The Missing Painter

I awoke with the morning bells, my skin still cool from the chapel stone and my head heavy with half-remembered visions of markets and meals. The Gods had spoken, and I resolved not to waste the momentum.

First things first: presentation. To be remembered, you need to leave an impression, and my dusty clothes were just not cutting it. These Mythic Dawn robes, while striking, had earned a few suspicious looks from the towns guards. I don’t think it’s fair to say that just because I am wearing the uniform of a domestic terrorist organisation means I necessarily support their ideological goals — after all, I could just be a collector, or a provocateur exercising my freedom of speech to make biting political commentary on the state’s knee-jerk reliance on repressive apparatus to regulate acceptable speech —but I had found in a previous life that articulating the finer points of my constitutional commentary was not a quick way to make friends. Their loss, I say.

My first move of the day then was to head into ‘Borba’s Goods and Stores’, run by one of my greatest rivals (outside of fruit worms): an orc. Sacre bleu!

I’m not sure if she recognised me as pure Breton stock, bright red as my face was, but I made sure to let her know where my loyalties lay. In a way, selling off my ill-gotten collection of sewer-stained prison gear and cultist finery to an Orc was a form of protest. I hope this ‘Borba’ struggles to find a use for it; though I fear she has no end of no-gooders to pawn them off to. Despite my unease at their dastardly ways, I purchased a set of tasteful city clothes from the Orc, hoping that they would be better placed to curry favour in the highest courts of the land.

As I walked out of the shop, dressed to the Nines, I immediately felt a change in the air, the stares of the commoners softening. Further proof, as if I needed any, that it is more offensive to to dress poorly than to be a giant flame casting tomato. We truly do live in a society.

Nevertheless, it was time to get to work. To build my reputation as the most dependable and useful tomato in all the lands. Truth be told, I didn’t have much of a strict plan to do this, per se.

Back at home, in Wayrest, I had scaled the ladder of social mobility simply by, well, existing. I was a dashingly handsome (sic) experienced mage (sic) who fit neatly into the social apparatus of daily life – it was never a question that I would rise to the head of my local Thatched Housing Association (THA). You know, I even met the King of Wayrest through a THA gala event to raise gold to build our second arboretum—oh, what a night that was. Wine was flowing like the Black Marsh itself as the finest socialites, guild masters and even royalty mingled in the Grand Hall, laughter and cheer ricocheting down the marble walls. I never felt ill at ease rubbing shoulders with these powerful men; cracking wise, talking about our wives, making snide but accurate comments about the smelliness of the peasant class. It all just seemed, well, natural.

So I was remarkably unfamiliar with the concept of demonstrating my value to others. I figured this involved some sort of show of fealty, which from what I gathered came about from undertaking something known as a ‘task’ for others. But how to find these ‘tasks’?

I set about it in the only way I could think of: going up to every single person who walked past me in the street, demanding they tell me about all the ‘rumours’ they had heard recently. Shockingly, it was quite effective. The people of Cheydinhal were more than comfortable telling a giant tomato man they had never met every single rumour, gossip and story they had ever heard. Maybe Gossip Girls of Tamriel was onto something.

The Money Ritual of Art

It was during one such conversation that I heard whispers of a terrible disappearance that had rocked the once sleepy town; Rythe Lythandas, a painter of some renown, had vanished without a trace from his home studio.

The name hit me like a thrown brick. I knew it. I had heard it from my second most trusted news source: the local street preacher outside my local inn. My truthseeker, Aelius Joranes, had spoken with some authority that fashionable painters were being used as financial cut-outs for the Deep Imperial State, laundering obscene sums of gold through “art sales” to bankroll satanic Daedric death cults operating beneath a bread store in the Imperial City.

You may find this hard to believe, dear reader, but listen to this: one of Lythandas’s paintings had sold for ten thousand gold coins. Ten. Thousand. For paint on a canvas! Who even knew that fingers could count that high. Payment on that scale is not culture — that’s a money ritual. That’s how they do it. I’m telling you.

"They are dumping alchemical runoff into the marshes of Black Marsh. Yes. Runoff. Potions. Enchantment residue. All of it. Straight into the water. And what happens when you do that? They are turning the frogs gay." – Aelius Joranes

Whether Lythandas was a patsy, a true believer, or merely another pawn of the shadow cabal, I decided this was my moment. I had no doubt in my mind that this disappearance was related to their satanic rituals, and exposing a man at the centre of such madness would raise my profile considerably. Besides, if he’s been getting paid gold like that, I’m sure he could lend a few for his tomato saviour.

