Category: Existentialism

Click here to read part 2.

Revitalized and slightly inebriated, I exit the inn.  Then I realize it’s nighttime, so I stand in the cobblestone street for 9 straight hours, unwavering.  I realize this seems like an odd choice, seeing as I just left an inn, but I don’t want bedbugs.  Actually I just don’t want to level, and sleeping would force me to gain intelligence, willpower, and whatever other 3rd skill I would choose.  But I don’t want to, because then every single living creature in Cyrodiil would also gain a level, thus perpetuating the endless arms-race.  So nay, I shall maintain the status quo, staunchly refusing to gain knowledge and wisdom out of fear of change…just like a Republican, BAM!

Trance-like state of suspended animation complete, I greet the new day.  The Jemane brothers also stand, having joined me in an exercise of suspension-trauma.  I shake the blood clots from my legs and resume jogging.  My first order of business is to examine the local Skingrad chapel.  I circle, but no trees ever quite line up with its facade.  Bummer.  That would have been an easy resolution.  I consult the painting again.

The green blobs, or Bob Rosses, if you will, might indicate their species.  I decide that they’re oak, and impressively the game does do a good job of emulating real biodiversity.  And I know from playing the game that oak trees primarily inhabit the Great Forest, which means Chorrol.  I will therefore resume my travels, likely having to slaughter countless bandits and endangered timber wolves along the way.

I leave the town, head north around the city to travel east, and slaughter an endangered timber wolf.  Maybe not sit on the road?  Or not attack me on sight?  And don’t wolves usually travel in packs?  Lone wolfs are generally young males in search of a pack.  So Cyrodiil is a giant bachelor’s club for timber wolves.  As I ponder how many wolves I’ve killed, I fear for their next generation.

My fears are assuaged when I happen upon another timber wolf, and have to kill it.

Then I’m accosted by two imps and a troll.  Tired of the pointless slaughter, I turn invisible.  The immediately disoriented fauna give up, then attack the Jemane brothers who, being slower than I, are just now catching up.  Curious, that they know my exact whereabouts, despite me leaving them behind and turning invisible.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and I walk away from the ensuing violence to continue my trek, indifferent to the life and death struggle behind me.

My invisibility spell wears off as I emerge from the forest to the view of Lake Rumare.  A decade ago, the graphics were phenomenal.  They still are, in a retro way.  But like any game discovered long after its prime, the Internet is filled with Millennials who are certainly less appreciative of this game than I.  But I will not let this game go quietly into the night.  It’s going to survive!

Fortunately, my waning repertoire of bad jokes meets its end when Oblivion crashes to the dashboard.  Perhaps this quest is folly after all.

–Simon

In Part 1, I detailed how I, the ever-inquisitive and aging gamer, wandered County Anvil, looking for a non-committal adventure with which to waste a few minutes of time while I sought a distraction from life.

And readers of low expectations were not disappointed!  The gradual mystery of whether or not in-game paintings were impressionistic recreations of in-game vistas was revealed (spoiler: they were).  I then imposed drama upon the NPC whom I concluded was the artist.  But, there are many in-game paintings, and I ended the post on a cliffhanger.  Well fear not, reader of obviously low expectations, for I alluded to a continuation, and I will not disappoint.

Anvil, being at the end of the road, made the choice easy: I would go east.  The artist to which I alluded at the end of the last post, Rythe Lythandas, lives in Cheydinhal, also to the east.  But this isn’t some willy-nilly quest of purpose, no, ’tis a quest of vague direction.  I would therefore amble in Cheydinhal’s general direction, viewing the sights along the way.  And it would be a long way indeed, for Cheydinhal and Anvil are at the opposite ends of Cyrodiil.  But if there’s anything I’ve learned from classical fantasy, it’s that accomplished wizards wander unpredictably in accordance with their own whims, so in the spirit of role-playing, this quest felt right.  Objective defined, I finally stepped off the doorstep of the Inventius’ home.

And I walked, jogged maybe.  I dunno, true walking in Oblivion would exhaust about any gamer’s patience.  It might be unrealistic, but I’ll just say I have magical wizard powers of endurance.

In short order, I had made it back to Gottshaw Inn.  I thought to ignore it, but surely there must be more paintings inside.  And after all, if I’m embarking on this trek to visit a painter, I should be a little more versed in the art, beyond the single work of a painter that isn’t him.  If nothing else, that might come off as a little rude.  So I entered the Inn, much to the indifference of its proprietor, and examined the paintings.  I quickly realized, however, that those of natural landscapes would be near impossible to find.  I needed a painting with an identifiable landmark–an edifice of some sort.  None of the other paintings within bore such distinctions though, so I left.

It is at this time that I should mention the Jemane brothers.  Their quest, which had me pointlessly unraveling their family’s past, ordinarily concludes with reuniting and returning them to their reclaimed family estate.  However, in an act of cruelty, I refrained from the last step–walking them down the hill outside Chorrol and to their home.  Why?  Because, until I do so, they remain trapped in indentured servitude.  Actually, they just follow me indefinitely, but while doing so, I effectively have two unkillable bodyguards.  This means that I don’t necessarily have to fight things that I deem unworthy of my time.  So the Jemanes throw themselves eternally upon hostiles, getting incapacitated repeatedly, until their opponent is eventually vanquished through sheer perseverance.  Is this wrong?  Probably.

No matter.  As we travel east, they kill a wolf.  I pick mushrooms.  They kill some bandits.  I look at the giant Nirnroot growing on the bank of a small pond.  They kill some more bandits.  A bandit chooses to attack me first and I deftly kill him instantly with a lightening bolt, then pick flax seed.  In short-an uneventful and typical cross-country walkabout.

At last, I reach Skingrad.  I pick some grapes and mush them up, making grape juice I would presume, which restores fatigue.  Sugar rush.  Feeling energized, I enter the town proper and make for the first inn, because from experience, inns have a lot of paintings.  I enter the West Weald Inn–where I remember defending myself against a certain Else God-Hater–someone who apparently  hated gods but had no problem worshiping an elf who used profane rituals to ascend to demigoddom.  Some people have many layers I guess.  In hindsight, I don’t think I actually fought her.  I just turned invisible while the town guard wailed on her, because I’m the archmage and I don’t brawl with common street rabble (sneer of condescension).

Anyway, I work my way around the Inn, examining paintings for one which contained a landmark.  Ultimately, I find this:

A church isn’t exactly a rare item in Cyrodiil, but there’s still a finite number.  This, at least, lies within the realm of possibility.

I pop downstairs to greet Sinderion, because I remember I have a batch of nirnroot for him, then needlessly buy and drink a bottle of wine from the barkeep to celebrate my evolving quest.

–Simon