Neat! I posted in Chapter 12 of the TF, and it said I write like Stephen King. I guess I am long-winded!

Well, I tried that thing, on two different stories.

Three chapters from one story - excerpts said I write like Harry Harrison, Chuck Palahniuk (?), and Stephenie Meyer (??).

Excerpts from my OHDH here on Chorrol.com: from Spies, Really compared me to J. K. Rowling, and from my next post A New Habit garnered me a William Gibson.

Interesting. None of them are my favs, but I do like HH and WG. Never heard of CP or SM. Have not read JKR.

Makes me wonder what they're using to analyze the text - it must be formatting, syntax and rhythm, since the subject matter has nothing in common with those authors! It's funny that I should get three different authors on one story, and two on another.

Heh.

I only read Earthsea (like a dozen times) from LeGuin but I disagree. Your work style doesn't remind me of her work at all.

[Hey guys, still here. The long break's because there's been a bereavement, and also because I've been trying a few other games and stuff.

Anyhow, I fired up Ob' long enough to finish the next quest, but you try writing with crook guts. Here's a shortie to tide you over anyway.]

Chapter 14. In which Ra'Jirra Finds a Friend

I spent about three days roaming the heath and highlands beyond Skingrad and Kvatch, hunting down first one, then the rest of the bandits lugging Bothiel's precious dwemer thingamajigs. Whoever controlled the bandits wasn't a fool – he'd dispersed the parts among five different camps.

Of especial note was the bandit who jumped me when I emerged from Niryastare – the more fool her – and a truly terrifying incident where I slew an entire camp, near Nonungalo, I think, and then was attacked by an ogre. As we circled in the dance, I shat myself in terror as I saw six more ogres approaching from the east!

Mercifully, they paid me and my most recent kill no attention as they headed west. So where the effing hell were they before? They could have killed off the bandits for me.

By this time I'd had a gutsful of the yellow-green hills, and I returned to an overjoyed Bothiel, before taking Raminus' advice and teleporting to the council chambers.

“Magician! Where the bloody hell have you been?” This came from a short Breton man whose aged face and snowy locks looked almost out of place atop a suit of daedric armour, except for the sense of authority and the ease with which he moved in it.

“My apologies, Arch-Mage,” says I, “I have been reclaiming Guild property for Bothiel. And frankly I've been pulling myself together, given what I've seen.”

His response is a snort. “I needed you three damn days ago. It may already be too late, except I've heard nothing, so maybe we're still in with a chance. I need you to find my spy.”

“You have a spy in the necromancers?”

“No,” says he sweetly, “He's a spy in the Imperial bedchamber.” Serious again. “Last I heard he was sent off to Nenyond Twyll. Pass us your map.”

I obey orders and he marks it. “Been to the inns there I see. Don't eat at the Inn of Ill Omen, he can't cook to save himself. Faregyl's known for its potato bread – fair makes your mouth water. Nenyond Twyll's due west of it on a ridge – you can't miss it. Just watch out for battlemagi.”

“Why them?”

“I've been overridden,” says he disgustedly, “To be perfectly Francis with you, I had to send them in to keep the council under control. Only thing is, those battlemagi don't know Mucianus Allias is on our side, and I want him out of their hands. I'll give you three guesses why.”

“The grove,” says I.

“Not bad for a 'mere cat,' eh Irlav?” says Traven, looking over his shoulder at bloody Jarol. Jarol just smiles in a sickly fashion. Seems his little outburst bit him on the bum. The altmer woman who I'd seen shooting out the library near a week ago also grinned tightly at Jarol's discomfort, but I got the impression she was ear-farming too.

“Anyway,” Traven comes back to me, “Get your tail over to Nenyond Twyll, where you should have bloody been three days ago, find Mucianus and find out why he's been so quiet before either our lads or those bastards do. The portal's to your right.”

I went to my right.

Ahahahaha! Oh my! Spy in the Imperial bedchambers! Ahaahahah.

To be perfectly Francis with you?? Francis?? Oh, my, just let me catch my breath here!

Not fair, putting that on the heels of a spy in the Imperial bedchamber!

Then following that with a critique of the cooking at Ill Omen!

Lots of fun again! Traven sure has quite the sense of humor. I loved the Imperial Bedchamber line, as well as the 'mere cat barb directed at Jarol'!

