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]

13. In Which Ra'jirra Learns the Secrets of Black Soul Gems

Well as I say, off I went to cool off. Next thing I know, Raminus is tugging on my cuff.

“Hold on there, Conjurer,” says he, “Can you do me a favour?”

I just stare at him. “I'm promoted again?”

Raminus just grins and hands me a conjurer's robe. I could feel the magic in it, much better than the one I'd pulled off that sodden corpse near Anvil.

“We're in strange times now,” says he, “and we need good men, mer, and beastfolk like yourselves. Besides, you've heaps for the guild, starting with unmasking Falcar, stopping Kunthar, offing the spies in Skingrad... which brings me back to your recommendations.”

“Go on,” says I, “What do you need doing?”

“I need you to find out about black soul gems, like the ones you found in Skingrad. Delmar's had a look at them, and he told me they can swallow a person's soul entire! Can you imagine the enchantments you could make with a soul like that?”

I can't because it's only here in the sunlight that I notice a huge bruise on Raminus' temple that wasn't there two days ago.

“What the hell happened to you?” asks I.

Raminus points to the Mystic Archives. “Tar-Meena.”

Even as he speaks an Altmer shoots out the door like Molag Bal made advances at her.

“What the hell?” is my intelligent response to this sight.

“Um...” Raminus looks embarrassed, “The Council's in an uproar over the necromancer threat and they've all demanded everything she has on them. Even I went to ask her, and she just screamed and threw a book at me.”

Now I've heard everything.

“Look, Tar-Meena's going crazy because up until now we've just asked for everything and anything she has. Those black soul gems from Skingrad are the only really concrete thing we have to research. How are they made? How are they used? That sort of thing. But I'm keeping my distance from Tar-Meena until she calms down.”

So off I go and enter the Mystic Archives.

Inside was full with apprentices and other sorts mumbling as quietly as possible over books and parchments, shooting fearful looks at Tar-Meena, who was slumped in front of a desk staring unseeing at some paperwork. Her colour didn't look too good, all dull and flat, and there were dark bags under her eyes.

“Ma'am?” asks I.

“What?” she snaps, hackles shooting up and tilting her head just enough to glare at me, “Don't tell me you're looking for information on farging necromancers as well!”

I start to speak, but away she goes, “I've had every fargnaxing councillor and their flunkies in here demanding information on fargnaxing necromancers and can they have it yester-farging-day! What do they think I am, a miracle worker? I can't produce results if I can't get the time!” She sags a bit and groans, “I'm not used to working like this.”

“Well I don't give a damn about the corpse-jockeys,” says I, “I'm after information on black soul gems.”

Well, that takes her by surprise. “Not necromancers?”

“Well,” admits I, “When I went to Cheydinhal, Falcar turned out to be one, and he had a couple, and Raminus asked me to find out more.”

“Well, finally! Something solid I can respond to!” She straightens up and then looks at me slyly. “How's his head?”

“Never seen it that colour before,” says I, “Don't think he likes it.”

Tar-Meena just snorts with amusement. “Lemme think... Yes... I think we still have a copy of Necromancer's Moon around here. Unfortunately I've no idea where it is,” and she glowers at the assembled parishioners, “Thanks to all these overly vague requests, I've lost track of most everything. It's very distressing.”

I didn't thank her, because everyone had downed tools at the same time and started scouring the shelves. Precious volumes were dumped unceremoniously on tables, desks and even the floor, where they got kicked or stood on in the scuffle as Tar-Meena and I stared on, stunned. The poor librarian flinched every time a book got dropped or banged or kicked.

Then a struggle broke out between a disgracefully fat dunmer and a young nord over one book, which only stopped when the unfortunate volume broke apart with a terrible noise.

Everyone froze at that instant, then an equally terrible hissing sound began to fill the silence.

It took me a while to realise it was coming from Tar-Meena, who was now beginning to look like a mad dog. All bared fangs and bulging, enraged eyes, stalking towards the two now very scared idiots with hands twitching.

I fled – along with everyone else, just as Tar-Meena screamed like a skeleton. A couple of battlemagi, probably alerted by the exodus, charged in, and I'm guessing they managed to calm the angry argonian since about ten explosion-free, if not screeching-free, minutes later they emerged, struggling with a somewhat scratched and burnt fat dunmer and young nord.

“The Mystic Archives are closed until further notice,” one of them announced, “and if you love living for the gods' sake don't go in there.”

Great. I still didn't have the book and it looked like asking for it would be asking for it. The Mage's League of Silly Buggers drifted away arguing what to do, while I braced myself and gingerly peered in. Tar-Meena was looking utterly deflated as she surveyed the mess the library had become.

“Can I help you clean up?” I asked.

Tar-Meena just looked at me dully. “Get out.”

“Look,” says I, “This was partly my fault, asking for that–”

And a book hit me square in the face.

“There's your fargnaxing book!” she screams at me. “Get OUT!!”

I get out.

I sat down in the lobby and started reading. Raminus joined me.

“They say there was a fight in the Mystic Archives,” says he, “what happened?”

“This did,” says I, “as soon as Tar-Meena told me the title everyone began tearing the place apart for it. Then two morons snapped a book in half and...”

Raminus winced. “Oh, gods. That is not good. What're you reading anyway?”

