During the nightmares that disturb my slumber in The Elder Scrolls 4: Oblivion Remastered, I'm forced to watch a stranger sleep peacefully. Is that irony, or just the poetic justice I deserve?
Amorphous beneath their bedclothes, the stranger doesn't stir when a pale figure enters the room. The intruder stoops down and, with a flash of fangs, reddens the sheets. As blood drips down the vampire's chin, color flows back into their face – and I recognize it as my own.
If Baurus hears me screaming, he never says so. In fact, the failed bodyguard of the Emperor is studiously unobservant. I suspect that, in the dogged pursuit of his own redemption arc, he'll tolerate almost anything that might help save the Empire. On the days when I grow particularly gaunt, and others start to yell in shock and fear when I hiss in their ears, Baurus stays resolutely on topic: Mehrunes Dagon, Mythic Dawn, the Amulet of Kings. His main quest energy is non-negotiable, and for me, an anchor in the tumult of my own existence.
Creatures of the night
That holds true even when we make the long walk down the mountain from Cloud Ruler Temple together. Although the Blades are the spies and swordswingers of the Emperor, their home is situated in Cyrodiil's bracingly cold north, about as far from the Imperial City as conceivably possible. So when Baurus suggests that we travel to the city sewers, what he's really floating is an expedition that will take us halfway across Bethesda's open-world map. One in which, every so often, he's going to be ragdolled by a troll on the roads, and I'll need to wait for him to regain consciousness.
Even so, Baurus is the more patient of the two of us. The hike is long enough that night turns to day, and brings with it my mortal enemy. As the sun blazes down, granting the Ayleid ruins their characteristic gleam, the light saps my health. It's a slow drain, but inexorable, and enough to kill me several times over before we reach the capital. Baurus twiddles his thumbs without complaint as I rummage in my sack for the last few health potions. He doesn't even mention the fact that I'm visibly steaming under the glare of an unforgiving star.
Eventually, we make it to the dank, dark relief of the sewer grate, and I bask in the shade. Could I have simply fast-travelled and met Baurus there? Probably. But the truth is, I've come to relish the transformative effect vampirism has on Oblivion, and the strange routines that come out of living with Porphyric Hemophilia.
Fellow undead will know the love-hate relationship a vampire has with the Wait button. On the one hand, whiling away the hours can rid you of the sun and allow you to step out onto the moonlit streets of Cyrodiil without fear of crinkling inward, like an unwanted letter in a fireplace. On the other, time accelerates the effects of your illness, bringing forward the days when NPC faces contort with disgust as they call you a "filthy beast". Questgivers turn their back, halting progress until you can sneak your way into somebody's bedchambers and puncture their fleshy neck. Feeding reverses the effects of vampirism, at least for a while, even as it makes the nightmares real.
Shopping has become a matter of breaking into a blacksmith's premises in the dead of night, then standing eerily in the shadows until opening time. Sometimes, if I'm feeling brave on a morning, I'll dart out the front door of Hammer and Tongs and into Colovian Traders a few doors down, taking only a light singing as I sprint supernaturally across the bright cobbles of Skingrad.
On occasion, the pluses of vampirism outweigh the minuses. Nestled in the subterranean Bloodworks of the capital's gladiatorial arena, I've spent days gathering my strength, before emerging onto the battlefield with inhuman brawn and agility. The crowds call my name, though if they racked their brains, they'd realize they've never seen me participate in a matinee match. Late-night showings only.
If I'm honest, however, I'm not into vampirism for the power. I'm in it for the anecdotes, and the subversive thrill of playing an RPG with the rules backward. It's the same appeal as playing a ghoul in Fallout 76 – repelling the Brotherhood of Steel, while soaking up radiation as if it were Sunny D. And It's the same reason I chose the birthsign of the Atronach in Oblivion – a radical reconfiguration of magic. One which cripples mana regeneration, but lets you absorb the flung spells of demons and necromancers.
For me, the usual laws do not apply. I mean, sure: other horrifying limitations make themselves known as a consequence. But the stories that emerge as I work around them are more than worth a few bad dreams.
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