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 5 2010, 09:33 PM

I am sorry to hear about your bereavement. It has taken me awhile, but I finally sat down to read this tonight. Tell Ra’Jirra that whatever the Mages Guild is paying him, it isn’t enough. He is worth his weight in septims! I won’t go on and on quoting some of his one-liners back at him because, quite frankly, I don’t think he would like that at all. Know that he has just given me two and a half of the most enjoyable hours that I have ever spent reading a fan fiction (I submit that it would have been much less if I didn’t have to take constant breaks to compose myself).


I agree with this. I put through two chapters of Interregnum and it says I write like James Joyce . . . and Dan Brown. I hated The Da Vinci Code and reading Ulysses is like being repeatedly slapped about the face and neck. Go figure. Incidentally, Chuck Palahniuk wrote the novel Fight Club that is the basis for the film starring Brad Pitt and Edward Norton. And Stephenie Meyer writes the Twilight series. I know that because I am blessed with a thirteen year old niece.

I'm actually just responding to the Prologue for now, because that's all the further that I've read for the moment. Busy schedule and all that nonsense. As Calvin (Calvin and Hobbes) once said: 'Reality continues to ruin my life."

That out of the way, you must be the Rev. Cardboard Box from another site? I haven't read anything over there for a long time, so I only recently glanced through new stories to notice that there was a Box there as well as here. If you're looking for honest reviews that actually offer thoughtful comments and advice for improving your craft, I'm finding that Chorrol is a much better site. The people here actually like stories with plot--stories where people aren't getting naughty two chapters after meeting. Of course, you probably knew that already since I'm assuming that you've been on this site longer than I have.

Now onto the actual story! I truly love the distinct voice of your narrator. He's a farmboy who talks like an unrefined bumpkin, which is quite charming in its own right. My favorite instance of him fumbling for words was after the dispel was cast. The whole description of the spell feeling like a cobweb was neat, and I was so pleased to see the word cantrip! Don't ask me why, but I've always liked this word, and besides that, your story sounds quite humorous. I'll leave another review once I progress a little more.

Yep, guilty as charged. But also please note that this site doesn't move as fast as that place does, so a good story gets hosed off centre stage by reams of shoddy Naruto/Twilight/Harry Potter slash or whatever written by pimply-eyed plop [sic] culture addicts who apparently spend their English classes surfing for porn on their smartphones. And then they go home and drop trou and WHUGGAWUGGAWHARBL at the computer and call the result best fanfic evar. [You forgot the good stories that don't get bloody finished - R.]

This is also not the first fanfic I ever wrote. The first evar was based on a series of Quake mods headed by Marcus "Mexx" Dromowicz. There were also enthusiastic snippets and one longer piece for Carson Fire's comic Elf Life (currently on hiatus) and then there's all that work I did to get Unicorn Jelly into print.

Depending on how I feel, Ra'Jirra may save Tamriel from Mehrunes Fishface; he may turn into the next Sheogorath; but I am thinking of a future Oblivion/Fallout 3 crossover in which he becomes a reluctant sidekick of an arrogant boat of a Lone Wanderer. [I'll take out a restraining order in the morning - R.]

But first I have to finish this chapter. [Well get on with it you lazy british boatie - R.]

My apologies Ra'Jirra. Of course there are excellent stories among the...well, you described those ones quite well. I've found quite a few over yonder that are exceedingly wonderful. I'm still blown away by the consistently excellent stories on Chorrol though. My compliments to all of the hard working writers out there. You're all fantastic.

I am sorry to hear about your bereavement, I had one as well or I would have been on here commenting on these great chapters you've added since last I was here.

1. ROFL!!!

2. I love Grayditch!

3. ROFL!!

I like the idea of a crossover to Fallout 3, but not enough to see you leave Tamriel this soon! ARGH!!!

[And so it finally all spills out in an untidy heap. I think the end better portrays my idea of Traven.]

Chapter 14 cont'd (2,332 words later)

I arrived outside Faregyl Inn without incident and watched disgustedly as the damn unicorn immediately lifted anchors for its grove without so much as a by-your-leave. Still, the last thing I needed was a unicorn preventing me from evading whatever guards the corpse-jockeys had set out.

To my surprise there weren't any, just a pack of wolves and an ogre carrying a bundle of huge potatoes. Sacks not being an ogre invention I decided to ask around.

I'm beginning to wonder if inns in Cyrodiil have to be built according to a set plan: public room below, and private quarters up above. If it wasn't for the fine Khajiit matron behind the bar and the younger and quite pretty she sitting at it, I could have sworn I was in Wawnet.

