The Chronicles of Ra'jirra II: The Wasteland, In which Arch-mage Ra'jirra has an out of this world experience Options

[Cardboard Box]

CRITICAL EDIT: Haute Ecole Rider pointed out that 1) I'd used a variant of Julian without his permission, and 2) that I'd varied too far from the essential Julian as well. So there's no Julian in this splay any more.

Preface

It's probably a bit early to start posting this second fanfic, but seeing as I already have a chunk of the story... researched... I have no compunction about posting it already. If a fanfic in which Cyrodiil yankees land in Three Dog's court isn't suitable on this forum, just say so and I won't continue.

It's set in the future after the following events:

1. The elevation of Ra'jirra to the position of Arch-Mage
2. His marriage to S'jirra
3. The Oblivion crisis and the equally nasty affair of the Knights of the Nine, which was resolved by Zul gro-Radagash, Champion of Cyrodiil. (Ra'jirra and Zul don't play well together.)

More importantly, this should ensure your regular dose of everyone's favourite khajiit mage until I save up enough for a new graphics card. The original Chronicles will be restarted then, probably in November.

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Chapter 0. Prologue

"Now what's going on here?" I asked the pilus once my horse was stabled at Black Plateau.

I wasn't in a good mood. Five days ago, I'd been having a pleasant week with my family at Faregyl Inn when I received the summons. The kits are growing up so fast; R'mara and Sheeyin are following in their mother's footsteps - along with 'Auntie Abhuki's' – and with any luck will run the inn just as well. At least, once they get big enough to cook and see over the top of a broom.

Don't tell anyone, but we're thinking of taking over the Inn of Ill Omen as well. Gods know that place needs a decent cook at least.

J'dargo... well, he's a big boy and I've told him that when he's older there'll surely be a place in the Legion or the Fighter's Guild for him, if he doesn't go getting himself killed first.

And no, I will never bring them to live in the Imperial City. S'jirra hates the big smoke, and I'm not making her unhappy. Well, more than I have to. Besides, you all know by now about how so many buildings there became slaughterhouses at the height of the Oblivion crisis.

Let me tell you a truth: Despite what that cretinous "Champion of Cyrodiil", Zul gro-Kissmyarse-Radagash says, it was me who closed the gate threatening the Faregyl Inn and the Inn of Ill Omen. I even have the sigil stone, since I knew damn well that any stones that moronic snot golem found would be turned into enchanted gimcracks before you could say chump.

Anyway, the aforementioned summons was in the form of a rather tattered-looking apprentice who stumbled through the door four days ago. "Arch-mage!" cries he, looking very tired and like he misplaced a lot of blood somewhere. And here I am sitting in a corner reading The Children's Anuad to them.

So I get up and over to this apprentice who's bleeding all over our nice clean floor and land a healing spell on him. "What the hells have you been doing?" asks I, "playing with those bandits around Horn Cave?"

He just gave me a sickly look and I make a note to pay the drunken swines a visit. "At the bridge," says he. Ah. Better pay the lazy drunken Legion swines a visit instead then.

"Well," says I, "We'll put you up for the night, at twenty drakes." And he looks at me like a stunned slaughterfish and I explain, "That's bed, potions and labour. You can deliver your message tomorrow."

Then I grin to let him know I was teasing.

"Arch-mage," gods he was persistent! "I have a message from Vito."

And I just look at him. What did the pilus of Black Plateau want?

"The message can wait," says I, "let's get you sorted." And I swing everyone into action and grab J'dargo before he can head out the door.

"No," says I.

"Dad!" whines he, "I'm going to kill those ban-dits!"

"No," says I, "you're too young." And at twelve he was too. "Besides the bridge is six hours away, and they have big axes, and big swords, and bows and spells that will get you before you see them."

Well! He draws himself up to his full height and stares at me from around stomach level.

"I can see in the dark," says he correctly, "I'll kill them all first!"

This is why heroes shouldn't settle down and have kids. I think Trey, you know, the Nerevarine, would agree with me. He didn't let Athlain hare out the door with a toy mace at twelve years old in the dead of night, so why should I?

So I do the only thing I can. I'm bigger than he is, so I yank his mace out of his hand and stick it in my belt. J'dargo knows better than to try and take it from my belt, because when I take his mace off him, I'm serious.

And I look at him and he looks at me and sags. "Please?"

