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.

______________________________

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.

_______________________________

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]

[Righty then. This chapter's taken some serious writing and rewriting as the characters' confusion deepens. Also: slightly Latinized cussing!]

Chapter 2. Entrance

There was a loud sort of popping noise and a scream, and someone yelling, "Stop her!"

Someone else, probably the her in question, yelled, "Fut you!"

I grabbed a staff leaning by the door, popped the latch and stuck my head and staff out.

Backpedalling toward me was a woman in what could nicely be described as rags – rags attempting to be armour. She was dirty, I noticed, swore like a soldier, had mousy brown hair done in two sweeps like wings, and appeared to be holding something in her hands I couldn't see. Whatever it was made her arms jerk and that sharp popping sound. Beyond her, someone crumpled on the floor. In the air, acrid smoke and blood.

I guess the green glow gave the game away, as she turned to me, swinging around something that looked like a small metal crossbow without the arms. She didn't duck fast enough to avoid the magick though.

She toppled face down – thank the Nine, whoever owned it had plumped for paralysis magick on his staff too! – followed shortly thereafter by myself. I had only four seconds to pin her down for the guards that would be coming – wherever the hells they were. By the time I got my knee in her back, she was already trying to buck me off and screeching like a raped scamp. I aimed at the first part of her I could get a clean shot at, so she got paralysed in the bum. Where was something to bind her with?

I tried to determine how much charge was in the old staff and couldn't. No time to fish out a soul gem. Where the hell were the damn guardsmen?

The staff hit me in the forehead as she shook me off, screeching, "I'll have you for a futtin' rug!" and scrabbling for her weapon, whatever it was.

My shot just passed her shoulder and she flinched, which gave me enough time to knock her to the floor for the second time. There were guards now, pulling me away; I saw a fist rise and fall, her shrieking broke off then resumed. Four burly guards hauled the umbrella seller upright, still spewing invective and threats until she saw me.

"What the fut are you?" was her intelligent enquiry, as it was about now that she realised that –

"I'm Ra'jirra," says I, "and you're not in the Capital Wasteland any more."

Her head snapped around, looking at the guards, the walls, at me. "You futters with the futtin' Brotherhood?"

"No. We're with the Mage's Guild and the Imperial Legion. And until you can speak with a civil tongue, you can wait in the cells to cool off. We've got a few questions for you."

"Fut you," and she spits, "torture me all you like, 'cos I'll never tell you merd!"

"Oh, you'll tell us all..." and I stop and look at her closely.

"What? You don't like my face? You think I'm some kinda futtin' freak? Huh? Seen yourself in a futtin' mirror lately?" and on and on and more and more disturbing until it hit me.

Her mouth movements didn't match up with her words.

But while she was demonstrating this mystery nicely, she was getting monotonous, so I cut short our little chat and get her sent off.

"Did you notice," says I in the ensuing quiet, "during her little speech, what her mouth was doing?"

"No," says Bruce and Laren together.

"You'll see it," says I, "something's translating her words – all of them, unfortunately."

And Laren's eyes go wide. "Nine preserve us," he whispers.

"I don't know about preserving but something's being done to us."

"I'll have a word with the resident priests, then," says Bruce. Good man.

Our unexpected guest was reportedly a bit upset to be stripped, searched and decked in sackcloth, but that goes without saying. Nobody looks good in sackcloth except Dibella. Her belongings were brought back to Laren and I in Lab Eight and we pored through them.

"This meat looks like it came from a big ant," says Tuls, waving a chunk of something chitinous. "Must've been about six foot long!"

"The metalwork on this weapon," says I, "Incredible. Such delicacy! Almost dwemer." And I pick up one of the objects it uses instead of bolts. It looked like a thumb-length metal tube with another metal piece on the end, tapered to a point. Tapped it. "This isn't solid. Wonder what's inside?"

"Here," Tuls says, and hands me another of the tubes. This one's obviously hollow, discoloured, blackened and odoriferous inside with the point missing. "It came out of the weapon after she used it. I think some new alchemy is at work here."

"How is young Pierre anyway?" Pierre Beugalle had been hit by the weapon when the noise had enticed him away from his geomancy work to take a look.

"Dead," says Tuls, "That weapon of hers makes small holes going in and big ones coming out. Not good when the hole's in your head – or your heart."

And we share a moment of silence. Whoever this woman is, she's a murderer now. All right, Pierre was only messing with geomancy, but losing a fellow guildmate is always hard. Especially since I'd have to write a letter of condolence to his parents.

"Well," says I, "The Legion would probably love such weapons then. They could turn the tide in Skyrim and Morrowind, then Valenwood..."

There were other things. There was a contraption that seemed to focus about a thin, sharp-looking needle. A small box of little tablets, mostly crumbled to powder. The box had what appeared to be swathes of neat, small writing on it, but we struggled to figure out what it said.

