The Memoir of Arch-Mage Ra'jirra, Or, how the hell we got lumbered with this farmboy Options

[Cardboard Box]

This is a new game where I'm using an alternative start mod that actually works, offering you the chance to be dumped in Bravil before kicking off the Main Quest at your leisure. Ra'jirra, as arch-mage, is writing his memoir after an eventful rise to that respected title. His language has yet to catch up with him.

Prologue
I'm not a writing type, but this is special. It's my book, about me, and it's what really happened as opposed to them bard types. All singing about me being in shining armour and a zillion feet tall and riding the Imperial dragon and all that crap. This ain't crap. It's the real stuff. And I'm gonna tell it in my own words, even if they ain't all sweet and proper like. Why? Because sure, I have this fancy place now, and the fancy armour which I only wear on special occasions, and all the titles and crap. But I'm a farmer's boy and always have been. Like poor bloody Martin was.

So there's three people you should thank, not me. There's my ma, Hathor, and dad, Ra'Virra, who finally decided to let me go to Cyrodiil. And then there's that wandering mage, guy called Cornelius Othmar. He's the one, really, who saw what I could do.

So anyway, I remember more or less when it happened. It was market day, and now I think about it it's the only market day I can remember clearly. Maybe it's the Divines or something. But I remember I was standing next to a nice girl, I think her name was Merry or Mary or something like that. I was also on a high because dad and me had really pulled one over on some of those poncy sorts who come to buy our stuff – we have an orchard full of apples, oranges, berries and melons and stuff. Great for knocking up potions for getting your energy back. When we left that day, we had a few less pieces of fruit and some recipes for what they call preserves – it'd meant spending up on flour and sugar and all the jars, all on the quiet of course, but that's how merchanting works. Getting the better deal while letting the other dork think he's got it.

But anyway, me and Mary were watching this Cornelius bloke putting on a show – Mary was watching anyway, I was plotting a course for us to the most private haywain so's nobody would see, at first, but I found myself getting more interested in the mage's doings. Now a lot of what he was playing at was bloody flashing lights, I know, but I was beginning to figure it out somehow. Those of you who're real mages will know all this, and if you don't, you can bloody well ask. As Carahil once said to me, "there is no knowledge without power", and who doesn't want power?

Well, I was mulling the concepts over, and I must have been mumbling under my breath or something, because next thing I know I was literally glowing! Even Cornelius stopped and stared at me as I slowly went red. Easy for him, because everyone else had backed away from me as though I was deadly.

"Whoops!" he cried, "so sorry my boy! Come round the back, I'll fix you right up!" And down he came and pulled me away by the arm!

Anyway, round the back he had this caravan thing, and once inside he turned to me, said something that seemed to literally blow the spell off me. Then he just stared.

"Why did you cast that spell?" he asked me a bit angry like.

"I didn't mean to!" Did I sound like a kitten or what? "I was mulling over what you were doing, I guess I was muttering to myself, I've never cast it before!"

Well, his eyebrows went fair through the ceiling. "I find that hard to believe," say he, "And the dispel I cast on you now, how did that feel?"

"Um... like it blew a sort of... um, cobweb off me," I said. Then, "That's what an enchantment is like, eh? Like a sort of pattern or web that sits on top of your life, um..."

"That's enough," he says, and he's not so mad now. "I wasn't expecting that much wisdom from a farmer's boy. Ever had proper magickal training?"

"No sir, just a couple cantrips to light fires and heal small wounds, sir. And making potions."

So he just sits there and ponders. "You're a natural," says he, "a natural bloody mage. I better talk to your folks, it'd be a damn shame to let a talent like yours go to waste."

So after that I leave the caravan and there's my olds looking kinda relieved and scared and dad about ready to have a go at Cornelius. But he has a few words to my dad and next thing I remember clearly is ma and dad and me and Cornelius at home that evening, finished off a supper of bread and soup listening to Cornelius talk.

"Your son's a natural," he kicks off, "I'm doing my show and next thing I know, this boy, and I thought he's just planning a tryst with that girl next to him, casts Starlight on himself."

"What's that?" dad asks. I was turning red, but then dad adds, "Starlight I mean."

"It makes you glow for a time," Cornelius explains, "so you don't need to carry a torch. Well, I thought he'd done it on purpose, so I hustled him into my caravan to dispel it and give him a piece of my mind, but that's when I found out he's a natural. He should be in the Guild."

Well, dad just looks at him. "Why?"