"No." The world would be a better place if more parents put their foot down and said no to their kids. I've got into all sorts of trouble just from wearing my distaste on my face when confronted with brats and their servile sires and/or dams. And I've got out of all sorts of trouble when they recognised me.

And the children of the aristocracy are the worst, which is another reason I'm not bringing my family to the Imperial City.

Anyway I turn away from J'dargo – case closed, father knows best – and he slopes off to mope with his toy soldiers to the amusement of the other patrons.

And I go up to check on our visitor. I find him in better fettle, partly due to the silver flash of healing magic observable under the door.

"You able to talk?" and he nods, but looking a little woozy still.

"Did you come all the way from Black Plateau?" asks I.

"No," says he, "the message came to your chambers at the Arcane University, and Master Polus called for a messenger." And he shrugs.

"I'll discuss your run-ins later," says I, "Now, what's the message?"

And he points to a sealed packet on the dresser; fortunately my girls are sensible and know better than to read the Arch-mage's mail – even if he is formally known as 'Daddy' or 'Husband'. So I opens it and find:

Ra'jirra,

Tuls Laren has had a fire in his laboratory as of 3 bells post-noon, 26 Last Seed 3E445. I think you should come and see this as soon as you can.

Brucellus Vito
Pilus Prior
Black Plateau Magical Research Institute

PS. Don't call me Bruce in front of the men.

That’s Bruce for you. A decorated hero from the battle of Bruma, but a knee smashed beyond repair condemned him to ‘manning the wooden fort’. He may be deskbound, but don't underestimate him. He effectively manages the place with an iron fist.

But at the same time, he knows I'm a busy Khajiit. I've got the various guilds to keep under control; the Guardians of Oblivion to worry about; battlemagi to train in order to deal to said Guardians of Oblivion; a whole new set of buttocks to kiss under Chancellor Ocato and that oaf of a Champion, Zul gro-Radagash; and the Bruma guildhall still isn't back up to speed yet. So he wouldn't summon me for a common or garden laboratory fire.

Moreover, he had a method of directly communicating with me in case of emergency. Whatever had happened in Laren's lab wasn't life-threatening yet, but he still felt I needed to see it.

The apprentice had either fallen asleep or passed out, so I slipped out into the hall. My darling S'jirra was there with a small bowl.

"Some brroth forr the apprrentice," says she softly.

"He's just passed out for now," says I softly, "but he gave me the message. I'm wanted at Black Plateau."

I hate it when S'jirra looks sad. I'd rather see her smile that smile that feels like warm sun in my heart. "Don't worry," says I, "I'm not leaving now. They can wait until tomorrow, when I've finished vital important business here." And I look her up and down in that way that always makes her chuckle and in this case almost spill the broth.

"Silly kit!" says she, "I will take this in, then we will rretirre forr yourr verry vital imporrtant business!"

And so she did and, once we finally got the kits in their own beds, we did. Allow me to add here three asterisks, to indicate the pleasant passing of many hours.

* * *

At dawn we were woken by various grunts and bustles as Abhuki and some of our guests got up and about, readying themselves to head off. And so did I – reluctantly.

My little pride came out as I, looking resplendent in my now increasingly long in the tooth 'travelling clothes' – Ayleid armour, the black bow from my Leyawiin days, and a silver mace I hung onto "just in case" – prepared to mount the white gelding I'd got to replace the unicorn and match my shield.

"Now then hot stuff," says I to J'dargo sternly, "I'll be back between a week or a fortnight, depending on what's going on, so I want you to take care of your mum and Auntie Abhuki–"

"I'll defend them with my life!" Yep, definitely warrior material. But he needs to develop brains to balance his brawn, or maybe it's that I gave him his mace back. Local rats beware!

"–and your sisters," making those two kits giggle. J'dargo made a face, but I gave him a stern look. "No arguments," says I.

"Yes, father," he knows better than to argue about that.

And so with the farewell cries of my family echoing behind me, I rode off into the sunrise to the Black Plateau Imperial Mage's Guild Research Facility.

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Coming up: Mysterious voices! Phonetic spellings! Unexpected visitors! Amusing misinterpretations! More maledictions against the Chuampion of Cyrodiil! All this and less!

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 9 2010, 04:45 AM

[Cardboard Box]

This part of the story was the most fun and challenging to write, since obviously there are concepts and objects Ra'jirra is going to experience first-hand that have no parallels in Tamriel, not to mention they don't know how to spell them anyway.