"This box," Henantier murmured, "It's like some sort of paper, but incredibly thick... I've never seen anything like it." He poked at an edge. "Or maybe it's several layers glued together."

"Is that a list of ingredients?" says I, pointing at what looks like a list with what could be amounts. "This language could be like daedric – ever noticed how you can translate that directly into Aldmeris? Or is it more like Akaviri squiggles or that 'N'gasta khaki' book?"

"Let me take a look," Henantier fumbles for writing tools.

There was a knock at the door, and in comes a tall thin priest and Aragaer: bosmer, battlemage, and pretty good alchemist. "This is Holmar Long-Drink," says he, "He thinks he has a clue about our translator."

"Arch-mage," Holmar greets me sonorously, "Give praise to Julianos of the Nine, for the blessings of understanding tongues unknown, and, from what I understand, uncouth." And he stares at me through eyes so sunken I think someone was behind him looking through holes in his head.

"But why would Julianos wish us to understand the speech of another realm, but not their writing?" I was honestly puzzled. What I knew of history involved the Empire bringing not only peace and stability to Tamriel, but a common language. Yet my own eyes had seen evidence that this woman didn't speak it.

"Be there an emperor, or none, the Nine are the true rulers of the Empire and Tamriel," oh gods preserve us he was sermonising! "Arch-mage or peasant, the true and loyal subject obeys his rulers, suffers their discipline, accepts their gifts, takes their tests... without question."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone move away from the window. I shot a glance but they'd already gone; but the distraction stopped me from clocking the snot.

Henantier crowed. "Arch-mage! I think you're right!" and waved a sheet he'd scribbled the strange letters on, along with daedric and Aldmeris ones. "See the big letters on the top of the box? If you substitute roht-ayem-doht for these three symbols – then an xayah – then into Aldmeris – you get 'Rad-X'! – just like that Three Dog speaks of!"

"Thus the Nine bestow their gifts upon all their children," Holmar said in a self-satisfied tone. "Praise be to Julianos!"

"But some of us are a little slow to notice," says I darkly. "Why didn't anyone think to ask why they could understand this Three Dog before now?"

"Hoi!" Aragaer was hovering over the meat the woman had been toting. "There is some sort of poison here."

"Poison? What do you mean?"

And Aragaer frowns! "I don't know. It's not a property of the meat, it's as though..." He frowns at me. "That wild woman, she came out of that portal, didn't she?"

"The door is locked and barred now," says I, "Nothing else's coming through that portal without our knowledge."

"Speaking of the portal," Tuls says, "It's oscillating badly. Ever since she came through."

"Go on," says I.

"Well... It's wobbling and shaking," and he demonstrates with his hands. "It may not last much longer."

I straighten up and rub my eyes. "We're all tired," says I, "We need to get some sleep."

______________________

Extract from guards' log, night shift, 16 First Seed 5E7

Prisoner (Female, Breton? Imperial?) placed into cell 7 after search following apprehension for intrusion and murder of Pierre Bereguine. Escort observed that prisoner had been violently uncooperative during transfer until same observed the moons rising during outside portion of transfer. Sighting made prisoner hysterical, requiring the use of subduing force.

Prisoner in cell 7 regained consciousness about 2 bells. Immediately attempted exit via bodily forcing the door. Prisoner was determined but not physically capable of the task. Expressed extremely strong sentiments at both this, and at her situation not being a dream.

Prisoner addressed guards directly, demanding release. On refusal, attempted to offer sexual favours in exchange. Refusal was taken poorly.

At this point the Argonian thief in cell 8 (adjacent to guard post, across from cell 7) was woken. Spoke directly to prisoner, saying, "For the love of the Nine, smoothskin, shut up". Prisoner was apparently taken aback not so much by being addressed, but by the addressee, stumbling away from the door and muttering to the effect of "lizard people" and asking what was going on – profanely.

Prisoner stayed on the floor, shaking violently, until roughly 4 bells. Prisoner then crawled onto pallet and stayed there until morning.

______________________

"Now then," Bruce says to the woman in front of him the following morning.

"Fut you," the woman spits back at him. Mind you, I'd be irritable if I was shackled to a chair as well.

"You're guilty of murder," says Bruce quietly, "so that leaves two options. One's the headsman's block, the other's imprisonment. If you don't cooperate with us, you'll get one. If you do, you'll get the other. So – who're you?"

Apparently, once you stripped out the profanity and threats of retaliation, she was called Dead-bolt. Bruce let her start the second chorus before he put that stick into play. I'm surprised her head didn't fly off.

"Here's the rules of the game," says he, still with that frightening calm, "I'm going to ask questions, and you are going to answer them. The more questions you answer, the more chance your head stays on your shoulders and you get to be freed after your jail time. Deal?"

