The Road to Cheydinhal

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. I spied the city of Cheydinhal, and a flicker of memory returned to me:

“Goodness, have you heard of this nasty business in Cyrodiil?” I tapped the Breton Mail paper on my lap. “Some imperial guards were performing an entirely routine residential enquiry of those ‘Dunmer migrants’ in Cheydinhal —honest protectors of the peace, doing their job; checking papers, asking perfectly normal questions about why they were seeking asylum, and what their intent — well, they were set upon by a group of youth! Harassment they called it! As if being woken by an armoured man demanding to know their grandmothers racial allegiances and if they had filled out their ‘Intent to Reside in Cyrodiil’ forms isn’t just simply good civic hygiene. Outrageous!”

“Cheydinhal?” she said, pausing only briefly before returning to her book. “Oh yes, that does remind me. I believe my boyfriend’s cousin lives there—Edgar is his name. I must ask him about how things are going.”

“Well, I should hope this Edgar is keeping himself home at night – it’s not safe these days!”

“Yes dear. He’s a bit of a homebody, I think — stays at home most days. Although, last time Dennis and I visited he gave us the master bedroom for the weekend, which was very generous of him, don’t you think? Oh, what a trip that was…”

That’s it! I could stay in Edgar’s house! Surely he would offer a blood relative lodging and food, while I rested from my long imprisonment. He, uh, doesn’t need to know about that part. It was a direct walk on the A2 Imperial Highway to Cheydinhal, which was good as I still lacked soled shoes. Feeling energised from my new found purpose, I wandered along the forested path, humming a happy tune. I could imagine my sweet cherub at home, wondering what has happened to the human man she loved so dearly. I am still here my lady love, deep within this tomato form, and I will find you again. I am sure of it.

Alchemical Liberation at Roland’s Cabin

Some time passed. As the path gently curled up a hill, I noticed a cabin appearing to my left. A signpost informed me that this was owned by none other than Roland Jenseric – what luck! It has been many moons now, but Roland was my bunkmate during my first year at UAM – go Owls! Gods, what a time we had — Roland playing ‘Edvyr Forty Scrolls’ among the alchemists while I, ever inventive, used a transmutation spell 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 new ‘elder-sighted’ students prattling about ‘morality’. Bah!

Changing moral currents of society aside, I simply must catch up with my man Roland. I headed up the path to his cabin, knocking triumphantly on his wooden door. Oh, he would be so excited to see what I had gotten up to. For the first time in a while, I felt no fear about what my appearance would lead to — I know Roland would have no issues with a tomato man, what with his many evenings spent rolling around with those pumpkins he animated to life.

Yet, no answer came. I knocked again, louder this time, and even called his name, my voice echoing faintly against the trees. As I waited, I examined his wonderful garden. A beautiful arrangement of peonies, lavender sprigs and alkanet flowers, tendered by what appeared to be an expert gardener. Of course, I compulsively picked every last plant, stowing them carefully under my robes. These will make a fine potion indeed.

Still, silence. Curiosity got the better of me, and I turned the latch. The door creaked open, inviting me in. I stepped cautiously into the cabin, sniffing a mix of woodsmoke, old parchment, and something faintly like burnt sugar. I found a chair by the fireplace and settled in, waiting with polite patience.

He had a rather extensive collection of novels, including the latest in the ‘Lusty Argonian Maid’ series; Roland you devil. My tomato form made sitting a delicate matter, but I managed not to roll into the flames. I imagined Roland bursting in at any moment, laughing at my tales of sewers, bandits, and crabs. Minutes ticked by. Then hours. Still, no Roland. Hunger gnawed at me, and the sun was already dipping toward the horizon. With a sigh that left a small smear of pulp on the floor, I decided it was time to leave; Cheydinhal would not wait, and neither, frankly, would dinner.

Civic Duties and Horse Liberation

The path from Roland’s house to the mighty city of Cheydinhal was paved with far more danger than I would like, which perhaps explained the disappearance of my old chum. As I walked, I was harassed by not only a wolf, but a whole band of filthy bandits! While none stood in the wake of my destructive tomato powers, it caused me to reflect on the moral decay that has stricken this poor land. What has happened to the beautiful countryside? I made a mental note to write an impassioned opinion piece to the Breton Mail when I next found a quill.

Finally, I arrived in Cheydinhal proper, but before reaching the city gates, I spotted a stable just outside town. I am unsure now if it was the hunger in my belly or the fatigue in my legs, but a wicked idea struck me. With a gleeful tug, I opened the gates, leaving the horses free to roam. No longer shall their hooves be beholden to the whims of their slave masters.

Moments later, a guard arrived, frowning at my actions. A momentary panic gripped me: what if I had violated their archaic legal code by letting out these gentle beasts from their paddock. Oh Gods, I cannot return to jail. In a moment of quick thinking, I asked the most natural question that came to mind: "Where's the castle?"

I sighed in relief as the guard's eyes lit up. This man was a born tour guide. With some excitement, he began to list all the many varied landmarks that could be found with his city, from their castle keep to the Temple of the Divines. He asked if I would like to purchase an audiobook tour, but I demurred, making some excuse about being hard of hearing, and he finally waved me through the towering gates of the city.

I marvelled at the old thatched buildings that lined the streets of the town. It was nothing like the wonders of my beloved Wayrest, but as Cyrodiil goes it was quite pleasing to the old eyes. Flanked on either side of the entrance gates were two inns: The Newlands Lodge, run by some of those untrustworthy Dark Elf migrants, who charged a meagre (and worrying) 10 gold a night, or the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn, a far more respectable Imperial lodging, that charged a onerous and quite outrageous 40 gold a night. It was an unenviable choice: to be robbed in the night by those horrible miscreants, or be robbed in blind daylight by those outrageous prices. No, neither option was workable for me: I must find Edgar’s house and hope that he will provide me lodging.

