First Playthrough: Reflections

So far, Lothar Ironfoot has completed the main questlines of Skyrim, Dawnguard, and Dragonborn, as well as the Civil War and all of the faction questlines (he chose to Destroy the Dark Brotherhood).  He has also finished an impressive number of titled side quests, including most of the Daedric quests, and countless untitled minor quests.  Frankly, there are very few new quests left for Lothar to do, and while I’m sure I’ve overlooked some minor moral dilemmas here and there, I think I have seen most of the game’s opportunities for moral agency.

This is not to say that I am done with the game, the blog, or even Lothar for that matter, but I think that now is a good time to reflect on what my experiences with Lothar taught me and to prepare to write about my second playthough – one from a very different moral stance.  What follows, in no particular order, are what I consider to be the big takeaways from my first playthrough.

Lothar as Player Avatar

I set out, as role players often do, to play Lothar as a version of myself – what I think I would be like if I were Dovahkiin.  My own moral and ethical profile is the easiest for me to access, and given that I did not know the outcomes of each quest ahead of time, playing from such a close perspective granted an immediacy to the experience that allowed me to think more genuinely about each dilemma.  There are limits to this approach, of course; I am Catholic and an English teacher in a middle-class suburb in 2013, not a legendary warrior in a fantasy Iron Age universe ruled by multiple Divines and Daedra, so my concept of right and wrong doesn’t translate neatly.  Life or death decisions are, thankfully, not part of my everyday experience.  

I point out this difficultly of translation because I want to be clear that Lothar is simultaneously representative and aspirational for me; in some ways, he acts in way I hope I would act in a similar position, but in others, he represents moral and ethical compromises that I must admit I would probably make were I in Tamriel.  I can’t justify all of my/Lothar’s actions, but I can certainly own all of them.

Law and Order

That I sided with the Empire in the Civil War is not at all surprising; in real life, I would rather be part of a flawed organization and attempt to correct its errors than reject it entirely.  As an America, rebellion is in my national DNA, but if I’m being completely honest, I’d rather fix the system than fight it most of the time.  Of course, that’s not always possible in real life, but given the binary choice in the Civil War questline, choosing the Empire was more “like me.” 

What surprised me, though, was how quickly I found ways to justify my actions within the Thieves’ Guild.  Joining (and then leading) a criminal organization is not my style at all, but I managed to make sense of it by looking at the bigger picture. If the Empire was going to take on the Dominion again, then having the Dovahkiin at the head of all of the major factions makes the most sense, even if one of the factions is a gang of burglars, pickpockets, and cutpurses.  Still, in doing so, I became comfortable with breaking the law and stealing from (and sometimes framing) a wide assortment of people.  I tried to mitigate the problem by choosing my targets carefully when I could, but I cannot escape the reality that I was willing to do very shady things in pursuit of a stable Skyrim.

The Role of the Daedric Princes and the Lure of Power

One of the common refrains in this blog has been how much a resented the manipulation inherent in most of the Daedric quests.  Time and time again, I have been impressed by commenters who thought up creative ways to thwart the Daedra; I, on the other hand, usually went along with the quest, did what I was asked to do (even if I chose the “mouthier” dialogue options), and claimed the artifact.  While I stand by my justifications in most of those cases, I still have to confess that I found ways to rationalize actions I would never had done were it not for the promise of greater power.

This situation is particularly thorny for me when I consider that most of the Daedric Princes are a translation of Christian demonology into the universe of the Elder Scrolls.  The Divines are transcendent and aloof, apart for Talos, the man who became a god.  The Daedric Princes, however, appear to mortals on a regular basis, often to manipulate them for their own purposes.  In fact, I would go so far as to argue that most of the Daedric Princes represent a traditional Judeo-Christian type of Satan figure.  Clavicus Vile is the deal-maker, as in Faust’s Mephistopheles; Molag Bal is not only named after Moloch and Baal, but is represented as the satyr-rapist; Mephala is the dark whisperer, the serpent sowing dissention in Eden; Peryite and Namira are the Hebraic unclean ones; Boethiah is the betrayer; Mehrunes Dagon, named after a Babylonian god, is the divine usurper, like Milton's Lucifer; Hermaeus Mora is the Lovecraftian hoarder of forbidden knowledge, and his books look a lot like the Necronomicon; Sanguine is the devil by way of Bacchus.  The implications of fulfilling their quests takes on a more sinister tint when viewed through such a lens.   

