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]

[Crossovers are hard to write, especially when the main characters fail to get on with each other. The big challenge is describing the discovery of the commonplace from the 'alien' point of view. So in this chapter Ra'jirra learns a bit more about how James' little boy... got that way. Fun fact: that beard of his is compensatory after, um, unexpected test results.]

Chapter 4. The Impotence of Being Earnest

I just stare at him. This grinning idiot may have been responsible for marooning me here – or not, but the delay involved with his following me may have tipped the balance. Also, his tirade about "Science" and his beard suggested that he'd definitely been hobnobbing with Sheogorath at some stage. On the other hand, at least he hadn't fled when the giant scorpion had charged in. In fact, he'd been quick enough to react when I'd tipped the beast over.

"So, er," he continues with that stupid smile on his mug, "What planet are you from? Mars? Vee-nus? Yer-anus?"

If my ears weren't already flattened by my helm they'd have done so; as it was they tried to flatten even flatter. "Are you insulting me?"

"No, no!" exclaims he, "I'm honestly curious! According to my history readings, and I sincerely doubt I am mistaken, many people before the war claimed to have seen or been aboard the vessels of beings from other planets, mostly Mars but some from Venus, or even as far as Sir-ee-us or Alpha Sen-tor-ee."

"Nirn," says I. Most folks would say 'Tamriel', but Tamriel is just part of the world, along with the Summurset Isles and Akavir. And if you did say 'Tamriel', maybe you should go back to Sundas school and pay attention this time.

"Well, that doesn't mean anything to me," he muses, "but then again, why should you know what English names mean what? Like that song, 'Potayto, potahto, let's call the whole thing off...'" and he rubs his chin and looks off into the middle distance.

"Earnest. Haines. Try being useful for a change and help me get this damn thing off." And I point to my right boot. Only an idiot tries to hammer a metal boot back into shape while he's wearing it, and I wanted to check my ankle.

"Useful? For a change? Oh, of course, er, right..." Haines blinked and seemed to remember that I was there, pulled off his pack and rummaged inside it. "Your left arm was stung... here we are."

And he advances with one of those contraptions with the needle and a businesslike expression. "Remove your glove please."

"Why?" is my quite reasonable and intelligent enquiry to a madman wanting to stick something pointy into me when asked to assist in boot removal.

"So I can find a vein and set this stim-pack to work!" says he, waving the thing.

"You stick that into yourself?" I was really hankering for a potion around this time. Any potion. Even one made with bog beacon which always makes me want to spew – and has.

"Well of course you do! Intravenous delivery to the affected parts! I may not be a doctor, but I assure you I have learned a thing or two from..." he shook his head, "anyway, take off your glove and the injection should neutralise the poison and stimulate tissue repair, thus resulting in restored function to your left arm." He tapped the needle. "Brace yourself – if my personal experience is any guide, and I have no reason to doubt my senses, these things tend to be blunt."

I just looked at him as I yanked off my gauntlet and held on to it; thwacking this smoothskin wouldn't help me get home but it would make me feel better and maybe get him to pull his head in. The fool took his time checking for a vein before sticking that damned needle in.

It was blunt, by the way, and if anyone attempts to give me an injection ever again they will be very, very, very, very, very sorry.

To be fair, however, whatever muck that thing squirted into me worked. A wave of metal-flavoured cold washed away the heat, pain and heaviness.

I flexed my hand again. It didn't hurt. I flexed my elbow. Not only did it not hurt either, but it actually bent. As Haines watched, I carefully and painfully pulled off my right boot, revealing the expected fragrance and some truly frightening colouration. Despite the healing spells the bruising on my ankle was still severe and tender.

"Fascinating," oh, right, Haines. "But can you walk on it?"

"Don't know," says I and cast another spell, willing the energy into my leg. "Once I get the worst of the damage out I should be fine."

"Well hurry up then," says he and hands me a hammer and another tool I would later learn was called a wrench. "There might be more of them." And jerks his head at the outside door in an unexpected fit of common sense. Dead-bolt had been scouting for a group, and for all I knew they were already out looking for their companion. So I hurry up with tappin' and whackin' and...

"Haines, where is that music coming from?"

"There must be a ray-dee-oh in the next room," says he and he gets up and goes to have a look while I sit on the floor attempting some crude smith-work. The tune was enthusiastic, but the more I listened to the lyrics the more disturbed I became, even over Haines' sporadic piss-till fire and cursing of rad-roaches. The singer was all about a womaniser – no, I realised, a murderer – was this place the realm of Sheogorath?

With my boot no longer attempting to cut off blood flow I decided now was a good time to try standing up. Which obviously still hurt. I thought of getting some padding from Dead-bolt, limped to the door, looked at the dog snacking on her, changed my mind, shut the door..