"Welcome, strangerr," she purrs at me. "This one is Abhuki, and this is Farregyl Inn. Was it food you seek, orr perhaps good bedding?"

Oh ho ho! I think to myself and decide to tread carefully.

"I'm Ra'jirra,", says I, "Looking for a friend who's got lost around this way." I rub my chin and add, "If I find him he'll probably need a place to rest. He's an Imperial bloke, would be heading westward. Anyone like that around recently?"

Well Abhuki looks surprised and the kit jerks her head up and around, making her fussy hairdo shake.

"Heading westwarrd? Perhaps this he you seek stole poorr S'jirra's jumbo potatoes!"

"S'jirra!" says Abhuki, "neverr mind your potatoes! Many pass west to Brravil, it may have been someone else."

"But how is poorr S'jirra to make herr famous Farregyl potato bread without them?"

I look to the older and younger and pull out the sack of spuds the ogre was toting. "This them?" asks I.

I seem to make folks' eyes fall out on a regular basis. However, I don't usually make folks so overjoyed that they kiss me. Then again, S'jirra is quite free to kiss me any time she likes!

"Oh wonderrful Rra'jirrra!" she creeled with delight in my ear, much to the embarrassment of Abhuki and the amusement of the other patrons. "Oh, how did Rra'jirrra find them? Stupid S'jirrra to leave them outside all alone like that! All S'jirra wanted to do was give them some sun. Next thing, they werre gone!"

"An ogre took them," says I, "but ogrres are no match for Ra'jirra."

What? That east Elsweyr accent and dialect can be contagious. And attractive.

"Ogrres!" She pulls away from me with a start. "So close to ourr inn? Why, we could be murrderred in ourr beds! Oh, please stay and prrotect poorr–"

"S'jirrra!" Abhuki snapped, and S'jirra let go of me, unfortunately. "Rra'jirrra seeks his lost frriend. Hopefully he will not be long–?"

I blink, and decide "I shouldn't think so," along with a deposit on a room, is a good decision. "But the ogre is dead, so the inn should be safe for now."

"Then go rrescue yourr frriend," says Abhuki, "and do hurrry back."

"And herre," S'jirra pushes a loaf of the most delicious smelling bread into my grasp, "forr rrescuing my potatoes," (Abhuki rolls her eyes at that) "on the house. Rra'jirrra can have morre, but he must pay," says she with a twinkle in her eyes.

Maybe I should have stayed overnight, but I didn't want to keep Traven waiting. Besides, this time I wouldn't be alone. There would be big burly battlemages doing all the fighting.

My plan was to find the leader and point out that Mucianus was to be taken to Traven for interrogation. Special orders, sir. No sir, I don't know why. And with those cheerful thoughts in mind, I left the stars behind and entered the Ayleid hole.

Almost immediately I was greeted with "You!" from a rattled-looking bosmer in full steel gear. "What are you doing here?"

"I was sent here," says I, "Traven wants–"

"Has the Council gone mad, sending you here alone?" cries he, not letting me finish, "There's no time. The others... they were waiting for us. They knew we were coming!"

"Hang on," says I, "Where's the rest of your lot?"

"I'm the only one left," says he, and he looks a bit shifty, and I look at him closer. His gear doesn't have many dings in it, and he's scared and not hiding it well. "Since I'm the junior in the squad, I was held back on sentry-go," he adds, explaining a lot.

"The Necromancers retreated further in," hang on, what's this shrill business? "but we've got to follow them. There's no time to waste!" Out comes an axe in a grip for dear life. "Follow me!"

And off he runs downstairs with total recklessness. He must have got his license wrapped round a loaf of bread.

I yelled at him to wait, but before I reached the bottom of the stairs, I heard an almighty crashing of stone and a bosmer's deathcry. The last battlemage, supposedly a wily warrior versed in combat and spellcraft, had charged straight into an Ayleid trap.

The rigged floor slab sank back to ground; the bosmer's corpse came later, some of the spikes in the ceiling having stuck in his head. Almost as soon as it landed the weight triggered the trap again and away he went.

I took a breath after the third encore and jumped on as the slab lowered again, grabbed a leg and yanked as hard as I could, pulling him away before the trap went off again. Now his suit had battle damage.