The Need for Closure

One aspect of my first playthrough for which I was not prepared was my discomfort with unfinished quests.  I really appreciated the quests that allowed me to fail if I did not wish to complete them.  Having an open quest provided far too much temptation for me to violate Lothar's moral profile.  Let me offer three examples:

• Pieces of the Past: I liked this quest because my refusal to kill Silus put the Razor out of my reach forever.  I was able to congratulation myself on taking the high road.
• Boethiah's Calling: I had no way to fail this quest, so I kept thinking about followers whom I could justifiably betray and kill.  Had I not encountered Ralis, I would have left it unfinished, but being presented with a possessed sociopath proved to be too great a lure for me.
• Lights Out!: Never finished it, never will.  There's just no way for me to justify it with Lothar's profile.  I even tried to kill Jaree-Ra to no avail, as he is labeled "essential."  I feel a little twinge of irritation every time I see the title in my quest journal.

Being able to fail a quest creates a kind of moral guardrail for the character, which makes doing the right thing easier.  But there's the rub: keeping quests unfinished raises the stakes for decision-making and keeps the door open for alternate types of moral agency.

Which leads me to my second playthrough...

Dovahkiin Leadership Models: The Servant Leader

In a previous post, I examined the role of the Dovahkiin as a potentially unifying force in the rapidly-splintering Empire.  In it, I argue that, in giving the Dovahkiin the opportunity to lead multiple factions simultaneously, the game invites the player to see the PC as a new kind of leader-- one who can tie all of the political and cultural threads of the Empire together in order to prepare for the inevitable second war with the Aldmeri Dominion. There is, however, another aspect to the Dovahkiin's leadership potential -- the role of the servant. 

One common complaint of Skyrim players is that, even after becoming the leader of all of the major factions within Skyrim, ending the Civil War, collecting all of the Daedric artifacts, touring Sovngarde and Apocrypha, and saving the world from Alduin, Harkon, and Miraak, the Dragonborn is still being asked to "collect nirnroot" or "convince so-and-so to stop bothering what's-his-name about his gambling debt."  These pedestrian tasks are below the dignity of the Vanquisher of the World-Eater, they argue, and demonstrate a flaw in the game's AI.  I disagree.

A recurring theme in the game is the corrupting nature of power.  All three "bosses" succumb to it, and the PC is warned several times not to fall prey to it.  I therefore posit that the "fetch quests" that irritate high-level players are best viewed through the lens of Robert Greenleaf's concept of "servant leadership," as outlined in his 1970 essay "The Servant as Leader":

“The servant-leader is servant first… It begins with the natural feeling that one wants to serve, to serve first. Then conscious choice brings one to aspire to lead. That person is sharply different from one who is leader first, perhaps because of the need to assuage an unusual power drive or to acquire material possessions…The leader-first and the servant-first are two extreme types. Between them there are shadings and blends that are part of the infinite variety of human nature."

The Dovahkiin is invited to be a servant leader each time an NPC ignores the enchanted dragonscale armor and simply asks the PC to find her lost necklace.  These quests act as a kind of check to the Dovahkiin's ego in much the same way as Neloth's sharp tongue or the town guard's "No lollygaggin'."  Far from a design flaw, I would call this arrangement an opportunity for reflection on the PC's motives and goals.

One of your goals should not be "impress Neloth."

Bend Will

During The Fallen, I learned the shout that calls Odahviing, thus allowing me to summon that particular dragon as an ally in battle.  Although the original exchange between the Dovahkiin and Odahviing involves a certain degree of trickery, the Call Dragon shout does not actually subvert the will of the dragon.  Odahviing responds to the call first out of curiosity and hubris, and after Dragonslayer he responds out of respect for the power of the Dovahkiin's superior Thu'um.  In other words, Odahviing's response to Call Dragon is (from a role-playing perspective) voluntary.  
 The Dragonborn DLC adds a wrinkle to the Call Dragon shout with the introduction of the Bend Will shout.  Using Bend Will allows me to force any dragon, hostile or otherwise, not only to fight alongside me, but also to allow me to ride it as my temporary steed.

The use of this shout evokes a minor ethical question: is it morally acceptable to compel an enemy to fight on your side? On the surface, the question might seem frivolous; after all, if killing a dragon is acceptable, why wouldn't bending its will be as well?  This question, however, pits the value of autonomy against the value of life.  In a warrior culture such as Skyrim's, is it more honorable to kill an enemy than to rob him of his will?   Additionally, is it acceptable to force a dragon, even a hostile one, to let you ride him like a horsey?

WHEEEE!!!

As it relates to The Fallen, the question is moot; one cannot defeat Alduin without Odahviing's help.  After this quest, however, the question becomes more active because the Dragonborn can use the same shout at will to summon Odahviing, then use Bend Will to ride him.  Odahviing, it seems, volunteers to fight alongside me, but must be forced to act as a steed; one is the act of an ally, the other is that of chattel. Odahviing's ride to Skuldafn is a one-time offer born of his desire to be rid of Alduin, not an open-ended invitation.