I decided to head to the scene of the crime, but on my way I was rudely intercepted by another Orc.

Goodness, I feel like a common street urchin in Daggerfall: you can’t shake a leg without being accosted by one of these violent criminals. As befitting their nature, this beast was a member of the local Fighter’s Guild, and began growling to me about the need to deliver some weapons to some accursed mine. I’ve never been particularly strong under pressure, and certainly not when staring down the wet mandibles of an Orc barbarian, so I accepted this brutes demands without much fight (bar some snide internal comments). I suppose it would behove me to have some friends who are useful with a sword, but only if there are some non-Orc members of this association.

An Artist Who Refuses to Dream

Dispensing with this annoyance, I made my way to Rythe’s house, barging through the front door. If the man is truly missing, he won’t mind. Inside, I was greeted by what must have been his widow, a sobbing mess of a Dark Elf known as Tivela. She told me through babbling tears that her incredible painter of a husband had locked himself in his studio to ‘concentrate’ before vanishing without a trace. She says the door had never been opened, and that it must have been some sort of magical sorcery to spirit her husband away.

More confident than ever that this was the work of the satanic cabal, I comforted the crying widow and assured her that I would find her man. Holding her tightly in my arms, I realised with some twinge of sadness that it was the first I had felt the touch of a woman since I had assumed this tomato form. My squishy skin may have deformed against her body, and I may have leaked some juice in my trousers, but it was a reminder of the power of intimacy. I looked forward to feeling this once more with my beloved.

But now, it was time to look for her husband. It seemed too easy to suspect that the answer would be found in the room that he had disappeared from, so I started my investigations upstairs, in their dining room, still set for two people.

Curious. If this Tivela really thought her husband wasn’t returning, why had she plated him up a warm meal of venison meat cube? Perhaps she knew more than she was letting on. Feeling confident that the satanists had devoured her husband by now, I felt no guilt polishing off his meal. Consider it the first instalment of her finders fee.

Unfortunately, the rest of the upstairs led me no closer to finding the whereabouts of this acclaimed painter, but the paintings that scattered the walls did provide me some valuable insight into the mans artistic principles, and as a someone who minored in Painting 101 I must confess I found it deeply troubling.

These paintings displayed a deeply conservative and, well, frankly insecure relationship with colour. His palette showed a rigid dependence on realistic colour, with objects rendered not as they appear under light, atmosphere, or emotion, but as they are known to be. It’s so… literal, that it seems itself lifeless in its slavish devotion to reality; grass is always verdantly green, sky always bright blue, the sun a disc shining gold. Where is the contrast, where is the artistry, where is the passion? The result is a surface that describes reality without interpreting it.

This is art that refuses to dream. And as I stood there, a sentient tomato suffused with more emotional nuance than his entire body of work, I could not help but conclude that if this man had truly vanished, it was perhaps because he had never quite arrived in the first place.

Of course, I still had to find the man, so I headed downstairs into his studio, gracefully unlocked by his sobbing widow. I made no mention of my afternoon feast. That’s when I saw it. Resting innocently on an easel in the centre of the room was a very peculiar painting that I knew with great confidence led to the ‘painted world’. Having spent a few years in my youth working as a newspaper delivery man, I knew well enough not to trust any art pieces that offer transportation to another realm, but I had unfortunately promised the heaving bosoms of Tivela that I would find her husband. I touched the canvas.

In an instant, I was standing in a strange forest, its colours too vivid, its depth unsettlingly shallow. It resembled the Great Forest of Cyrodiil, but there was something deeply unsettling about the scene.

The Interrogation

Before I had the chance to get my bearings, Rythe himself appeared before me, appearing whole and intact. He was alive! That didn’t mean the satanists hadn’t done something to him: Aelius has spoken on many occasions of dark incantations these deep court cultists use on their prey to shrivel their manhoods or probe their rectums. I took a step back, weary of the potential splash-back from a leaky anus, but Rythe was not to be deterred.

He confessed, with an air of shame, that some common thief had broken into his studio and stolen the Brush of Truepaint: a relic of such obscene creative power that it allows the artist to quite literally enter his own work. This sounded like an item of immense dark power: I knew at once that these satanic cultists were behind this.

Naturally, my instincts as an investigative journalist kicked in at once. I pressed him, repeatedly and with growing intensity, to clarify the ethnic background of this scoundrel who had taken his precious Brush. Rythe waved the question away, insisting it was “irrelevant” and that he was “trying to explain how we can escape.” I shouldn’t have expected anything more from one of these creative types.