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Chapter 1. Black Plateau

As I mentioned, I arrived five days later at Black Plateau in a bad mood. Normally the trip takes four days, but a pack of slavers had the nerve to set up shop close on to the route. Now we don't have proper roads to Black Plateau for the simple reason that it's one more thing to discourage the nosey from coming up. And while slavers tend not to be nosey, there's the little issues of there being laws against them, so their presence might attract folks more curious still. Also in the event of certain experiments getting loose the last thing you need is some idiot nearby who either sees them as potential profit or charges off spreading panic or worse.

So I wasted a day wiping slaver scum from my armament and the face of the earth before arriving at the outer gate. The only thing that would have made the day worse would have been meeting that damnable Zul gro-Radagash – thankfully I didn't.

But first let me explain how Black Plateau works, and why. Black Plateau is based in eastern Cyrodiil, very close to the Morrowind border. It's a complex of buildings devoted to three things: magickal research of a dangerous nature; containment of magickal research of a dangerous nature; and cleaning up as required after said magickal research of a dangerous nature.

The place is arranged in a set of rings. Inner Ring is where all the interesting stuff takes place – and the exciting stuff if you're unlucky. Middle Ring is where the battlemages keep problems and secrets in and nosey parkers out. And Outer Ring is where people do their eating, sleeping, healing and all the lovely paperwork. And that's all you need to know, except for one last thing: Stay out.

Inmates like Ancotar and Henantier hate it, but as far as I'm concerned uprooting them and their precious research is all for the common good. And Aleswell's.

To my surprise Bruce was waiting for me at the gate, that daft hat on his head, leaning against the wall in a deceptively casual stance that actually favoured his leg and left his weapon hand free.

"Now what's going on?" I ask him. "Must be important to get you up and about."

And he just looks at me, steady blue eye under white hair. "It is," says he, "Laren's opened an entirely new gate."

I handed over the reins to the ostler and gods, Bruce can move as fast on that stick as he hits hard with it – or so I've been told!

"So how're the kits?" asks he over her shoulder as I catch up to him entering Middle Ring.

"Doing well," says I, "The messenger got whacked by bandits on the Red Ring Road though. J'dargo was all for going after them."

And we both chuckle at that. "Tell you what," says he, "I'll write out a recommendation for the Legion. He can take that when he's of age to join."

"What about the Fighter's Guild?" Sure, Lord Snot Golem was one of them, but it's always a good idea to keep your kits' options open.

"You want him to follow in the steps of gro-Radagash?" and he stops and looks at me and I look at him and then I continue chasing after him. I won't stop J'dargo if he wants to join the guild. I'll just live long enough to be a nuisance to him in my dotage.

Bruce led me into the Inner Ring, and headed towards Building 3. Like all the buildings in the Inner Circle, it's an ugly barn-like structure designed for holding horrors in so they don't get loose, or at bay if they do get loose, or quick repairs when things go boom. Inside is one large hallway with windows and doors opening into four laboratory rooms each side. Bruce and I joined a group of guards and magi, who were peering through the window into Lab 7.

Inside the room was a big globe of flickering light, about six and a half feet across, that varied from an intense purplish blue to blue-white. There was no indication of any frame, which would have suggested which daedric prince it was associated with. I could hear a vague sound coming from it but the glass turned it into an unintelligible murmur.

"So what the hell am I looking at?" was my intelligent inquiry.

"Um," the intelligent response came from a frazzled-looking Dunmer everyone agreed was Tuls Laren, "This is meant to be a portal to a point outside the building."

"What the hell for?" asks I, "There's these things called doors, you know." This broke some of the tension, except on Tuls' part.

"Well excuse me! I am attempting to rediscover the secrets of the guild guides, who as you know were all wiped out when the daedra overran Morrowind, Arch-Mage, and my intention was to start small! Today a portal to the outside, tomorrow I could link legion outposts from High Rock to – to Gnisis!"

"All right, all right," says I with a wave of the hand, "I understand now. So if this is a portal, where does it go?"

Tuls just looks at me. "Some place called the Capital Wasteland," says he, "listen."

And he opens the door to the lab, and now I can faintly hear music, as from a long way off, but distorted. It stopped, and an equally distant, distorted and boisterous voice butted in. I still remember that diatribe.

