A Cahmel Carol

(For those of you who’d like me to move on from making fun of the opium-logic hash that is Oblivion’s setting…well, I guess sorry about that.)

My opponent was going to kill me: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. He had made such a claim no less than three times during the bout’s duration, and was more certain each time, more determined to support his assertion with violence of the most exquisite quality. He had, as his taunts would have it, fought mudcrabs more fearsome than I.

Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly feeble about a mudcrab. I might have inclined, myself, to indicate a rat as the weakest monster in the trade. But the wisdom of Bethesda is in the comparison; and my unhallowed words shall not undermine it, or the LP’s done for.

Wait, actually, I guess that’s what I do here.

The mention of mocking Bethesda brings me back to my intended point. There is no doubt that Bethesda’s world is frequently illogical and strange. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing risible can come from the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Dwarf Fortress was a hateful work of bastardry, then the Saga of Boatmudered would provoke only confusion. Similarly, it is necessary that you grasp Bethesda’s dementia before embarking upon the following tale.

I had fought long and hard against my opponent from the Yellow team, I wearing the uniform of the Blue team. Though his iterations of the same two insults were many, and his pathfinding was odd, and his blocking verged on the cheap and frustrating, it was I that was eventually victorious. It was a harsh battle, one that provoked much bloodletting on both fronts.

I had entered into an arena to battle an opponent sight-unseen, and had emerged, scarred and barely alive, as the sole survivor. We had both put our mettle to the test, as they say, and our metal besides. To be frank, my victory can be credited as much to chance as the strength of my sword-arm; I was not much eager to try such luck again.

Still, I had to return to the fightmaster, and in doing so, receive my well-earned profits for  the day’s brutality. I brought him news of my narrow victory; he rewarded me with jubilance, a slap on the back, and fifty gold coins.

“Fifty coins!” I cried. “Don’t you know that I had risked my very neck, sir? That was an affair of life and death, you cheap son of a bitch!”

“Be that as it may, that was but an entry-level bout. All new applicants receive only fifty gold coins in wages.”

“Fifty gold coins! It’s a wonder you have any fighters at all!”

“I do not follow,” he replied, a look of confusion upon his face.

“Then allow me to restate the issue, in a way your frail potato-mind can grasp.

“All of your new applicants, regardless of skill, begin at the lowest rank. Of these fighters, exactly half survive to the next rank, and so on—so that you would have only a small handful of the highest-rank at any time, and conversely, have the relatively the vast majority of your fights at the entrant level.

“And if new fighters are not attracted, every set of matches at the above levels reduces the amount of fighters by one half. You require a steady stream of new combatants so as not to deplete your ranks within a few days.
“And who, I ask you, would enter into a contest that has an even chance of killing them if the purse they stand to win is but fifty gold? Selling one’s clothing gives nearly that much! What’s more, one requires a weapon to acquit themselves well in the arena, and not only do these things cost more than fifty gold, they can be put to use at lower risk, higher paying jobs, such as working for the fighter’s guild or murdering wolves to sell their pelts!”

“We do provide swords!” replied the fightmaster.

“And you confiscate these freely-available weapons if they are removed from the premises?”

“Well…”

“Then the clear solution is to take one of your generously provided courtesy blades and set out for the countryside.”

“Really, now, who would engage a wolf with a sword?” returned the fightmaster.

“In my direct experience, around seventy percent of all travelers. My point, sir, is this: if you wish to attract new combatants, you should increase the profits one stands to gain from winning. Otherwise, you will snare only fools!”

At that precise moment, I felt a cold tingle run down my spine, as if a chill breeze had wafted over me. Since that was actually entirely probable, I did not pay the feeling much heed.

A moment later, I heard a voice call out to me. This was also fairly common, so that set off no alarm bells either.

“Cahmel…”

With little difficulty, I pried my gaze from the features of the fightmaster to regard the speaker behind me. What I saw there was this: a ghost, hovering and transparent, draped in ectoplasm and glowing with ethereal light.

“Ooh!” said I. “Hang on a bit, I know I stole a silver dagger at some point. Or elven. Elven works against ghosts, right? Hang on, hang on…”

“Cahmel,” he repeated. “It is I, the one you vanquished in the arena.”

“Aha. The one who had fought mudcrabs more fearsome than–”

“Yes, right, that was I.”

“Fair enough. What are you doing here, spirit?”

“It is required of every man, that the spirit within him should walk far and wide, and if that spirit does not reflect well upon his environment in life, he must do so in death. This, I am afraid, is my charge. Why did I walk through the guilds and organizations of this realm, never questioning my allegiance or my odds of survival? Were there no indications of the stupidity of my deeds?”