But Rythe’s confession did not end there. With a tremor of guilt, he admitted his deepest deception: all of his celebrated paintings were not the fruit of talent or inspiration, but of this magical implement. He was nothing more than a two-bit painter aided by the Imperial Elite as a prop to further their own dark agenda. A tale as old as time.

He went on to explain that this thief had then fled headlong into one of Rythe’s paintings, vanishing from the material world entirely. Once inside, to protect himself from capture, he had painted a small army of trolls to guard himself, apparently unaware that trolls, whether real or rendered, are temperamentally opposed to loyalty. Rhyte explained with some apparent glee that these monsters had turned on their creator and tore him in twain.

Before I had time to clarify what colour of twain, Rhyte informed me that without the power of the Brush, we were to remained trapped here in this painted world, beset by an army of hungry trolls with a hankering for human flesh. I didn’t feel the need to inform him that, as a walking tomato I was probably of limited interest to these trolls.

I decided to broach what may have been an uncomfortable topic for the painter, but I needed every piece of information before I could embark on my mission. I asked him if he had ever done anything to anger the satanists that ran the Deep Imperial State; anything that would explain why they had sent this thief of ill repute after him. The fool simply stared at me with confused eyes, blathering that he didn’t know what I was talking about. I could sense he was hiding something from me, his eyes quickly darting back and forth, but I had no time for these games. I grabbed him with a strength once thought beyond me, surprising the meek painter. Now I had him.

“Tell me who the satanists are, oil man,” I demanded, swelling my body to an imperious height, “or you’ll be cursed to walk as a giant berry like myself!”

He began to tremble in my arms. “T–Tomato is a vegetable, sir!”

“Wrong answer.”

I drove my first into his gut, sending him crumpling to the floor in a heap. A faint sob came from his body, but I was finished with him. I had a job to do.

As a man turned tomato experienced in the dark arts of destruction, a few magic painting trolls didn’t scare me much. It was the possibility of a satanist death cult behind them that had me on edge. I set off into the dreamlike woods, arms ready to cast balls of incandescent fire. It wasn’t long before I found one of the foul beasts, lumbering aimlessly around the forest like a hill-person. With reckless abandon, I hurled a fireball at his disgusting frame, his screams echoing throughout the woodland scene.

More of his compatriots, hearing the commotion, ran to his rescue, but their number was no match for my mage craft.

Fireball. A troll caught alight, crashing through the underbrush as it fled, howling.

Fireball. The skin sloughed off a foul creature in ashy sheets as its body temperature rose beyond what any living thing could withstand.

Fireball. It was over. Their charred corpses lay before me, and yet the victory tasted hollow. I had felt none of the usual rush as I watched the life drain from their dark beady eyes. Was I growing soft in this tomato form, or had the perversion of this painted world robbed the joy from my massacre?

I didn’t have time to ponder. There could be cultists nearby. I pressed forward, still ready for a fight. But none came. As I pushed into the last clearing of this world, I discovered the body of the thief–or what was left of him. Goodness. I carefully slipped a hand in his chest pocket, pulling out the Brush with great care to avoid the soup that had once been his insides, before rolling his face over gently to check his face. Bosmer. I should have known.

Having secured my cargo, I took a moment to take in the scene before me. Robbed of the danger of murderous trolls, and with no satanists in sight, I was able to appreciate the beauty of this painted world. Fake as it may be, there was something quite ethereal about this oil dimension.

With some triumph I returned to Rythe, who had risen from the ground where I had left him. If he was angry at me from our earlier tussle, he didn’t let on, and when I presented him with the Brush all hostilities evaporated. He took it with reverence, fingers trembling, and with a brisk flick of his wrist he opened up a portal back to his studio. Ever the gentleman, he insisted I walk through first. With some effort I squeezed through the portal and spilled onto the cold, hard floor of reality. Rythe followed with a great deal more elegance.

Tivela, hearing the commotion, burst through the door, and upon seeing her beloved husband–alive, and hardly the worse for wear–burst once more into tears and embraced the creative. It was a heartwarming sight of true love reunited, one almost powerful enough to make me forget Rythe’s connections to the Deep Imperial State. Almost. I knew he was hiding something. The moment his wife stepped away, I was going to find out what.

