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]

[OK then! Thanks to "Bob"'s School of Time Control, I was able to prevent Ra'jirra from getting suckered into the MQ - definitely not on my todo list for him. Actually, I almost got quests out of sequence...]

Chapter 11. In Which Ra'Jirra Has a Nasty Surprise in Skingrad

I popped back into the lobby of good old AU and greeted Raminus, who was chirping on to one of those square-faced bosmers about the latest fights at the Arena. I can't understand the impulse to regularly risk one's neck for gold in front of a crowd. Mind you I tend to risk my neck going on quests, but usually those are private affairs.

“Journeyman Ra'Jirra!” says he, “I have a task for you!”

“Certainly, Raminus – hang on, what did you call me?” says I.

Raminus just grins at me. “The Council are no slouches with recognising those who go above and beyond for the Guild. Such as you.”

“Well, then,” says I slowly, “What's this about a task?”

“The Council is investigating what happened at Wellspring Cave,” he explains, “Many of our resources are devoted to the task, leaving our ranks spread thin. There is a related book that needs to be recovered. It was recently loaned to Janus Hassildor, the Count of Skingrad. I'd like you to retrieve it.”

“That's all?” says I, and here I am thinking it's a cushy number as long as I don't run into Glarthir again.

“I understand this may not seem the most important of tasks, but still...” shrugs Raminus, “It needs doing, and you are one of the few available to do it.”

“And while you're over there,” interrupts Mrs Square Face, “you can help me with the orrery.”

“Sorry Ra'Jirra,” says Raminus all embarrassed, “This is Bothiel. She maintains the Orrery here.”

“That's what I would do if it wasn't for bandits,” she jumps in irritably, “and they stole parts I was waiting for. Here,” and she hands me a paper, “this explains the situation. If you could get those parts back, you'll help get the Orrery working again.”

I looked at the paper and noted the location of Camp Ales on my map, more or less north of Kvatch.

But Ranimus clears his throat with an angry noise, and gets my attention again. “I think the issue of necromancers is a bit more important than retrieving parts...” Whoops! Bothiel's face goes all thunderous, but he charges on, “A note of caution: Skingrad is an... unusual place. Be prepared for the unexpected. The Count is a reclusive man, and sometimes difficult to see. Hopefully, your status as a representative of the Guild will aid you. Speak with the castle steward when you arrive.”

And I acknowledge that and am all yes sir and away I go before the fight gets underway.

Frankly, Skingrad was fairly strange. There was Glarthir, the crazy bosmer, Erthor, the crazy mage, and now I had to deal with a crazy count? “Fuggnell,” I muttered as I left my little home and started along the way.

It was late in the day of 6 Frost Fall when I arrived in Skingrad, gussied myself up in my Mage's Guild finery, presented myself at the castle, and spoke to his steward, one Mercator Hosidius.

I shouldn't have bothered.

“Yes? The Mages Guild, you say?” and he gives me a look like I'd come fresh from the hog pen. (Funny that, I've never seen pig farms anywhere.) “Oh, the Count is quite aware of your presence here. He simply has no interest in granting you an audience at this time.” And he looks me up and down in a way that sets my ears back. “Now that I've seen you myself, I can't say that I blame him.”

“Charming,” says I in my most sarcastic tone, “Does the Count know you make his decisions for him?”

There was an Argonian bird nearby and she looks at him and looks at me and slowly backs away.

Mercator just smirks. “Nevertheless,” says he most condescendingly, “I shall endeavour to change his mind on the subject. Return tomorrow - perhaps he will see you then.”

And he turns on his heel and stomps off.

“What the hell was his problem?” asks I of nobody in particular.

“No idea,” says the Argonian suddenly, “I've never seen him so rude to anyone from the Mage's Guild before, and he doesn't like the guild that much already. Tell the truth, I thought you two were about to start swinging. Um...”

And she looks to the door and I do too and see the guards putting their swords away. Bloody hell.

“I'd best leave,” says I and so I do. I didn't stop leaving until I was past the graveyard and accosted by a minotaur.

My nice new staff worked a treat, but you had to think fast because by the time I'd drawn a weapon the damn critter had got back up again. Eventually the beast fell, and I got some minotaur horn for my efforts.

I spent the night mooching in goblin caves, including the Derelict Mine on the road to the Imperial City, scoring, among other things, a nice silver axe. The following morning I went back to the castle – the tension wound up as soon as I entered and Hosidius saw me.

“You again!” He struts right up to me and gets in my face. “Has a day passed?”

“You said 'come back tomorrow',” says I, folding my arms, “Well – it's tomorrow.”

And we just look at each other.

“I have nothing new to tell you,” he says at last and turns and struts away.

“That's all right,” says I, and he stops and stares at me as I plonk myself in a handy chair and pull a couple of books out of my pack, “I'll wait.” And then I smiled at him and started reading The Collected Plays of Crassius Curio. Lovely fellow. Penned some of the lewdest and rudest farces ever to come out of Morrowind. Or anywhere else for that matter.

“Haven't you got some muck to brew?” says Hosidius about Act II Scene I of Dance of the Three-Legged Guar.

