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]

[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.