“Well,” I said, “I may assist you there.”

“You are a true friend, if no more fearsome than a mudcrab,” said the ghost. “Thank ‘ee!”

“You will be presented,” said I, “with three rants.”

The First of the Three Rants

“To begin with, we must venture into the past, to when the Arena was founded.”

Through the power of description, storytelling, acting, and unflattering impersonations, I related to him my impression of the Arena’s founding. The historical details were perhaps papered over somewhat, but the spirit of the story, I believe, was preserved.

Two men stood in an empty courtyard. Ahead of them was a stack of stone, a set of plans, labor, space…and opportunity, sweet as the sweetroll left unwrapped next the imp gall and raw crab meat in the adventurer’s backpack.

“Alright,” said the first planner. “This is going to be awesome! We’ve been given the green light to set up an Arena. We’re going to make a fortune!”

“I know, right? Now, let’s block out where the buildings are going. I’m thinking we have a staircase that leads down into the ground…”

“For no reason,” said the first, nodding.

“For no reason, right, exactly. This leads to an area where three or four combatants can practice at a time, and four or five may rest at a time. That’ll give the Yellow and Blue teams both a place to recuperate and practice. Then there will be a staircase that leads upwards and exits out into the Blue Team cage of the Arena.”

“Right. Where’ll the Yellow Team cage go?”

“Uh, hello? On the opposite side. Duh.”

“But…you just indicated that Yellow and Blue team access the Arena from the same door.”

“Right, the door that leads to the Blue Team cage.”

“So…how’ll Yellow Team get over to their cage?”

“They…” His browed knotted. “I guess they go through the Blue Team cage.”

“But it’s locked before the fight begins. That’s the whole point of having the cages there.”

“I guess they just climb over it.”

“That’s not actually possible.”

“That’ll be their problem, okay? For symmetry’s sake, you gotta have the Blue Team cage and door on one side, the Yellow team cage and door on the other.”

“Wait, you just said Yellow team door.”

“Yeah. See, if the Blue guy wins, he leaves via the Blue door—in the Blue cage–and if the Yellow guy wins, he goes back to the Yellow cage and goes through theYellow door.”

“Which leads…?”

“I dunno. Bathroom or something.”

“I guess it doesn’t really…wait, what do you mean, ‘if the Blue guy wins,’ ‘if the Yellow guy wins?’ Surely even if they lose, they’re still going to get to leave?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, what, do they just have to pitch a tent over the grate or something?”

“Dude, what part of Arena do you not get?”

“I don’t follow.”

“If they lose, obviously, they die.”

The other man’s face blanched in an instant.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Okay, whoah, I thought the whole dying thing was pretty self-explanatory. It’s a gladiatorial arena. Obviously every fight’s going to be to the death.”

“That’s not how gladiators work! Otherwise you don’t get career gladiators!”

“Pfft. Gradually building up the skill level and fanbase of a combatant? What’s the point of that?”

“Look, we’re…I mean, we’re doing like a couple dozen fights a day, right?”

“That’s the idea.”

“So that’s more than ten people killed every single day.”

“Sure.”

“And the Emperor signed off on this?”

“Sure.”

“This is barbaric!”

“Meh.”

“Look, there’s just no reason this has to be to the death. We’ve got healing magic. We’ve got protection magic. Hell, we can even enchant sticks to drain fatigue so you can have completely nonlethal bouts. This wouldn’t hurt our profits one bit. It would even help, because the odds of crowd favorites sticking around are much higher, and the experienced fighters are actually around to keep fighting next week. More poor people join because it’s better than faking an elderly accent to beg with, and more skilled adventurers join because it’s actually less dangerous than hunting wild bastards or whatever it is the Fighter’s Guild is doing this week. Why, exactly, do we have to set up a murder factory?”

“More people will show up.”

“More people in this reasonably enlightened, actually quite progressive town, with lots of respectable high-society people in our very affluent districts, will want to watch what amounts to hobo bloodsports than a nonlethal, sportsmanlike duel? And besides, if we shoot for submission rather than outright murder, there’s still the chance of someone accidentally getting killed. If there’s a chance of seeing blood, it’s a lot more tantalizing to someone than just going in knowing you’re going to see a murder. You show up more often, because each time, you’re like, ‘Hey, this might be the time Smelly Dan the Nordman swings his hammer a little too hard and knocks a guy’s eyebrows through his occipital lobe.’”