“Necromancer's Moon,” says I, and then I stop. “This could mean something. Listen:

“The Revenant, the Necromancer's Moon, watches over us all. His Form, ascended to Godhood, has taken its rightful place in the sky, and hides the enemy Arkay from us so that we may serve Him. Watch for the signs: when the heavenly light descends from above, hasten to His altars and make your offering, so that He may bless you with but a taste of His true power. Grand Soul Gems offered to Him will be darkened, and can be used to trap the souls of the unwitting; a feat even the great N'Gasta would marvel at.”

I found a loose reed on the floor and used it as a bookmark.

Raminus looked thoughtful. “So, it involves altars and a ceremony that takes place when a celestial event occurs... Bothiel!”

The bosmer had come in while we were talking and was ear-farming. Raminus filled her in, and she starts.

“Shade of the Revenant? Falcar was here some time ago, asking about just such a thing. Said it was for research. He had a large sheaf of notes with him about it.” And she frowns at me. “I'm afraid I didn't have any more advice for him than I do for you. With the Orrery in such a state of disrepair, I have no point of reference.”

I can feel my face burning or maybe it's the stinging from the impact of the book.

“Falcar did leave this behind; I think it fell from his notes as he left. I didn't pay it much attention, but perhaps it will be of use to you.”

She hands me the note and Raminus looks over my shoulder.

Primary sites:

The Dark Fissure

Fort Istirius

Fort Linchal

Wendelbek

Altars have been raised; Anchorites have been called. Watch the skies; once a week His Grace shines down on us.

“Bothiel,” Raminus says, showing great restraint, “why didn't you turn this in before now? We could have captured Falcar alive.”

“I didn't know!” Bothiel says indignantly, “I didn't think it important, and besides I just wanted the snot out of my face. I was rebuilding the main actuator mechanism at the time, or don't you remember?”

Raminus just gives her a look, then turns to me.

“The only one of these I can identify is Dark Fissure. It's a cave in the Valus Mountains near Cheydinhal, almost due east of Vahtacen. So, go there, see if there's an altar, and watch what happens when this 'shade' occurs, then report back to me.”

Bothiel is looking over my other shoulder at the note. “Damnit,” says she, “I don't recognise any of these names.”

“Why's that important?” Raminus asks irritably.

“Because one of these altars may be near Camp Ales,” she explains, “So our Conjurer here could retrieve my orrery parts at the same time!”

Which I take as my cue to flee.

I have a think at home and decide to head out to Dark Fissure, mainly because it's in an area I know. So, after some stiff travel and stiffer climbing, I crouch, armoured up and trying to be as still as a mouse, on a ledge above the entrance to Dark Fissure. In front of it, as expected, an altar, draped in the banners of necromancy, on Turdas 11 Frost Fall.

Nothing happened that night, except I got very cold and stiff.

I went to Cheydinhal the next day, did some exploring of local caves, found some nice bits, then high-tailed it back to Dark Fissure for another midnight watch. Magic ceremonies, especially dark ones, tend to be more effective, or only effective, at midnight.

Fredas became Loredas with the exact same lack of warmth and drama.

I went back to Cheydinhal, sold some salvage, then went and explored Fort Farragut. After avoiding deadly traps and deadlier than usual undead, I realised I had stumbled across the redoubt of worshippers of Sithis, none of whom were in attendance, thank heavens. I burgled the place and got out. Further on, I fended off an ogre and a pack of wolves near Rickety Mine. At least now I had some meat to munch on tonight.

Loredas became Sundas with a column of pale light, shining down directly on the altar in front of Dark Fissure. I watched the beam fascinated, then froze as the door opened and one of the corpse-jockeys emerged and strode to the altar.

He placed something on the altar, cried, “The Order of the Black Worm will feast on your soul,” referred to a piece of paper, “mortal.” Then he referred to the paper again and cast a Mysticism spell on the altar, and I watched as the gem blotched and darkened to an ugly black I had seen before.

I was aiming for his head, but the damn arrow went low. I jumped down and spelled and skewered him dead, then looted his pockets. A note and grand soul gems. I went back to the altar.

Thoughtfully, I picked up the gem, and equally thoughtfully put the other two gems on it, then looked at the note. Evidently the fool's speech was a sop to his need for theatrics.

I looked at the altar, swallowed hard, and cast soul trap on the altar, and again. Two black gems winked in the pale light beam like malevolent eyes.

I knew how they made black soul gems.

You couldn't see my tail for dust as I rocketed back to the University, Raminus, and warmer climes.

“Bloody hell,” was Raminus' response to my report, “I shall pass the news on to the Council. Most troubling, indeed, to know that these are not merely myths, but there's more of the ever-so-honoured users than we thought.”

“Oh hooray,” says I, “so there's a right punch-up brewing.”

“I'm afraid so, all joking aside. As such, you're being kicked upstairs. Arch-Mage Traven wants to give you your next set of marching orders, so you're allowed to use the teleport to speak with him, and you're being promoted again. Conjurer no more, Ra'jirra – you're a Magician now!”

All I could think of to say was, “Make sure Jarol knows won't you?”

Raminus just laughed.

“I...” then I trailed off, “I need to get used to this. I'd best deal to... um... Bothiel's bandits.”

“And about time too,” says the bosmer in question from where she'd been standing in the shadows.

“Give Traven my excuses,” says I, “I need a break.”

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Jul 15 2010, 04:56 AM