I made my way across the city as the sun began to set and the first day of my adventure drew to a close. As I walked down each house, I knocked gently on their doors, asking if an ‘Edgar’ lived there, being met by general confusion and frustration from the denizens of the town. They had nothing to fear: I was but a giant tomato mage, not one of those Dunmer.

Eventually, luck struck. A plump woman stumbled door of her hovel, breath stinking of mead, barely noticing as her stinking children ran roughshod behind her. A walking advertisement for the value of contraceptive spells, I must say. She squinted at me, wobbling slightly. “What do you want, little… uh, red man?”

“I was wondering,” I said cautiously, “about an Edgar… Edgar something. Do you know him?”

Her eyes brightened with a mischievous gleam. “Edgar, eh? Used to live in that building over there,” she said, pointing lazily with a mead-sticky finger. “Haven’t seen him in a while… though if you ask me, a fellow like him? Could still make your tomato heart skip a beat, if you know what I mean.” She purred lightly, but in her condition it came out more as a sort of gargling in her moist throat.

I coughed politely, unsure whether to be flattered. “Uh, thank you, lady. Be well!” As I quickly walked away from her house, I could hear her mumbling darkly under her breath about the value of a good man, followed by a large belch. Terrified as I may have been with my encounter with a member of the imperial welfare program, I was grateful to finally have a lead on the location of Edgar. I headed to the house she had pointed to, excited at the prospect of a warm bed to rest my juicy frame. Just before I knocked on the door, I noticed a sign in the window:

I fell to my knees, more deflated than I thought possible. Edgar was gone, his house for sale. Night was about to fall, and I had nowhere to sleep, nowhere to rest. Well, except for those inns I had just walked past, but it would be a cold day in hell before I stooped to sleeping in the same roof as a dark elf or extortionate Imperial trickery.

A Divine Vision of the Stock Market

It was the Emperor himself who was my salvation. I remember, back in those sewers, moments before his death, the faith he placed in the Gods above. With nobody left to turn to, in an unfamiliar city far from home, I turned to the Gods above. In the centre of the city, towering over the many houses, sat the Great Chapel of Arkay. Even at this late hour, the doors were unlocked, the empty hall still lit by candlelight. I walked past the stained glass windows and sat by the pews, closing my eyes in reverence to the visages of the Gods looking down at me.

“Oh Gods of the Divine, hear my call. I am but a humble mage, cursed to take tomato shape and wander these terrible lands without my family. Whatever shall I do to fix this predicament, and return to my loving wife and child? I am but your humble servant.”

I sat there, eyes firmly shut, waiting for a sign, for any indication that those above were listening. I waited. And waited. And then.

Crates upon crates, stacked high in a bustling market. Overflowing from the top, their verdant redness on display for the whole world. Desperate hands clamoured to snatch the best stock; plump, juicy and big. Gold coins, many of them, were tossed around with wild abandon, anything to secure them. Beside the crates, lying on bundled straw, were the forgotten ones. Some lightly bruised, others clearly damaged, the worst showing the first terrible signs of the rot. Abandoned. Irrelevant.

The people spoke in a strange language, one I could not recognise. Some were gesturing wildly with their hands in a manner that others seemed to understand. The men were oddly hairy: bushy moustaches obscuring their mouths, while the thin white singlets they wore exposing lines of dark shoulder hair.

A voice spoke, deep and patient. “All things ripen,” it said. “But only those that are desired are chosen.”

A new image appeared. Men, in a kitchen, unloading a small box they had purchased from the market. They carefully laid them out on a board, slicing them finely with a blade, before inserting them into the a glass container attached to some terrible machine that whirred and spun and cut til the glass bled red. These men opened the machine up, pouring this new liquid into a large pot, decorating it with herbs of which I could never begin to name. Finally, I saw these men sitting around a table, laughing with their families. A large bowl sat before them, bright red, and they drank it with such mirth, such vigour, that I had to turn away briefly, shocked by the naked earnestness of their joy.

As I looked back, I could see the men were staring at me. They all opened their mouths in unison, chanting back at me: “True power comes from that which can be used.”

I awoke. Some time had passed, and I felt sticky from a thin layer of sweat had accumulated beneath my robes. My head felt heavy. I struggled to conceptualise what I had seen: the markets, the cooking, the joy. It felt so disconnected, but something told me there was meaning to be found, if I only could thread the connections…

And then it struck me with what felt like 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. For too long, I had assumed that my natural greatness would be admired, that people could see through my squishy skin to the power I held — but it had only been the Emperor in his wisdom who had seen through to the real me. The others… they saw a walking joke, a man made of juice, a failed husband.

No longer. If I wished to be restored, I could not simply demand it. I would need to make myself indispensable. To embed myself in the kitchens of Cyrodiil: guilds, towns, factions, and favours, simmering quietly, building my fame, biding my time, until the power of this realm bends to my demands. Finding those who have the strength and might to fix my condition. Then, and only then, could I force their hand: to make me a man again, and to show those in High Rock that I was not just a red master of the arcane arts, but a legend.

I stood, juice steadied, resolve firm. I would help people. I would solve problems. I would involve myself in every petty affair and dangerous errand this land had to offer—not because I cared, but because this was how I won. Cyrodiil would learn to respect the Tomato Mage.

It was late, and my clarity still did not afford me a place to sleep. I had yet to prove my skills to the people of this town, and still had no clue where my wife’s boyfriend’s cousin had hidden. Finding the Chapel still abandoned, I walked down the stairs to a quiet corner of the building, lying on the cold stone floor between some wooden barrels. It was just like our one and only school camp to Morrowind. I closed my eyes, careful not to bruise myself, and surrendered to sleep.