The tune finished off in gibberish – hey turn this record over you ain't heard nothin' yet! – and the voice of Three Dog followed hard on, proclaiming news.

"I've got some great news from outa the town of Megaton," he crows, "Turns out the live atomic bomb in town's centre has finally been deep-sixed for good! Town sheriff, one Lucas Simms, commissioned the one, the only, Lone Wanderer, Ernie Haines from Vault 101 to disarm the nasty nuke. And the kid delivered."

"Don't call me 'kid'!" yells Haines from well beyond the door, and Three Dog's voice stopped abruptly as something crashed to the floor. I carefully made my way in.

Further inside the building made me think of drawings I've seen of Dwemer ruins. Machines of unknown purpose stood in the lower level, linked with what I vaguely recalled were plates attached to looped chains, forming a moving surface. The stuffed toys arranged on the – what were they called, conveying belts? – were disturbing. I myself was on an elevated metal walkway, which ran to an elevated level where Haines was glowering over the contents of a wooden box.

"So they call you the Lone Wanderer then?" says I, causing him to jump and nearly brain himself on shelving.

"I am Doctor Earnest Haines," says he once the curses died down, "thank you very much, regardless of what that Three Dog idiot says!"

"From Vault 101," says I, "like James?"

And he stops rubbing his bonce and stares at me. "How do you know – no. No time. It's getting late, we can't stay here, you can tell me about it on the way home. Those raiders. You can walk then?"

I stomp around in a circle to prove it and nearly trip over another box. Except this one's fancier with knobs on one side. "What's this?"

"The ray-dee-oh," says he, "I, um, turned it off... a little too hard. Well. Let's go."

There was another door out, and mercifully no dogs. And I finally got my first real look at the Capital Wasteland.

Before me stretched the ruins of an enormous city. The shells of buildings towered higher than anything in the Imperial City – and I was to learn that intact they had towered higher still. There was a river, and still more of the immense buildings. You could have dropped the entire Imperial City in here and had room for at least three more!

The sheer extent of the devastation is impossible to describe; it was as though Mehrunes Dagon had gone on a skooma bender and done the high-kick dance in spiked boots clean through it.

The setting sun (judging from Haines' comment about it getting late) meant that I was looking east; the ruins draped in hues of fire. The ground was a despairing brown, dry and hard, with only a few stubborn grasses attempting to survive. Haines turned north and I did too; there were less buildings that way, directly in front of us, a fence of metal mesh before what remained of a road.

"I'm not wasting ammo on dogs," Haines muttered as he shifted his helm and turned south, "And we're too far away. Let's find shelter in another building."

The fence had been twisted down in places, but I followed Haines through a gate onto the road. It was easily a hundred feet across, and littering it were the hulks of objects I couldn't identify.

"What the hells are these?" asks I rapping my knuckles on one. It was metal.

And what does Haines do? He yelps and races off and then yells at me! "Are you mad? Those things can explode!"

And what do I do? I race off to join him! "Well how would I know?" snarls I, "I've never seen them before!"

"You don't have vehicles?" And he stares at me. "No, probably not, not if you can create portals in space and time. Who'd need portals then? But in museums perhaps..." and he gets that miles-off look again.

"We have horses, boats and carts," says I, "that portal was a fluke."

And I watch as my words make their way from his cloth ears to wherever his mind is and bring it back.

"No motorised vehicles?" I shook my head. "Atomic power?" Shake. "Electricity?" Shake. "Steam engines?" I decided Dwemer ruins and machines didn't count, since it's tricky taking apart a steam engine that's trying to take you apart, and shook my head again.

"Getting back to my query," and I jab a thumb at the object, "are those things 'mo-', er, 'mo-tor-ised vehicles' then?" carefully pronouncing the words.

"Well of course they are! Auto-mobiles, to be precise. Designed to carry passengers and cargo in comfort at speeds up to, and exceeding, fifty miles per hour." He looks at me smug. "Rather quicker than horses and boats, yes?"

Well! That was impressive. I looked at the road as it turned south and tried to imagine dozens of these vehicles racing along, but Haines was off again.

"Just be careful," says he, "I've seen hits on these things ignite remaining atomic materials and cause them to explode. After all," he goes on, "while you're here the least I can do is ensure your survival by teaching from my own experience."

"And how much experience do you have?" asks I.

"Four days," says he with no irony. "Now, can you see any unobstructed doorways?"

No, I couldn't, so we continued south, into a deep trench and beneath a bridge.

* * *

"So, why'd you leave the Vault?" I asked several hours later.

Haines didn't answer at first but munched on the partially cooked chunk of meat recently cut from something descended from a cow. Except that this thing had two equally unfriendly heads, no hair, and a hideously bloated udder. 'Bra-min', Haines told me someone else in Megaton told him it was.