Ayleid floor traps can be avoided by skirting around the edges, although you do best to avoid the damn things altogether. This left me free to head around and deal to the undead and corpse-jockeys that were hanging around, patrolling in a sloppy fashion. This didn't mean they were pushovers though – their summonses made sure of that. Even so, I was able to cast Soul Freeze Burn on one of them – and it stuck.

The chamber reeked of blood and death; the cold light of a nearby Ayleid crystal made the loaded black gem even more hideous. There was a man's soul in there. I'd torn the essential energies from a more or less living, mortal man, and crushed his essence into a container. I sat for a while staring at the gem. I'd seen his eyes, he'd realised at the last what I'd done. Was he still aware in there? Unable to do anything except wait for the inevitable destruction when I used the gem for... what?

I suddenly realised I had no idea what I could do with the damnable thing.

Then I remembered that I was inside a necromancer stronghold and I was three days behind in extracting Mucus or whatever his name was.

I also noticed that there were no signs of other battlemagi, dead or otherwise. Evidently the gentles I had met were guards after the fact, and the real fighting had been further in. Pity that that bosmer was stuck on door duty.

Beyond the chamber was a door which led to the 'Riellesel', whatever that was. Beyond the door was a woman shrouded in shadow. I unlimbered my Bow of Jolts and sent an arrow in her back.

To my surprise, she merely staggered and turned to face me, laughing!

"Oh, you poor dear," says she, eyes gleaming with madness, "I'm afraid you're late to the party. The guest of honour has already left!"

"What guest?" snaps I, "You talking about Mucianus?"

And she just giggles and coughs, seeing as my arrow stuck a lung. "Oh, I knew it! I do hate to disappoint you, but Mucianus is in no condition to be leaving. He's a Worm Thrall now, and shall be quite content here."

"You bastards," says I, "You filthy corpse-humpers..."

"Oh, stop that," says she around the blood filling her lungs. "A grim fate indeed, but one does not cross the Order of the Black Worm without suffering greatly for it."

There is nothing worse than a woman smiling at you with bloody froth all over her gob.

"I shall tell the master that you were here looking for him. Ooh! Perhaps I'll bring him your head as an offering!" foams she, and we danced, briefly.

Below, there was a sort of bridge affair in a large chamber full of water; apparently 'Riellesel' meant 'reservior' or something like that. There were two more necros waiting to be introduced to death, but they weren't much of an issue.

The real scare came after I crossed the bridge. I almost didn't notice the telltale distortion until it was too late. That was my first introduction to a senior necromancer – a Keeper of the Dead. Despite being wailed on by a skeleton, a ghost and an endless stream of summoned zombies, I finally skewered and spelled the honoured user into his own grave.

I couldn't move afterwards. The swine had slammed me with a spell shattering my strength. I remember grimly eyeing the first bottle of home made potion before downing it, feeling the lightness of feather magic – as well as the side effects. And so I trumpeted my victory as I sought Mucianus.

I found a zombie in a secret chamber that didn't attack me. Unlike other zombies, this one seemed to sport rags resembling the remnants of a robe. A powder-blue one. With a familiar clasp.

"Mucianus?"

It nodded.

It nodded and looked at me.

It nodded and looked at me with anguish in its one recognisable eye.

He nodded and looked at me with anguish in his one recognisable eye and spread his arms beseechingly.

He howled in despair and I'm sure I screamed as I fled for the surface and the honest light.

I think he's still down there.

I remember standing outside the doorway staring up into the clean rain, wanting to return to Faregyl Inn and the attentions of S'jirra (and all right, Abhuki) and just be in a place with honest warmth and good people.

But I came to my senses. Firstly, Arch-Mage Traven had to be informed. Secondly, I was carrying a huge amount of salvage. And finally, well, I've mentioned what feather potions do to myself already.

So I lit out for the waterfront, got home, dropped off my salvage and turned around to find Traven blocking the door.

"Well, Magician?" snaps he, "It's been another three damn days. Where's Mucianus?"

And I just gape at him, feeling very old.

"When I give an order," he continues to snap, "I expect obedience. Instead I find your scent trail," and I think I blushed at that point, "ends up in this shack. Maybe I could porter for you while you run riot through the Merchant's District?"

And I just gape at him and feel the floor tilt slightly.

"Bloody hell, you're dead on your feet," snaps he, and strides over and hauls me to a seat at the kitchen table. "Siddown."

I saddown.

"What happened?" asks he a bit less nasty, "You don't look good. He's dead isn't he?"