“You're unwelcome here,” adds he just as I'm about to turn the page and start on Act IV Scene IV of The Lusty Argonian Maid.

“Oh all right!” he finally says just as I'm getting to the good bit of The Real Nightmare of Castle Xyr, “The Count will meet you at 2am tonight, in the High Pasture west of town. Don't be late!”

“All right then,” says I, and I take my time plucking a leaf off a bunch of grapes for a bookmark. Then I put the books back in my pack. I didn't even need to start on Fool's Ebony.

I had several hours to kill, so I wandered over to the Mage's Guild, where nothing of interest happened. However I did notice a new altar I hadn't seen before, so I had a fiddle to pass the time. But you can only fiddle with an altar for so long, so I went off and had a look around the proposed meeting place.

The High Pasture is west of Skingrad, but east of the so-called Cursed Mine, where the road turns south towards Kvatch and Anvil – you know, where that little tree is in the middle of the road. I paid the Cursed Mine a visit and found some extra alchemical gear which the bandits inside didn't need for some reason.

And so I went back to the High Pasture about midnight, dropped off some of my loot in a handy byre, and waited a bit more. The longer I waited, the more disturbed I became. Why here? Did the Count fear a spy?

The moons were waning; I finally saw Hosidius walk past outside, accompanied by two figures in dark robes. My time sense said it was almost two; I loosened my mace in its sling, cast a detect life spell – nobody else in range – and followed them to a point outside, where they stopped. And stared at me.

I stared at them, until Mercator finally spoke up.

“Just in time, Mage. We've been waiting for you.” He looked disgusted, but that didn't surprise me, since we didn't exactly get on well. “I'm afraid I misled you. The Count won't be arriving - in fact, he doesn't even know you're here.”

“Don't tell me you're one of the corpse-humpers,” I said in contempt.

And that pretty much started the fight.

At first I wasn't doing very well. Against one, I can survive; two, it's a matter of fending one off while beating on the other. Three I was struggling with, until someone in some very fancy shining armour came charging in, grabbing a necromancer with one hand and smashing him in the face with another.

Mercator sort of lost his concentration then, gaping at the newcomer, and I took great pleasure in swinging my mace into his jaw. I could hear the bones break and watched his head snap back, then I finally loosed off a kill spell that stuck. Death wrapped him in red and black.

The other necro staggered back past me, glittering with ice, breath frozen in his lungs, dead before he hit the ground.

Then someone took my helmet off from behind. “Excuse me,” said a cultured voice, then a small mountain landed right on my noggin.

* * *

I returned to the Arcane University later that day – 8 Frost Fall I believe – and I was pissed.

“Hail Journeyman!” cries Bothiel, “Have you-”

Khajiit have this ability to hiss volumes. And I hissed an entire library's worth at her. I'm not happy about it, but maybe her ill-advised greeting let Raminus live.

I stalked over to where Raminus was slowly backing away from me.

“The Count Janus Hassildor,” I very carefully say, “says, and I quote, 'Tell your Council that the next time they want something from me, they come themselves. They don't send someone under false pretences.'”

Raminus started to splutter, but I didn't let him.

“Before he told me that, his steward, Mercator Hosidius, attempted to lead me to an ambush, claiming a secret meeting with the Count. If that worthy hadn't suspected, I would most likely be dead, and I would not be nursing this lump from where he knocked me down for 'my' stupidity afterwards.

“And he also added, and I quote, 'Despite what your Council may think, I've not thrown in with the Necromancers, and would never do so. You may pass along that message.' Well – I consider it passed on.”

By this time my blood was down a bit, and Raminus actually looked contrite.

“Ra'jirra, I... I must apologize. It was never the Council's intention to put you in harm's way.”

Either Raminus was a bloody good liar on a par with Marobar Sul, or he was being honest.

“Now, I know you've had a rotten time, but I can... I believe you deserve reward, Evoker Ra'jirra.”

“What?” was my intelligent response.

Raminus straightened up and rummaged under his robe. “As far as I am concerned, from this moment, you have gained the rank of Evoker. There'll be someone complaining about your meteoric rise in the ranks, I guess, but you've gone well above and beyond your duty to the Guild. And along with your new rank, please take this amulet. May it help keep you safe in times of danger.”

And he handed me this self same Spelldrinker Amulet I still wear to this day. All right, unless I've got a more suitable one.

“Did you find the missing parts for the orrery?” Bothiel asked then, killing the moment stone dead.

“No ma'am,” I said in a lofty tone, “I'm afraid I got distracted with necromancers trying to kill me and all.”

“Well, really!” She actually stamped her foot at me. “Don't you understand how important my work is? The orrery here is the only one in Cyrodiil. There's one more in Hammerfell... the old one at Stros M'Kai. Finding those parts is essential to unlock the secrets of the heavens – including, if my research is right, access to celestial powers! You get right back there and – men!”

Maybe Raminus and I shouldn't have burst out laughing. Mind you, the way she stormed out would have set us off anyway.

You should see the orrery, by the by. It's a truly amazing sight, and Bothiel's forgiven me for my lapse of memory there.