We were ensconced on top of another bridge further south, where one man had set up his home and had also been appreciative of our help with the impromptu hunt.

"I didn't have a choice," says he bitterly, "my father, for reasons I intend to discover, left the Vault without permission. And for some reason, the Overseer seemed to think that I knew why and where he'd gone. Obviously, I didn't, and I ended up having to follow him... out here." He glared out at the night. "Chasing him for answers."

"What about your mother?"

"She died giving birth to me." His voice was flat. "Or so my father told me."

We sat in silence chewing half-cooked beef – at least it tasted like beef. Then, "Do you have families?"

There are questions and there are dumb questions and this, to me, was definitely in the dumb category.

"Of course," says I, "my parents are still farming and, well... let me show you." And I pull the amulet out and opened it.

Haines did something to the bracer on his left arm and slightly greenish light washed over both of us and the amulet's contents: a beautiful miniature of me and my family outside the Faregyl Inn, on a beautiful spring day three years gone. There's a larger version in my quarters at the Arcane University.

"That's me and my wife," says I pointing, "the young master there's J'dargo and those are the twins..."

Something swelled in my throat and interfered with my breathing.

"All I have are memories of father," Haines said quietly. "And..." he frowned at his bracer. "And what he did to my Pip-Boy."

"Huh?" is my eloquent response.

"This," and Haines tapped the bracer, "it's a Pip-Boy 3000. I received it on my tenth birthday. I was so proud... because now I'd get to work and be... well, a man. Hell, I was trained to be a Pip-Boy programmer, but dad was better at it. I mean, watch."

And he pushes a button here and twiddles dials there and on the glass panel a map flashed up. "It's the whole Capital Wasteland," says he, "Dad must've down-loaded it to my Pip-Boy for me. But here... listen to this." More twiddling and button-pushing and a voice came from the device; a man's voice, tense and anxious.

"I've... I don't really know how to tell you this... I hope you'll understand but I know you might be angry. I've thought about it for a long time, but in the end... it was best for you not to know. So many things could've gone wrong,and there's really no telling how the Overseer will react when he finds out. It's best he can blame everything on me. Obviously you already know that I'm gone. It was something I needed to do.

"You're an adult now. You're ready to be on your own. Maybe some day things will change and we can see each other again. I can't tell you why I left or where I'm going." The voice became more urgent, pleading. "I don't want you to follow me. God knows life in the Vault isn't perfect, but at least you'll be safe. Just knowing that will be enough to keep me going."

"Don't mean to rush you doc," interrupted what was either a nervous Redguard with a nasal voice, or a Bosmer with a baritone, "but I'd feel better if we got this over with."

"Okay! Go ahead!" Haines' father responded, then, "Goodbye... I love you..."

The Pip-Boy stopped with a soft blip. Silence fell and I looked at Earnest. Earnest was looking at nothing with a stony expression.

"Jonas is dead." His expression didn't alter. "The Overseer's goons killed him."

Silence fell again.

"Father was working on something," – hello, it's 'father' again! – "the Overseer didn't like. I remember hearing arguments about the worth of his work. 'These experiments are a waste of time'," and he spits. "Stupid fool! Technology is not Science – it is the child of Science!"

"Keep your damn voice down," the local says, "You want the raiders callin'?"

Haines blinks and shuts up and peers over the edge through the 'scope' on his 'piss-till'.

"I'll go see what they're doing," says I.

"It's clouded over," Haines says, "You can't see anything."

"I'm a Khajiit," says I, "we can see in the dark."

And I get up and walk away and invoke my ability.

The trench the road ran through turned west, and I thought of what could have happened if one of those auto-mobiles failed to make the turn at fifty miles per hour. Perhaps that was why the road was sunk into a trench. However, the trench came to an end, and peering around a ruined building I could see figures moving around improvised barricades. Raiders.

I didn't give a damn. I just wanted some privacy. Because, even in the reassuringly familiar false colours of night-eye, the alien world I was in was pushing down very, very hard.

Carefully, I forced myself to imagine a clean sheet of paper, fresh cut, creamy white. This is important, Warlock. It can well be the difference between our foes losing their heads or you losing yours, damnit. Too right, Traven, and I need your wisdom now, more than ever.

I then imagined a quill, loaded with ink, writing clear letters on that page.

A portal was opened to another place called the Capital Wasteland.

One of Haines' passing comments fell into place. There has been a devastating war here.

Julianos has decreed we can understand their language, and they ours.

I have fallen in with

I hesitated. Part of the meditation technique was to transcend emotive responses and think clearly.

Earnest Haines, an exile from Vault 101. He is very earnest (ha ha)

The technique didn't transcend jokes.

about finding his father, who left unexpectedly and told his son not to follow. He is also very intense about Science and learning.

He does not know where his father went.

Revelation fell into place with a loud clunk that shook me to the core.