"They..." I find my voice again, "they turned him into a worm thrall, that's what they called it. Zombie. Said the guest of honour had already left..."

"What do you mean?"

"She... she said something about a master," I stuttered. (Need I point out all this talk is cleaned up?) "Maybe he was there."

And Traven just shakes his head. "Orrery parts," mutters he, "And the battlemagi?"

"They're all dead," says I, then I remembered. "Wait. There was one guarding the entrance, but I never saw sign of any others. I mean, the last one said he was the only one left, I thought the rest were killed..."

Traven just stares at me. "This is bad, Magician," says he at last, "Very bad. Our spy and an entire squad of battlemagi lost. So, what happened when you first entered the ruins?"

I don't remember much about that interrogation, except firelight playing on Traven's hair and his eyes boring intently and unblinkingly into me. He teased it out, piece by piece, until my terrified flight.

Then he blinked and leaned back. I think it was a spell.

"Ra'jirra," says he, "I need to think about this, and you need to rest and rethink your practises. Right now, your strength and endurance are shattered, and it's only those feather potions that got you out of there." Then he looks at me and fans his face. "Next time someone throws a spell at you, get out of the damn way. And another thing," and he jabs one gauntleted finger at me, "Illusion and Alteration. Practice them more. Otherwise you'll never learn enough to become invisible. Or wean yourself off feather potions."

"I've been practicing those," objects I.

"Not. Hard. Enough," snaps he, standing up. "Once you're rested, go to chapel or mix up some restoratives. Then speak to Polus. I'll send for you in about two days or so. And one more thing. Grow a pair. You can bet your tail there's going to be more necromancy in your future, so stop being a big girl's blouse about it. Alright?"

Mention of big girl's blouses made me think of S'jirra.

"Alright?" Oh, yeah, Traven.

"Yes, Arch-Mage," I finally manage to say.

He left, banging the door behind him. It took me a while before I got up the gumption to slink from the kitchen table to my bed, where I fell into a nightmarish sleep.

Man, that Traven's one cold SOB!

I liked your description of this quest, especially that Bosmer's tragic (riiight - heh heh) end on a floor trap. You know, I could never figure if that one was a man or a woman - - -!

More chuckles and laughs, it's definitely a fun story to read.

I always thought S'jirra was slightly touched in the head about those potatoes.

SPEW!!!!!!!! ROFFL!!!!! FAREGYL INN - SPEW!!!!! CORPSE-HUMPERS !!!!!!!! RO[CENSORED]FL !!!!!!!

Your version of Arch Mage Traven is AWESOME !!!

This post has been edited by mALX: Aug 12 2010, 06:06 PM

Funny, but also growing more intense I see. This version of Traven is quite the ball-buster. He is the kind of guy I can truly see running the Mages Guild.

Now his suit had battle damage.



nits:
Many pass west to Brravil, it may have been someone else."
The Faregyl Inn is north-west of Bravil, so they would be passing south, or south-east, to Bravil.


He must have got his license wrapped round a loaf of bread.
Somehow I do not think you meant bread here.


I finally skewered and spelled the honoured user into his own grave.
Likewise with the honor Ra'jirra heaps upon this user.


so stop being a big girl's blouse about it.
& Mention of big girl's blouses made me think of S'jirra.
I do not think you really meant women's clothing either.

In regards to SubRosa:

This version of Traven is quite the ball-buster:
Actually this is what I had in mind at the start, but didn't get it across. Traven knows full well he's started something very nasty with banning necromancy and all. He's also had it confirmed that the necros are moving against his guild. He's a battlemage and a soldier at heart, and he expects guildies to do as they're told.

And as I said before, I get tired of AU being all smiles.

West to Bravil:
Bravil may be southeast of Faregyl as the crow flies, but not as the road winds.

He must have got his licence...:
Well, they don't have cornflakes in Tamriel. Or Sugar Bombs.

Honoured User:
For some reason Ra'jirra thinks this substitution's funny.

And yes, Ra'jirra intends to see more of S'jirra -- take that as you like!

Umm, the road winds south east to Bravil as well. Here is a pic of the map (North being straight up).

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 13 2010, 12:30 AM

Remind me to never read Ra'jirra with an uncovered beverage nearby!


I thought this line was simply perfect.


Amen to that!

It's official, folks: My Tamrielic compass is fuxx0r3d. I could've sworn it went west past the inns, then south, then due east, then southeast. I blame all those random encounters.