Before I had the chance to start my probe, Rythe turned to thank me for his rescue. His words gushed from his mouth, thanking me eternally for bringing him back to his sweet wife. In return, and as payment for my gallant rescue, he presented me with my prize. Against my better judgement, I buzzed with excitement as he turned around–who could tell what fantastical payment was in store for me? While I may bemoan his dark connections, you cannot doubt the great wealth contained in their evil halls, and who am I to say no to—

It was a fucking apron. He held it out to me, expectant smile peeled to his stupid face. An apron?! Who does he think I am, Gordren Ramseius? I am a fearsome tomato mage, not a simple-minded chef. If it can’t be consumed from the dead carcass of my foes, then I have no interest in eating it. Knowing that I was soon to interrogate the man, I bit my tongue and swallowed my anger; but he was not finished testing my patience.

Gift presented, he began to beg me not to tell anyone about the Brush. Exposure of his secret would ruin him, his reputation and finances tied so closely to the illusion of talent he presented to the world. Were the truth to emerge, he would be finished. Naturally, my first inclination was to storm out of this hovel and straight into the waiting hands of The Imperial Whisper, Cyrodiil’s finest purveyor of tabloid journalism. They would have a field day with this insulting little bug of a man.

However, after giving it a modicum of thought, I realised this information did present me with some leverage. If the famous Rythe Lythandas wanted my silence, he would have to buy it; and not with a simple dishcloth. The truth about what those imperial scoundrels were up to. About why they’d sent a thief after him. About what exactly he had done to earn their eye.

The Breadbasket Conspiracy

As his wife left to prepare a supper, I held Rythe back a moment, letting him know I wasn’t finished with him. A shadow passed over his face: he knew what was happening. With renewed vigour, I demanded answers. What dealings did he have with the Imperial elite? Why had they turned on him? Who had he wronged?

He sighed and sat down on a chair in the centre of the room. I waited, expectant, as he clearly composed himself. Here it was, the coming proof. His words, delivered with such pain, are seared into my mind.

“Friend”, he began, which was a bit strong as I had only just met the man; “You have bested me. You are right: I have been involved in machinations at the Court of Uriel Septum, blessed be his name. Our plans began during Sun’s Dawn, when Uriel announced during a consultative stakeholder meeting of the Artisan’s Guild that he would be streamlining Imperial expenditure.”

Rythe paused, as if this meant something. I was a tomato, not a bean counter.

“He cut funding to public chapels, scholars’ stipends, civic theatres, healing houses—anything that did not immediately increase trade throughput or border efficiency. He called it necessary discipline. The Elder Council called it responsible governance. We saw it for what it really was: a shift towards neo-feudalism and austerity, pushed by moneyed interests. Of course, there is always gold to funnel into the treasuries of war. Were you aware, tomato man, that in Rain’s Hand the Imperial treasury announced another loan of one-hundred thousand gold pieces to the city of Sentinel to continue their campaign of terror against the Orc peoples?”

Lacking an understanding of where Sentinel was or why they were embroiled in a conflict with those dastardly Orcs, I said nothing.

“A few of us—painters, poets, minor arcanists, the intelligentsia—began meeting in secret. We vowed to stand against tyranny in whatever way we could think of: candlelit community forums; pamphlets; protest marches through the cities of Cyrodiil; silent processions. To show power what the people thought of their plans. We knew more than most the importance of civic participation.”

Rythe looked to be consumed by the moment.

“We had barely begun drafting our Terms of Reference for our charity donation drive when the Emperor was assassinated and it all fell apart. I had wanted to continue, but there had been various schisms opened already between those who thought that it was more important to centre the lived experiences of the peasant class, those who thought that as creative types we had the economic freedom and emotional intelligence to speak on their behalf, and those who thought it was insensitive to continue so soon after another tragedy. The moment passed.”

He hesitated, then added offhandedly, “We did hold one meeting, just before the end. Honestly, it was quite beautiful: Cornelius brought hand-stitched tapestries he had learned from a merchant from the east, and the composer Jesan brought a small breadbasket for everyone. Very polite.”

I blinked. Breadbasket. Bread. My mind raced. A composer, a common man, had delivered a basket of bread to this confusing collection of rebels? What had Aelius said, that the cabal operated from beneath a breadshop in the Imperial City? This was not an innocent gift. No, this was a signal, from this ‘composer’ Jesan to his handlers. Another mission completed, with the bread as his calling card. Never trust a musician.

“Tell me, where had this Jesan come from?”

“Oh, I hardly remember, I think he was visiting from the west, but I can’t be sure. He was just a friend of the cause, you know.”

I had everything I needed and more. With my quest complete, and the name of this satanist in my possession, I bid Rythe well and left his humble home, eager for word to spread amongst the community of the helping hand that I, Ripeheart the Red, had lent to the great painter.

Keep this up and I’d be able to charge commission.