"We interrupt our regularly scheduled program for – da-da-da-dah – some news! For those of you not in the know, to the northwest of Megaton is this vault, Vault 101. Now, believe it or not, this one's still got people livin' in it! And every few years, someone comes scrabblin' out! Well, wouldn't you know it, someone's come out of it again. And, I kid you not, he came to visit yours truly, right here in the studio! Now this cat, James is his name, had been in the hole for years. He needed to know what was what out here in the beautiful Capital Wasteland. So I, the great and powerful Three Dog, set my brother straight. I told him what was what. The winners – the losers – the movers... and the shakers.

"So if you see James out there, say hello. Be kind to our new brother. And show him that here on the outside, we always fight the good fight. Hey – and in case a light bulb started glowin' over your head, you can flick the switch and forget about it. You're not getting into that vault. Whoever lives in there sure as hell doesn't want what you're sellin'. And no, you can't knock down the door. It weighs like... thirteen tons.

"And now, a super-important public service announcement! We all know the dangers of radiation, but with the right precautions, you can prevent accidental death or even – yeugh! – ghoul-ification. Keep your eyes on those gy-gur counters kids. Tick-tick-tickety means 'run your boat outa there.' And pop some Rad-Away for good measure. If you do need to head into the heat, be smart. Give yourself a nice boost of Rad-X first. Remember, only you can prevent human flesh fires.

"Thanks for listening, chill-dren! This is Three Dog! – Owww! – and you're listening to Galaxy News Ray-dee-oh. We're Ray-dee-oh Free Wasteland and we're here – for you. And now, some music."

Tuls closed and locked the door on some bard singing about how he was a mighty mighty man or some similar tripe.

"I have made notes on this man's pronouncements," Tuls went on. "He repeats himself a lot. He also doesn't seem to be able to hear us, no matter how loudly we call. But look in the corner there."

So I look and I see a cockroach resting in pieces. It was hard to miss.

"Ahnissi's dugs," says I, "that bug's a foot long!"

"It came through the portal," says Tuls, "and it was hungry. Fortunately it wasn't immune to fire."

"Or sharp objects," a guard added.

"I want to see your notes on this portal," says I.

We went next door into Lab Eight, where a large mass of books and papers above the floor implied there was a table underneath somewhere.

"As you know, Arch-mage," starts Tuls, slowly at first but getting more animated, "the Empire is besieged on all sides. Daedra, if reports are true, are rampant in Morrowind and Skyrim. Brigands are flowing out of Valenwood, and –"

"Your portal will change all that how?" asks I.

"Arch-mage, my portal, when perfected, will allow troops to bridge great distances as though walking through a door! One step the Imperial barracks, the next the battlefield! No more vulnerable supply trains, forced marches, any of that rot –"

"Steady," I put a hand on Bruce's arm as he starts breathing hard through his nose and his hat starts trembling.

"– Fresh troops as and when needed! Now, from what we know of the gates of Mehrunes Dagon..."

"Explain to me later," says I, cutting Tuls off (and earning a grateful look from Bruce), "that's what should be, now about what is. What do we know of what's beyond the portal?"

"Nothing much," up pipes Henantier, to my surprise. Then again, he did create a gateway into his own dreams so of course he'd be teamed up with Laren. "We haven't sent scouts through yet since we don't know how stable the portal is."

"Also it was felt that scouting should not be done without first informing the Arch-mage," Bruce added, and I noticed the hurt looks from Laren and Henantier. Still, when Bruce decides, you don't undecide him.

"That giant insect suggests other giant creatures," he went on, "so we may enter into a world of giants."

"We don't know that," Laren says irritably, "if you would let me attempt to make visible what is beyond the portal..."

"But if it's unstable it could do anything!" Henantier cries.

"Don't you think I know my own damn portal? It's simply a matter of..."

Out comes my mace and I bang it a few times to restore order.

"This Three Dog person," says I, "What else does he speak of?"

"Well," Laren pulls out a set of papers, "we know he is involved with something called Galaxy News Ray-dee-oh, or Gee-en-ar for short. It could be either a place, or alike to The Common Tongue or Black Horse Courier. When he isn't crying the news, there is music, usually the same songs repeated over and over again."

"Night and day, it doesn't matter," chimes Henantier, "I think either he doesn't sleep or there's several bards taking the title Three Dog."

