The Cyrodiil Look: Cahmel’s New Travels (Let’s Play Oblivion, Part 9)

When we last left our hero, he was doing time in prison for burglary. Well, okay, by “burglary,” I mean, “fondling a mug.” And by “time,” I mean “24 hours”—inside of which I apparently forgot which end of a hammer is the one you hold on to and which is the one you swing into the metal parts. Blacksmithing—that’s another legitimate career I could have pursued, if only society wasn’t forcing me to turn to crimes. Also, if anyone besides me needed anything repaired or forged, at any time, ever.

Wellp, it sure does feel good to be on the outside. What should be the first thing I do as a free man? Go drinking? Steal something? Write a book about my harrowing 24 hours in the Petite House? Go drinking? Aha, I have just the thing! Why don’t I go to a nearby inn, procure a room at great expense, and then fall asleep in the middle of the day for no immediately obvious reason.

Oh, hi, innkeeper lady! No hard feelings about your mug, right? It’s okay, hours 5-7 of my harrowing sentence were taken up by a lecture on good and bad kinds of touching. Like any decent human being, I now grasp that lightly brushing objects marked with a red hand is an offense to God and the state. Can I have a room? Promise not to touch anything while I’m there. I’m joking. That was a joke.

Say, is that an improbably lucky Wood Elf vagrant sniffing around your back door? Over there! Quick, I’d look before he demands money from you and then forces you into a farcically comedic series of one-sided combats. Keep looking. Oh, well, I suppose it must have just been a mirage, then. Hm? No, I’m pretty sure there was no mug on the counter here. I’d keep looking if I were you.

The room’s what I’ve come to expect—a few worthless fripperies to please the kleptomaniac demographic, a passable decorating scheme, and, of course, a bed—the only part of the whole room I actually need or would willingly pay money for. It’s much nicer than those rock-solid prison beds, I imagine. I guess I don’t actually know. I pretty much just sat around until they came back to release me, which was a couple hours before schedule. Honestly, I’m not even sure the door was locked.

Speaking of unlocked doors…

I’m asleep for only a few hours before she appears. I didn’t manage to pull off a screenshot—possibly because of the retching and gnashing of teeth—so I’ll give you the absolute next best thing, which is a hard-boiled description.

The moment the Dunmer lady walked into my room, I knew there was going to be trouble. Trouble like having to track down some of that sawdust they put out to absorb piles of vomit.

The first thing I noticed about her were her legs. She had the kind of legs that didn’t quit, despite numerous scandals, poor accounting, and gross incompetence on every conceivable level. They were the kind of legs that made you stop and stare, and then look at something, anything, else.  She walked into my hotel room like a marionette made from an actual mummy.

And then there was her face, and let me tell you, she had the kind of face that would make grown men weep. Also: women and children. And me, who I guess is somewhere in between all those.

You could have hung an overcoat on her nose.

That’s the best description I can furnish. Imagine that, and then stare at a picture of the scariest animal you’ve ever seen before, and then imagine it a little longer, and then upload the picture your imagination yielded into Photoshop and start screwing around with it. The result will be something hideous, and not quite as hideous as the woman standing before me.

Anyway, she hands me a note and says, “Take this. It’s from a friend.”

Then she turns to leave.

Okay, so this is how that works, huh? You find out some inveterate cup-molester got locked up, wait until he goes to sleep, then get all up in his personal space and hand him a cryptic note telling him to—what’s this here? “Go to yadda yadda Imperial City yadda.” And then you leave, and disappear into the ether, and I’m all suitably impressed at how mysterious your shadow voodoo network is. That’s your version.

So, what are you gonna do if I just follow your messenger home, huh?

She didn’t turn invisible or anything. She’s just walking away like it ain’t no thang. So what if I follow her and find out where she lives? Okay, it’s not like I’ve rumbled your whole network of thieves or anything, but it does kind of make you question the point of such a cryptic communiqué, doesn’t it?

Obviously, I’m not actually going to very slowly follow the messenger back to her crappy house in the Imperial City just to make my point. I’ve got important things to do, like okay I’ve got no ideas. I guess I just might as well follow her, huh? I guess there’s always a chance I won’t completely massively regret following some random NPC around out of pure spite. Besides, when has spite ever served me poorly before? Don’t—friggin’, please don’t answer that question. Don’t even start.

So I just sort of follow her out of the hotel, down the street, and out the main gates. She’s in no goddamned hurry, that’s for sure—she walks like a geriatric on her way home from errands, which, okay, I guess she kinda is. All I have to do is walk a half-dozen paces behind her.

She has to realize I’m there. My footsteps fall a moment after hers, mocking her wordlessly with their very presence. She retains the high ground, however, not turning around or acknowledging my presence. Unless I wander too close to her, anyway—at which point she asks, invariably “Aren’t you the ugly one?”

People who live in glass continents shouldn’t lob bombs, lady.