.”

Anyway, as you can see, demons kind of tore apart my flesh over here. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I might well die within the hour. You don’t want that, do you? I’d probably bleed all over your floor. Well, bleed more over your floor. More than I am presently doing. Relax, I’ll help clean it up. Anyway, point is, I really ought to get some beauty sleep, and your bedroll fits the bill quite nicely.

Oh, crap, that didn’t sound entirely right, did it? I don’t want you to think that I’m coming onto you, here, because let me just come out and say it: no, god, oh god, no, never, no. I actually threw up in my mouth thinking about it, just now. Not a little bit, either, like you might do recreationally. This was a respectable amount of mouthvomit, a substance—one of many substances—that interests me romantically more than you do. You repulse me; you are disgusting and a half.

Now, Deranged Domicile Dame, I take it that we are now on the most amicable of terms, and that I am free to use your bed. Thanking you in advance, Cahmel.

I siddle my bad self onto it, and…

…my crime has been reported. Resting failed.

Oh…kay. Apparently, not only was it not okay for me to sleep in this woman’s bed—and she gave me some real mixed signals on that, by the way—she saw fit to report it to the proper authorities, whoever the goddamned hell they might be out here. I guess she has a hotline to the nearest guard station—but no, because I didn’t see her talking or anything. I guess she has a secret button somewhere hardwired to, when pressed, inform someone a mile away that a guest in her house had the audacity to sleep in her bed. Actually, no, I didn’t even get to sleep, so she’s really just reporting loitering with drowsy intent. The fine for that is apparently five gold.

Five gold? Why would she even bother? I guess she’s just really bored, so she can only get her kicks by picking arguments with passersby. Or maybe she went through all the expense to get the magic crime report button installed and doesn’t want to feel like it went to waste. Either way, I have the solution to both of our problems right here.

Can you see that she's dead? You can probably guess that she's dead.

And you know something? I didn’t get reported for that one. And when I used her bed afterward, nobody complained. I guess the issue was resolved to everybody’s satisfaction.

After I wake up, I start the obligatory looting run, because any jerk can be a murderer—it takes dedication to be an absolutely pathetic one. Let’s face it, I didn’t just knock over Lord Vivec himself over here; this is the stuff you don’t put out for the yard sale because you’re just too damned embarrassed to. Let’s do inventory: candlestick: value 5. That’ll buy me an order of Scrib Fries over at Bug King. Piece of folded cloth: value 2. I guess if I ever need, like, the world’s tiniest bribe, that’ll be useful. Robe: value 15. Hey, that’s another round of drinks, provided I spare the expense of flavor and flylessness. Crappy book in chest: value 50,000. If I run out of toilet paper, I suppose I can always hold on a second

Is this, what? What the…was she…can…

Okay, stop, STOP, first make sure I’m awake. Come to think of it, this is exactly like that dream I keep having. Well, the part where I murder the unsuspecting hermit and then rob them is; the book is new. Either way, I should probably double check the whole consciousness thing.

Pinch test reveals that I am, in fact, awake. Price check reveals that the book’s still crazy expensive. And the smell test reveals that the woman is definitely in no condition to report my theft.

If you’ll excuse me, I think this situation merits some reflection.