And he looks at her and she looks at him and then she looks around. Obviously what she's seeing is firstly a formidable man in armour and a broad-brimmed hat right in front of her; flanking either side are more equally formidable men in armour and big swords; and of course me, Tuls, and Henantier.

"Well, 'Dead-bolt'?"

And she relaxes and shrugs. "Fine," says she, "I'll talk, but when I'm outa here, you –"

Which is pretty much how the questioning went. Bruce asks questions. Dead-bolt spaces out useful information with a lot of bragging and profanity. Bruce picks up his stick and Dead-bolt either gets to the point or shuts up.

The portal's other end, according to her, was inside a building she called a "sewer way station". Claimed she was scouting for a suitable hideout for her gang near Gray Ditch prior to going in, and basically killing those who resisted right off and killing those who don't much later. I made a note to ensure her prison sentence was nice and long – or the axe was nice and blunt.

"Now then, regarding the weapon used to murder Pierre Bereguine," Bruce continues and Dead-bolt sulks, since Bruce is very, very good at being so calm and unshakeable it's scary. Don't play cards for money with him. "For the record, will you please identify this weapon."

"What? You've never seen a futting gun before? Yeah, that's my gun, what about it?"

"And what variety of 'gun' is this? After all, there are many types of sword, or bow, or shield..."

"It's a f-f-f..." she pulls up sharpish, guess Bruce gave her a look – "a ten-mill piss-till. Hey, there's worse. The chink ones are merd and thirty-two's forget 'em. But my gang's got wry-fools, and you think this one's bad? Wry-fools really fut you up."

And Bruce just looks at her. "I'd take you seriously if you weren't so defiant," says he, "I've fought and bested worse than you."

"Whatever," she obviously hadn't heard of the Battle of Bruma.

"So how did you find the portal?"

"I just did, okay? Lookin' for supplies."

"And where exactly is this... sewer way station... when it's at home?"

"You wanna know where your futting portal is? Trade you. Just tell me what the fut that is." And she looks at me.

Bruce looks at me as well then turns back to her. "He's a khajiit, I'm an imperial, your escort is, from left to right, altmer, breton, breton and redguard, your friend in the other cell is an argonian, the scribe who's taking all this down is bosmer, and you're going to tell us how and where you found the portal."

Now that Bruce had finished the pleasantries and was getting down to brass tacks I tapped Laren and Henantier, murmured "We'll leave 'em to it, there's work to do," and left.

It was a nice day, if crisp, but mountain air tends to be that way. As we walked towards Inner Ring I began to hum, then sing. "There was a land, there was a beautiful land, called Fuh..."

"Arch-mage?" Laren and Henantier had stopped and were looking at me strangely.

"And in this land – oh, sorry, it's just a nice day, and there was this bard came through a month ago. Seems he had a new song someone wrote after wrongful accusation of obscenity. Just popped into my head again."

"A new song?" Henantier brightened. "Must be good if you're trying to murder it."

"Not good," says I, "but the kits overheard every single word, and they enjoy singing the chorus when they think their parents can't hear."

"Ah." Henantier thought for a bit, worked out who was in the land of Fuh and said "Ah," understandingly.

"Never mind that," Laren said irritably, "How long's that –" he jabbed a thumb back towards the cells – "going to take?"

"Bruce is going to get a recording to us once it's finished," says I, "and the young lass is taken back to her cell. Let's be honest, she's off to the block soonest. She's an absolute savage, and I'll be Molag Bal's catamite before I'll let her roam the same country my family's in."

We returned to Building Three. What Laren hadn't mentioned about the portal was that as well as wobbling and shaking, you could see through it into a dingy, dark little room. Broken shelves were arrayed against the far wall; there was one door close to the portal, and another on the opposing wall further away, with light leaking around it. The closest wall had another broken metal shelf unit and a large boxy thing with a big hatch in the centre. My hands itched to see what was inside it, but Henantier was more interested in the stylised lettering on its front. "Eat... o... tronic," he read. "What's a tronic?"

None of us knew so we went into Lab Eight and picked up where we left off.

"It's no good," Henantier says in disgust an hour later. "That list you thought were ingredients? Utter gibberish. This one here at the top says 'something iodide', and there's more like that. What's an iodide when it's at home?"

"Must be a fungus or something, like a cairn or summer bolete," says I, "What else is on that packet?"

"Instructions, I think. Dosages. And on the front is... uh... 'Absorbs radiation so you don't have to.' And what looks like an address for the maker."

"Don't take it hard," says I, "You've done well to translate that much."

"We should send in a scouting party," insists Laren from behind a wad of scrawls.

"Agreed," says I to him, "but until Bruce approves it, and you figure out a way to make that thing stable, we'll just have to –"

Bells began ringing wildly outside.




This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 17 2010, 06:29 AM