I was now left with a conundrum. Now that I had free will, what should I do with it? Perhaps some guidance was in order. I spied a crumpled map near the lair’s entrance, dusty and damp, yet serviceable. Much of this land is unfamiliar to me, hailing as I do from the greatest province in all of Tamriel, our noble High Rock.
"Goodness, have you heard of this nasty business in Cyrodiil? Some imperial guards were performing an entirely routine residential enquiry of those ‘Dunmer migrants’—checking papers, asking perfectly normal questions... well, they were set upon by a group of youth! Outrageous!"
– The Breton Mail, Editorial Archive
Cheydinhal! That was it. I recall my sweet cherub mentioning her boyfriend’s cousin, Edgar, lived there. Surely he would offer a blood relative lodging and food. He doesn’t need to know about the imprisonment part—or the current lack of a skeletal structure.
Alchemical Liberation at Roland’s Cabin
As the path gently curled up a hill, I noticed a cabin belonging to none other than Roland Jenseric—my old bunkmate from UAM! Go Owls! Roland was always playing ‘Edvyr Forty Scrolls’ while I, ever inventive, used transmutation spells to ‘liberate’ underwear from the female mages tower. Those were the days. You couldn’t pull a stunt like that nowadays, not with all these ‘elder-sighted’ students prattling about ‘morality.’
I knocked, but no answer came. While waiting, I examined his wonderful garden: peonies, lavender, and alkanet. Naturally, I compulsively picked every last plant and stowed them under my robes. These will make a fine potion indeed. I even settled into his fireplace to wait, though my tomato form made sitting a delicate matter.
Civic Duties and Horse Liberation
Finally, I arrived in Cheydinhal proper. Before reaching the gates, I spotted a stable. I am unsure if it was the hunger or the fatigue, but a wicked idea struck me. I opened the gates, leaving the horses free to roam. No longer shall their hooves be beholden to the whims of their slave masters!
A guard arrived, frowning. In a moment of quick thinking, I asked the most natural question that came to mind: "Where's the castle?" The man was a born tour guide. He began to list landmarks with such excitement I thought he’d offer an audiobook tour. He finally waved me through.
Inside, I faced an unenviable choice: The Newlands Lodge (run by untrustworthy migrants for 10 gold) or the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn (Imperial extortion at 40 gold). Neither was workable. I sought Edgar. Instead, I found a plump, mead-soaked woman who mumbled about the value of a good "red man." Terrifying.
A Divine Vision of the Stock Market
I finally found Edgar's house, only to see a sign: For Sale. I fell to my knees, deflated. With nowhere to turn, I sought the Great Chapel of Arkay. I sat by the pews and closed my eyes in reverence.
Then, a vision: Crates upon crates in a bustling market. Plump, juicy tomatoes being snatched up for gold, while the bruised ones were left to rot on straw. Hairy men in white singlets chanted: “True power comes from that which can be used.”
It struck me with divine clarity. This world has no patience for the unusual unless it is useful. A tomato left on the vine may be beautiful, but a tomato in a pot is powerful.
No longer would I demand respect. I would make myself indispensable. I would embed myself in the kitchens of Cyrodiil—guilds, factions, and favours—simmering quietly until the power of this realm bends to my demands.
I stood, juice steadied, resolve firm. Cyrodiil would learn to respect the Tomato Mage. I found a quiet corner of the chapel between some wooden barrels and surrendered to sleep. It was just like our school camp to Morrowind.