“Look, we don’t have to worry too much about that. We’ll get packed houses every night anyway.”

“…I guess.”

“And once we get the people, we start making money hand over fist. Trust me, it’ll all shake out alright.”

The Second of the Three Rants:

“My,” remarked the ghost, “I hadn’t considered any of that. Now that you mention it, though, it did seem strange how I was forced to climb over the outer walls this morning to get into my half of the Arena.”

“There is no part of the Arena’s founding that sustains scrutiny.”

“What of it, though? They’ve doubtless made great profits off of their work.”

“You would think this, perhaps. Attend to the second rant, and have this train of thought amended.”

I began to conjure a second image, of the current owner of the arena seated at a small table. He was there with his family, which consisted his wife and no-one else; there are, in fact, no children anywhere in Cyrodiil, tiny or otherwise. And if his family was meager, then his meal was even more so. There was naught but a crust of bread upon the table, and only a bottle of cheapest wine at his disposal.

“Alas!” he cried. “If only a profit could be wrested from the Arena!”

“Now, now,” said the wife, “why torment yourself with impossibilities? You know as well as I there is no way to make money off of a regularly packed stadium of onlookers.”

“There is just so much overhead. The money to be paid to combatants for winning, the money for providing the uniforms, the money for the trainer and bet-taker’s salaries…and what have we to counterbalance it? Nothing but what money we make from selling the weapons, shields, and helmets of those who fall within our walls. Often this is worth less than the prize we award the victor.”

“Aha! I have an idea. Why don’t you sell the body armor of the combatants?”

“They are made to wear uniforms, remember?”

“Ah, yes.”

“And the betting—oh, if I could find the individual who insisted that hosting bets was an excellent way to turn a profit from a spectator sport, I would visit great violence upon him! On the strength of his suggestion, I made betting a requirement for spectators to get inside—the only requirement, in fact. And yet, as often as not, fate makes me poorer rather than richer!”

“Are you sure you’ve implemented the system correctly?”

“How could I fail to? It’s rather simple. They bet on either the Yellow team or the Blue team—“

“Ah! Could they be biasing their bets based on whichever combatant is the stronger?”

“No, impossible, the bets are placed completely sight-unseen. It is essentially a fifty percent chance of victory on each occasion.”

“If they lose?”

“We keep their money for themselves.”

“And if they win?”

“We double their money.”

The wife frowned. “Well, the math seems solid to my eyes.”

“Indeed! A large pool of people gives us a sum of money, and each has a fifty percent chance of taking twice that amount back. And yet, at the end of each round of betting, we end up in the same position we started in! I just don’t understand it.” He sighed. “And that is on days when our money doesn’t vanish entirely. I don’t understand it—the chest we keep our money in is securely locked, and on full display outside—right where the guard passes by every five minutes or so. And yet, sometimes, the money vanishes!”

“No!” exclaimed the wife.

“It’s true. You would think a lock of that caliber would be enough to repel most robbers. It’s as if there’s some critical mass of thieves, some organization of them, inside this very city!”

The Last of the Rants:

“This is indeed most vexing,” said the ghost. “Both the past and present of the Arena do little to paint its origins, and its current operations, in a positive light. Suddenly, I am forced to question why anyone has ever joined the organization.”

“That brings me to the third vision I wish to present to you.”

“What does this contain?”

“This is a vision of my future…and of yours.”

He pulled himself to attention.

“Picture this,” said I. “An Arena staircase. It is this time tomorrow, when I am called upon to face my next opponent, who I have every reason to believe is precisely as skilled as I am. I am fighting for the princely sum of another fifty gold. The staircase is empty. Do you understand why?”

“Is it because–”

“It’s because I’ve quit to join an organization that has a survival rate that’s more than fifty percent for every single mission, one that’s not going to collapse in a few years under it’s stupefying lack of income, and one whose advancement requires the deaths of fewer clueless innocents than the fast track of the Dark Brotherhood.”

“I see.”

He thought upon this, and I could see my words settling into his transparent, naked soul. Eventually, he smiled.

“I think I understand now. Yes, I understand the folly of my mortal ways. This ectoplasmic coil is one that I built for myself, and this burden of death is one that I deserve richly. How could I have not seen my foolishness? You have truly enlightened me, Cahmel. How could I begin to repay you?”

“This brings me to your future. Picture this: the clearance shelf at the local alchemist.”

I had no further intercourse with spirits, but lived upon the Kill Monsters and Loot Them principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of me, that I chose my organizations well, if such a thing could be done. And so, as I then observed: screw the Arena, I’m moving on.