"Have you tried hailing him?"

Henantier nodded, then shook his head. "No answer. Either he's very disciplined or he can't hear us."

"So that's one group in this place," says I, "Who else is in there?"

"It's a dangerous place," Laren explains, "which is why we've holed up next door. We have references to 'raiders', slavers – are you all right, Arch-mage?"

"I ran into a pack of the scum on the way up," says I, "four hours ride away. I was trying to tell you on the way here Bru–" Whoops! Don't call him that in front of the men – "Brucellus, could you see about patrols or something? That's too close for my liking."

Bruce nods agreement. "I'll see to it." Which means some cadets are in for hard yakker and a bit of hands-on. A great deal of deviltry goes on underneath that hat.

That issue finally dealt to I nodded at Laren to continue.

"There are also warnings about ghouls, although they apparently are, and I quote, 'humans exposed to an ungodly amount of radiation'. Some are apparently reasonable enough, but there are feral ones little more than animals." He smiled thinly. "At least they're not undead."

I don't rise to the bait. This is what comes of publishing your memoirs. "What else?"

"Creatures called, er, 'yow gwy', but only to warn against feeding them. He also warns against mercenaries called 'Talon Company' and beings called 'super mutants'."

Henantier butts in. "Apparently if these mutants don't kill you, they take you away somewhere."

"And the only other group he favours is the, eh, 'Brotherhood of Steel'." Laren glares at Henantier.

"Fine," says I, "And where are they when they're at home?"

"No idea," the two chorus, then Laren continues. "All we know is that Vault 101 is northwest of Megaton, both of which we assume are outside an area called the... 'Dee-See Ruins.' There are also reports on trouble in places called 'Ten Penny Tower', 'Gray Ditch' and 'Ar-eh-foo'. But no directions!"

"Which is why we need to send a scouting party," Henantier adds.

"Not until we have more information and know we can get them back," Bruce states coldly.

"But how can we test the portal's stability without sending someone through?" Laren goes to stop Henantier, but the bit's in his teeth now. "We need to find this Three Dog or whoever these sages are and find out all he or they knows as soon as we can!"

WHACK! Did I mention Bruce's very good with that stick?

"We do nothing. Until we are certain that we can retrieve a party and that the area is secure." Bruce's eye was as deadly as his voice.

"How long has the portal been open?" asks I.

"A week," Laren says, "At first it was only about a foot across, but then it expanded without warning. The cockroach arrived three days ago."

"So living creatures can pass through it safely," adds Henantier.

"But was the bug always that size?" Bruce may have been a legionnaire, but he was also a battlemage, and like all good battlemagi he wasn't thick. And the possibility shut Laren and Henantier up.

I too dwelled on the implications – of six-foot-too-much Zul gro-Radagash striding through the portal and emerging just over a foot tall. It was a lovely thought.

"Just now," Bruce was saying, bringing me back to reality, "he was warning about radiation. Any idea what he's talking about?"

More head-shaking. "No idea," says Laren, "but it must be something related to fire. After all, he says 'heading into the heat' and 'human flesh fires'. I'm wondering if we've opened onto some previously unknown plane of Oblivion."

"All the more reason for caution." Bruce's face went blank, thinking back to the nightmare of Bruma.

"Good point." I sit up straighter. "I think what we should do is leave the trap alone, and wait for something more intelligent to arrive. That way we have the home advantage as opposed to popping through and straight onto something's sword-point. For one, we know our magic works here."

Bruce was nodding and looks at me approvingly. "I'll get a watch schedule drawn up," says he, "versed in illusion magicks." I look at him and he looks at me. "Paralyse, charm, or scare off," he explains.

He struggled erect and nodded at me. "With your leave Arch-mage, I'll get to it," he says, and I tell him to carry on and salute and he salutes and away he goes.

"Right then," says I turning to the two mer, "how were you going to make the far end visible?"

And away we went talking shop. Or rather, theoretical shop. And substitute 'talking' with 'arguing over the exact method to use with this magickal dingus'. I'll spare you the gory details. It was a thoroughly interesting concept and much of the theory tested my understanding of Mysticism.

We were involved in debating the relative merits of using some sort of physical object as an anchoring point as opposed to establishing a psijic link with an anchorite when there was a commotion outside.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 10 2010, 12:46 AM