Furthermore, the end of the Main Quest reveals that not all of the dragons share Alduin's views; once Alduin is defeated, Paarthurnax promises to teach the pacifist Way of the Voice to all of the dragons he can convince, and in fact, at the Throat of the World, dragons can be seen celebrating the World-Eater's fall.  Therefore, compelling Odahviing or any other non-hostile dragon to fight for me or give me a ride seems unjust.

For Lothar, I decided that the most appropriate route would be to avoid using Bend Will unless absolutely necessary.  As for what constitutes necessity, I offer the following checklist:

• I will not use Bend Will on Odahviing.
• I will not use Bend Will on a dragon that is not attacking me or any other "good" NPC.  In other words, I won't interfere if a dragon is battling a giant, a bandit gang, or a cluster of mudcrabs.
• I will not use Bend Will if a dragon attacks only me while I'm outside of a populated area. In that case, I will simply fight.
• I will use Bend Will if a dragon attacks a populated area.  I will use Bend Will, mount the dragon, then fly to a remote location.  If, after I release the dragon, he simply flies off, then so be it.  If he continues to be hostile, then I will fight him.

This arrangement allows me to use Bend Will as a means to save lives, rather than a way to dominate my enemy.  After all, riding dragons as steeds was the trademark of Miraak -- not someone I really want to emulate.

Thirsk Hall

After dispatching Miraak, I decided to explore Solsthiem more freely and see what else I could do to help Skyrim’s northern neighbor.  It was during one of these quests that I first encountered the Rieklings.  I was helping Glover Mallory retrieve his Bonemold formula when I trespassed into a Riekling cave.  Because I was Sneaking (I was trespassing, after all), they didn’t notice me, so I was able to loot the formula off Esmond Tyne's body and just observe the little creatures.  They did not attack, so without any further intelligence on them, I let them go on with their lives.  I did not encounter them again until I stumbled on to Thirsk Hall.

Thirsk was obviously a Nord-style mead hall, but it had been overrun by Rieklings.  Even though the Riekling Chief was more articulate than his subjects, I still couldn’t get a clear picture of why they were living there instead of the Nords.  Given the Chief’s story and the size of the Rieklings relative to the native Nords, I surmised that the little blue scavengers had stumbled upon an abandoned mead hall and began squatting, which was no crime, as far as I was concerned.  I therefore agreed to help the Chief with his requests.

Pictured: The Riekling State of the Union Address

The Chief’s fetch quests were simple and amusing at first, but then he asked me to help him fight the “bad nords” that wanted Thirsk for themselves.  This favor was a bit much; bringing back a lost boar is one thing, but fighting my fellow Nords?  I needed to investigate.

As I approached Bujold’s Retreat, I expected to find a gang of bandits that I could dispatch handily.  What I found instead was a sorry band of washed-up warriors who had been kicked out of their ancestral hall but the pesky little Rieklings.  After listening to their sob stories, I agreed to help – not out of love for Bujold the Unworthy and her pathetic crew, but out of fury that the Riekling Chief had tricked me so easily.  We retook Thirsk Hall with extreme prejudice.

But the story didn’t end there.  After we cleaned and spruced up the hall, Bujold asked me to be her second at her ritual leadership audience with Hrothmund, the long-dead founder of Thirsk. I agreed, eager to meet another ancient Nord hero.  The trek itself was uneventful, but when we entered into communion with Hrothmund, it became clear that Bujold’s incompetence had cost her his blessing. 

A Nord Excalibur?

Given Bujold’s track record, I should have seen the next step coming.  She wanted me to lie, to say that she had received the blessing after all, or at least to say nothing.  I refused; I wasn’t going to spit in the face of a Nord legend on behalf of a lazy coward.  Not satisfied with my response, she foolishly attacked me, and I killed her.

When I returned to Thirsk Hall, I was given the option of lying to Bujold’s husband Kuvar, and I have to admit that I was tempted.  Aside from marrying this disappointment, he had done nothing wrong, so I wanted to do right by him.  I was afraid that telling him that she got lost would not only give him false hope, but might also prompt him to go on a dangerous and pointless search.  Instead, I told the hard truth; he accepted it grimly, but warned me to stay far away from him.  After what he’d been through, I agreed to honor his request.

With the Thirsk chapter closed, I turned my attention to the Rieklings.  Never before had my feeling changed so radically about a faction or race.  Prior to Thirsk, I looked at them in what I guess could best be called a patronizing manner.  In a world in which every sentient being speaks a common language, I took their inarticulate babbling as an indicator of low intelligence.  In a world in which every sentient race has its own distinct culture, I took their scavenging and appropriation as an absence of culture.  They were amusing and no more dangerous than bears, horkers, spriggans, or any other creatures that just wanted to be left alone.

