A Tomato in Jail

The cell was cold, my prospects bleak—and that was before considering my ripe condition. I am sure that there are many worse fates in this realm than imprisonment, but I am willing to wager that prison time as a tomato ranks surprisingly high amongst them.

Yet here is how the chronicles of the first Tomato Mage of Cyrodiil began. The day began, like many have in my life, with insult: some horrible Dark Elf in the prison cell across me, sneering at my predicament. I would die in these cells, he proclaimed with an air of triumph. I don’t mean to bring race into this tale, but as a Person of Colour (Red) and loyal subscriber to the Breton Mail, I must say I do not care for those melanin elves.

His words, sickening as they may be, left a mark. It was a terrifying thought, to be sure. Would I truly spoil in these dank cells, rotting away without ever seeing my beloved again; without rustling the human hair of my only boy, Pierre-Louis Gaston de Wet the Third? As I sit here now, I can still hear his mischievous laugh, see her radiant smile, feel the quiet ritual of sitting together at the dinner table, savoring Madeleine cake dipped in tea.

Yet, like morning dew vanishing under the first light of dawn, these memories slip through me, fragile and fleeting. I cannot help but wonder: will there come a day when nothing remains of my former life? Will there be a day when I am more tomato than man? I am not ready to die. I shall not leave this world as nothing more than a giant sentient tomato casting fireballs from his hands. I demand to leave a legacy.

The wisps of fate heard my cry. It was then, out of nowhere, that the Emperor appeared. Wow. While this might betray the columnists of my beloved newspaper (who routinely questioned his imperial ancestry and called him a dreaded Akaviri sympathiser), I must admit I was star-struck in his presence. Something about his gait, his form-fitting cloak, his baritone voice. It really was the whole package.

His guards rudely forced their way into my cell, demanding I stand against the wall, but not him. No, he was a smooth talker. Said he had seen me before, in his dreams no less. Calm down Casanova. I thought to question what the Emperor of Tamriel is dreaming about doing with a giant tomato, but decided it would be unwise to kink-shame our fearless leader.

Enamoured as he seemed to be with me, it was all the more shocking when the Emperor abruptly broke from our conversation mid-sentence, and shuffled away into the dark catacombs, his guards hurrying to keep up with the surprisingly sprightly old man. Perhaps Wolf News was right: the Emperor’s mind was slipping, just like his predecessor Jorelius Bydan.

The Rat Genocide

Regardless, the door was opened, granting me my exit from the prison. As I rolled out, I bumped into his guard Baurus, who immediately told me to stay out of their way. I apologised politely: after all, I am but a humble tomato mage, and I meant no insult to my saviours.

Of course, no sooner had I grovelled to his steel boot than the whole retinue was attacked by a group of assassins. Typical. Sensing my skills were not of use in this battle, I hid behind a column, watching the guards make short work of the attackers; well, all but Captain Renault, blessed be her name, who was cut down savagely. Heartbreaking, I took a moment of silence to mourn her death, before looting everything I could find from her body, wrenching the armour off her still-warm body. Waste not, want not.

Presumably disgusted by my treatment of their dead, the retinue vanished through a locked door, leaving me suddenly alone. My only passageway through was, luck befitting, a rat-infested cavern. Not only am I terrified of the dark, in true tomato fashion, but I also fear the claws of the rats — it only takes a few rakes to spilt my skin and burst forth the juice beneath the surface.

While I am hardly practiced in the physical arts, being a mage known throughout the land as ‘surpassingly skilled with a fireball’ (Mages International, 3E 421), I grabbed the Katana from the body of Renault and turned to the rats before me. They squeaked in terror as I sliced my way through their flanks, carving and dicing their matted pelts, cackling with bloodlust as their entrails covered my red body. It had been some time since I had taken a life, and I treated it with the appropriate reverence:

Wiping away the mess, I proceeded through the caverns, stumbling across the deceased remains of a Goblin shaman. I feel a degree of affinity with these green-bodied brethren, but not enough to stop me looting the laces off his corpse. As if in punishment for my grave robbing, a zombie lurched out at me, taking out a huge chunk of my health bar hurting me something fierce. I may be a mage of the fruit arts, but like all self-respecting members of the living harbour a deep and uncompromising hatred of the undead. I sprinted past the ghoul, dodging rats and goblins as I zoomed through the darkness.

Microaggressions and Master Signs

Carrying forward with some speed, I once again barged into the Emperor and his guards as they cleared the room of some more assassins. Baurus, noting my arrival, this time decided to accuse me of working with the assassins. Buddy, I’m a giant incarcerated tomato mage: nobody works with me. The Emperor, in a wisdom I thought beyond him, had my back, sensing the great power of the pulp within me. I regretted not voting for him in the last Imperial Elections.

He asked me for my celestial backstory, seeking to know if I was a TrueBeliever™ like him. I informed him that I was born under the Apprentice sign, fortifying my Magicka by 100 but leaving me more susceptible to magic; or so my GP had told me. Seeming not to care much for my star sign, the Emperor immediately told me that his death was imminent. Some astrologer you are.

Baurus, emboldened by the revelation of the Emperor’s death cult, decided I would now serve him and thrust a torch in my chest, telling me to carry the light and stick close to him. These unionised Blades are far too smug; If they only knew the value of honest hard work. Whatever Baurus, I’ll do your bidding, if it gets me out of these sewers.

The Emperor pulled me aside, the lucidity quickly vanishing from his elder eyes. He begin rambling about a lost son before passing a red amulet into my palms. The Amulet of Kings, he calls it, but I picked up on the racial undertones pretty quickly. You might be the Emperor of Tamriel, but you’re still just another White Man. I barely had time to lecture him about the weight of his microaggression in a heteronormative society and the importance of intersectional feminist racial politics before an assassin burst from the wall and stabbed him fatally in the neck. Whoops.

Fresh Drip and Forbidden Ruins

At last, I emerged from the sewers into the open world of Cyrodiil. My red, round form was battered, but my resolve remained unbroken. One thing is certain: the journey to reclaim my human form has only just begun.

"BY THE GODS, IS THAT MAN HORRIBLY SUNBURNED? WHY IS HE SO RED?"
– ANON CYRODIIL RESIDENT

Now that I’m free from my chains and the rags that covered me, I’ve decided to don these spiffy red Mythic Dawn robes, which I’m sure don’t implicate me in any form of terrorist organisation and only provide me with some fashionable threads.

Freshly dripped up, I decided to investigate these curious stone ruins. I was immediately set upon by a variety of crabs and smelly bandits. Unfortunately for these foes, in the haze of freedom I had rediscovered the potency of fire, and with some mirth I set upon my tormenters with a stream of fire blazing from my hands. Soon all attackers lie as ash and charred shells. I scavenged some succulent meat from their bodies, promising to cook up a Crab Linguine when I had the chance.

Aware that I would be violating the Anvil Convention, I shot a single fireball into a bandit's back, blasting a singing hole through to his chest. Luckily, I can’t be prosecuted if none make it out alive. I continued through, mirthfully slaying my opponents, until their leader lay lifeless.

But the deeper I pressed into their lair, the deeper my fear grew. This was no place for a tomato mage, lost in the subterranean caverns. I thrive in sun; in markets and guild halls, not in these lightless compositions where colour goes to die. Down here, nothing ripened. I had to get out—I needed air. I turned tail and scooted my tomato form as fast as I could to the entrance.

Finally, the door rose before me. Salvation. It was time to make my mark on this world.