"Why? Because he worked out how to cast a spell without training! When I dispelled it, he told me what it felt like to him as though he's already learned about the school of Mysticism! I tell you, this boy's a natural – put him in the Guild and he'll make you proud!" And he looks at me as if to say you better bloody do so too.

Dad's about to say something, but then the door bangs open and in bursts the priest. Let me describe him. Julius Maro, old, boozy, fat, thick as three short planks and up himself so far he can see daylight again.

"What is this man doing here!" Like I said, up himself. Nothing he likes better than to bang on about the Nine as though they're a pack of marauders who can only be held off by doing what he says. And woe betide you if he sees you dozing, or being bored, in his chapel. I hated his guts obviously.

"He has been invited here." Dad didn't like him either. Especially not after that business about tithes. "You weren't."

"This man is a menace to your souls! A traitor to the Nine! A dabbler in the dark arts! He should be shunned by all right-thinking men!" Maro was wobbling with rage. He was good at that.

"Says you," dad replies, "But he's not after our souls. He's told us our son's a natural mage."

Now Maro turns purple, so it looks like he's got a big wobbly blackberry for a head.

"Monster!" Looking back I think he was trying to bellow really impressive like, but all he did was squeak from the top end and trumpet from the lower one and his guts rose about three inches. No really. I couldn't hold a snort, and then Cornelius giggled, and then my parents broke up. And all the bloody priest could do was sputter about necromancers and daedra worshipers and other phrases.

And then he pulls his copy of "One Command, Nine Divines" out of his robe and bangs me on the head with it!

"I invoke the mercy of the Nine!" he starts going off, "Of Akatosh, of Dibella, of Stendarr, of-"

Now Maro didn't like us and we didn't like him. If you're an Imperial, you got to understand a lot of you are real bastards to us beastfolk. Knock it off. You're beholden to one now, remember?

Anyway back then he got my dad's fist in the mush and then his boot in the bum and off they go with dad yelling that good folks don't go around bashing sons on the head in front of their parents and Maro sputtering back that we were all something or other as he wobbled off.

"You'll have to excuse our priest," he explained to Cornelius, "he's stupid and a saleswoman."

"I guessed that," Cornelius replied, "anyway, as I was saying, he's got a brain on him that it'd be a shame to waste. Now," and he pulls out his purse and takes out about fifty bloody septims. "I'll put that toward getting him to the guildhalls in Cyrodiil. They're the bloody best."

Well, ma and dad look at him, at the coins on the table, and then at me.

And I look back and think that if I go, I'll be leaving everything I know behind. And if I stay, Maro at least will make my life a misery, and I'll never know what I missed out on. But the fact that dad was willing to have a go at a priest about this pretty much settled the deal.

"I can come back if it doesn't work out, right?" I asked.

"Of course, son," dad says, and I can't remember right what happened after that except there was a lot of drinking and a lot of tears. Whenever dad called me 'son', it was always when he was really proud of me or being kind. 'Boy' was what he used when I was in the poo.

And then a few weeks later I was sailing on the Coy Carp to Anvil.

[Cardboard Box]

[This one was a tricky bit, since I wanted to make Mazoga more than a piece of heavily armoured cardboard.]

7. In which Ra'Jirra Skips Over a Lot

The more I thought about it, the more I wanted a house in Leyawiin. My reasoning was that while I'd have a base in the Imperial City, Leyawiin's a long way from the big smoke, so knowing the costs of real estate here would be a good idea. As it turned out, there was a little cottage for sale, so I went to see the Count.

Unfortunately the Count wasn't the slightest bit interested in talking real estate until I did a little job for him, which involved the Orcish lady we all know as Sir Mazoga, Knight of the White Stallion of Leyawiin. (Said always with a straight face if you know what's good for you.) It's a classic tale of redemption and revenge, and you've heard the bards going on about it. Sir Mazoga's proven Leyawiin's protection is in good hands. Unless you're Black Brugo, in which case you're dead, or a member of what's left of the Black Bow Gang, in which case you're likely getting the snot pounded out of you in Quickwater Cave or somewhere nearby.

After that I tied up some loose ends. I had collected twenty more nirnroots on my sojourn down the river and Sinderion was gobsmacked to learn this.

“Where did you find all these?” cries he, grabbing a pair of baskets to put them all in.

“Rocks and water,” says I, “they seem to need to be close to rocks, whether they be stones, city walls or ruins, preferably with water nearby.” I have a think and add, “I should check up north around Chorrol and Bruma and thereabouts.”

“Good idea,” says he, “it's valuable information. And if you look here,” and he points to where a drunken rat has tracked ink across some parchment, “it seems the next strength of Elixir requires thirty more. Do keep notes on where you find them, won't you?”