After Thrisk, I found that my condescension had soured into contempt.  If I was disconcerted by the possibility that I might have been manipulated by powerful, immortal beings in previous quests, I was enraged that I definitely had been played by a bunch of cartoonish gremlins in this one.  Later, during other quests on Solsthiem, I found myself indefensibly vicious in fighting any Rieklings I encountered.  While my brutality could be rationalized to a degree – it was now clear, after all, that they operated more like bandits and less like scavengers – I have to admit that I executed all subsequent Riekling raids with a little more prejudice than I can honestly justify.

Most of all, I am troubled by the role of language in my approach to the Rieklings.  In stark counterpoint to my dealings with the Forsworn, in which Madanach’s eloquence persuaded me to see them less as “wild men” and more as disenfranchised outsiders who had been radicalized by Ulfric Stormcloak’s brutal quelling of their rebellion, my encounters with the Rieklings were heavily influenced by the lack of discernable communication.  In my life outside of the game I am an English teacher and a father and a special needs soccer coach, so I know full well that language is only one of many indicators of intelligence and sophistication.  And yet, inside the game, I treat the “funny-looking little people who talk weird” first with patronizing humor, then with deadly contempt.  I’m not entirely certain I want to know what’s at work here.

Dragonborn: Main Quest

As it was with Dawnguard, so it was with Dragonborn.  While I really enjoyed the main questline, I encountered very few moral dilemmas to speak of.  This is not to say, however, that this DLC lacked a moral dimension; some of the side quests presented tough ethical quandaries, and the titular questline itself invited a kind of meditation on the moral dangers that accompany the title of Dovahkiin.

In a previous post, I noted that the “bosses” of each title’s main questline represents a kind of Nietzschean nightmare – a superior being who uses his power to enslave others.  Miraak’s iteration of this antagonist type is particularly compelling because he embodies the shadow self of the player’s Dovahkiin (regardless of the player’s actual alignment – more on that later).  Whereas Alduin and Harkon represent species who are more or less “other” (dragon and ancient vampire, respectively), Miraak is the dark mirror of the protagonist; he is what the PC might become.

This unique connection between Miraak and the Dovahkiin is foreshadowed in the words of the Greybeards:

...young Grasshopper...er, Padawan?

The player is here admonished to not allow the attendant power of one’s Dragonborn status to become a stumbling block.  While the Greybeards certainly intend this warning to be an inducement to follow their own, aloof (read: neutral) path, the moral agent who plays a “good” character is going to hear this as a version of Uncle Ben’s “power and responsibility” speech, and the one who plays an “evil” character is probably going to ignore the hoary warning and do as he pleases.

Once Miraak is introduced, however, the Greybeards’ caveat takes on new life. Miraak acts as an object lesson: a Dragonborn who sought to use his Thu’um solely for the increase of his own power, was punished for it before, and will be punished for it again.  Even for an “evil” character, Miraak provides a cautionary tale; in his bid for ultimate power, he was out-maneuvered by Hermaeus Mora, so a self-serving Dovahkiin might see Miraak not only as a rival but also as warning against relying too much on the promises of Daedric Princes.  For a “good” Dovahkiin, however, the picture is a bit more disturbing.

As I have said before, Lothar is not a paladin, but I have attempted to keep him in the good sector of the alignment chart.  While I have certainly missed the mark on occasion, I feel as though I have mostly kept him on the Aragorn side of the equation.  One area I have struggled with, as regular readers might note, is the Daedric quest.  More often than not, I allowed Lothar to do some dark things at the behest of a Daedra in order to obtain powerful artifacts.  At the core of my logic in most of these cases was that Skyrim (and all of Tamriel, for that matter) would be better off if I controlled these items; not only would I use them to vanquish evil, but the items themselves would be far less likely to fall into the wrong hands.  Even beyond the Daedric quests, I sometimes rationalized Lothar’s more treacherous and brutal actions in the name of bringing peace and justice to Skyrim.  What is it, therefore, that separates Lothar from Miraak? 

The obvious answer, of course, is “noble intentions,” but is that enough to maintain the wall between hero and villain?  In both literature and history, we are often presented with despots who originally wanted to free their people, leaders who turned their loyal followers into slaves, and crusaders who unwittingly devolved into thugs. 

Is the Dovahkiin’s final showdown with a version of himself?  Perhaps this is the reason we are not permitted to peer under Miraak’s mask – we would find only a mirror.