And I agree and leave him to it and exploring I go.

My plan was to return to Silorn and head east, running across an abandoned chapel marked as 'the Priory of the Nine', Fort Black Boot which was full of conjurers, and the most puzzling of the lot, Bloodmayne Cave. I say puzzling because it appeared to be abandoned, fires still going, bales and chests with stuff in them. More disturbing, in a large chamber was a pallet with a skeleton spread upon it. Was he sacrificed? Necromancers? Only the wolves and rats knew so I burgled the place and beat it back to Bravil and thence to the Lodge of the White Stallion.

It was around this time I made enough cash and loot to return to the Imperial City and buy that waterfront shack. I still had a heap of travelling to do, but it's still nice to have a place of your own. Best of all, I could honestly tell people I had a residence in the Imperial City. Sort of.

Sitting there, on the evening of Fridas 16 Heartfire, I found myself boggling at how things had turned out in such a short time and thinking over my last conversation with Mazoga.

“Vaermina's tits!” she cries coming in, “what's that stench?”

“Um, feather potions,” says I a bit embarrassed, “I'm heading for the Imperial City.”

“Doing some selling?” she says around the iron-clad thumb and forefinger jammed into her honk. “You better ease up or find a new recipe.”

“I'll explain outside,” says I, tying on the last bits to my bundle.

Outside, it was a quiet evening except for my guts. Maybe that was why the unicorn had disappeared again.

“I'm aiming for the Mage's Guild, Mazoga,” says I, “and I can't do that if I'm running around Leyawiin killing bandits, and anyway I need to get more useful.”

Mazoga just looks at me. “Useful? Sir Ra'Jirra, you've been an invaluable companion, and I've seen your bravery in a fight. Your parents should be proud their son is a knight!”

I start walking northward slowly so Mazoga can follow me upwind.

“Well, I've also got a trip to do up north as well,” says I, “S'drassa wants some rare crystals called Garridan's Tears. I've got a name to speak with at the Arcane University, and then I'll be back.”

“Yeah,” says she, “I heard you stopped Dagail from going mad. Can't understand why you're messing around with those spell-slingers though.”

“My parents sent me off believing that I'd join the Mage's Guild,” I explain, “and I promised I would. I can't pike out when I'm only halfway there! Sir Mazoga,” and I look at her, “I'm not letting my parents down any more than you did Ra'vindra.”

She just stops and looks at me, looks away, and says, “I – I'm going to get me some – more black bows.”

And away she strides, but as we part I'm sure I hear her call, “I'll save some for you!” or something like that.

I was in the city as I said by Fridas with feather potions to spare and after some vigorous merchanting finally purchased deed to the waterfront shack and several sets of furnishings, including some very useful ingredient pots.

By this time I was no longer certain whether to go westward to Chorrol or eastward to Cheydinhal. All I knew was that I seemed to be fighting other people's fires, at least three of which seemed to have something to do with necromancy. Erthor's zombies, that note in Bravil, and Kunthar's treachery. I was starting to get nervous and a half.

The following day I met Julienne Fanis in the lobby of the Arcane University and spoke to her about Garridan's Tears. According to her, and some reading I picked up from Phintias, the Tears were the crystallised – well, tears, of a knight who was trying to save his lands from drought, and met his end in Frostfire Glade, which is in the northern highlands.

On the way I spoke to an old fisherman in Weye, chap with a gammy leg and some spectacular scars on same. Apparently he needed the scales from a dozen slaughterfish. Incidentally, they're well named, and after nearly being torn apart and drowned two or three times I thought “sod this” and got on to Frostfire.

The Glade itself is reached by having refined frost salts to unlock the door at the end of a cave, which is full of really vicious wolves. In the middle there is an immense mass of ice, inside which you can see Garridan, frozen in battle with a huge atronach, whose little brother I also fought. Stay away unless you have very, very good frost resistance magicks.

Needless to say S'drassa was delighted that I'd found the Tears for him, and even more delighted that I'd managed to survive. They actually look good in his collection, and the story is a touching one. So off I went up the eastern side of the river, intending to go to Cheydinhal.

Actually I got as far as the Panther River before I was sidetracked, but I digress.

At the mouth of the Panther there's a shipwreck, which I soon discovered was involved with a ghost known to the residents of Bravil as the Folorn Watchman. That ghost has been laid to rest by yours truly, but not without a truly frightening scrap involving vengeful ghosts that weren't there the first time I looked around.

There are stranger places to make a decision than three fathoms down in a river, at night, looking for sunnken treasure, by the way.