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 chapter is going to have to be split. So in this thrilling chapter: a terrible title pun; more pseudo-latin swearing; more damn exposition; a vignette from Ra'jirra's childhood; and footnotes.]

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21 August 2277: Background Radiation

“Wakey wakey,” said a voice, and I awoke the following morning to discover the Capital Wasteland wasn't a dream. There are things that are bloody painful to do in full armour and sleeping on decaying bridges without a bedroll is one of them.

So I peered up at Haines' face, which suggested he felt like I did. Good. The dead city around us used shadows from the east for crutches as it braced itself for another day.

“So, what's the plan?” asks I. My meditation last night had helped me accept the fact that I'd been chosen by the Nine for something. That they had chosen me and not Zul the Snot Golem also helped me accept it!

“You're asking me?” Haines looks puzzled. “Oh! Of course, my superior knowledge and your desire to survive. Well!”

I decided not to tell him about the Nine's plans. Yet.

“Of course,” says I, “not to mention I'll be wrung for information when I do get rescued, and I'm sure a smart lad like yourself can show me wonders.”

Got 'im! Haines beams and puffs himself up like a rooster. Exposure to and practise in stroking the ego of Zul gro-Merdaful[1] was evidently paying off.

“According to my map, that building directly to the south,” and he points past the turn in the road to another building standing some way off in glorious isolation, “is marked as penetrable. It is my goal to arrive at and, well, investigate the structure.”

“All right then,” says I, “but just a thought, let's walk on the east side of the road here so those bandits – I mean, raiders don't spot us.”

And Haines nods. “Good thinking Ra'jirra,” says he, “Ammunition doesn't grow on trees after all, so even if they do we're out of range. Well – let's get up and going. I need to get glowy for Moira.”

“Moira?” We both turn to the scavenger, who never did tell us his name and was staring at Haines incredulously. “Moira Brown? The mad scientist of Megaton?”

“Well, I'd hardly call her a scientist,” Haines says stiffly, “But I'm researching a book for her. It may well end up saving lives.”

And the guy just shakes his head and snorts. “Listen buster, I've been to Megaton, I've met that girl. Take my advice and stick to trading from now on. One of these days she's going to blow herself up, I swear. Don't let her blow you up, okay?”

Well! “I think I can prevent that from happening, I am Doctor Earnest Haines after all,” says Haines huffily. The effect was immediate.

“The Ernie Haines? The guy who disarmed the Megaton A-bomb?” And he rushes forward and shakes Haines' hand! “That was futtin'[2] amazing! You know how long it's been ticking there? I mean... wow. The guy who saved Megaton. And I shook your hand! Hey – thanks dude. That's...”

“Oh please!” says Haines, trying very hard to be modest – and failing. “I was just fixing pipes, and while I was fixing things, I thought, why not fix that bomb? So...” if ever a man was arrogantly humble, Haines was.

“Nothin' my cloony.[3] If there's anythin' you need, gimme a visit. And tell Moira ol' Donny says hi, okay?”

It took a fair bit more gushy stuff and handshaking before Haines and I could start picking our way south from Donny's bridge, with him guarding our backs.

“Haines,” says I thoughtfully, “you mentioned a war.”

“Eh?” Haines looked at me thoughtfully. “I did? Well, yes, there was a war. Two hundred years ago as a matter of fact.”

I tried to comprehend the idea and failed. “Well, why hasn't anyone started rebuilding at all? Nine love us, even Kvatch was rebuilt and that was finished four years after the Oblivion crisis.”

Haines looked at me and looked away and at all the dead buildings and then west, down the road. “Does this look like some village to you?”

“Village?” I could not believe this idiot had dismissed the arduous but vital business of rebuilding the site where the Oblivion crisis had begun. “Kvatch is a city you jackass!”

“Well excuse us for not building castles! We didn't fight with futting crossbows and catapults you know!”

“Let me guess – guns, right?”

“Yes! I mean no! I mean...” Haines was trying to control himself. “There are worse weapons, all right? Can you even – Raider!”

We'd walked right past the ruined shell of a building without watching where we were going, and a raider at the far end of the 'street' had got the drop on us. There are many ways of cutting an argument short and being shot at by a bloodthirsty criso[4] is one of them.

I went for my bow but got the staff instead. While both Ernie and the raider were demonstrating what godsawful shots they were, I decided nothing ventured, nothing gained, lined up the raider and loosed an amber pulse.

It hit the woman dead on, showing them both what a marvellous shot I was; to my surprise it shrank into her hand and her piss-till fell to bits.

Disintegration magics eh? Guess the Nine have a sense of humour.

Until now I hadn't understood how many moving parts there were in a gun. From her expression she hadn't known either. She continued to gape as I dropped the staff and charged with mace at the ready before finally fleeing.

Something small and round overtook me and I heard Haines yell a warning. I pulled up in time to see the raider sent flying by an explosion that took her leg off.

“All right then,” says I, acting as though loud bangs were a regular part of life (all right, they were at Black Plateau!), “was that one of your 'worse weapons'?”

“That, sir, was a grenade.” And he shows me another little round ball with a sort of handle on one side and a pin in one side. “Just pull the pin and throw. Well, throw the grenade, not the pin, you, ah, only have three seconds before detonation.”

I just look at him. “And bigger ones could do more damage, eh?” I picked the staff up and looked about the ruined street.

And Haines looks up from where he's going through the raider's belongings. “Don't be an idiot! Chemical explosives are nowhere near as effective. Atomic weapons did all this, hundreds of them. Once I'm done,” and he mutters “to a turn” under his breath, “I'll take you to Megaton and show you how big they were. Think!... er...”

“Er what?”

“I've only just thought to ask now. What do you call your, um, race?”

What damage could it do? “I am Khajiit,” says I calmly, “and I had you pegged for a Breton.” Seriously. He had the pale skin, tone of voice and snotty attitude of the more aristocratic denizens of High Rock. As opposed to his coming from Hole-In-The-Rock, but never mind.

“Breton? But I've never been to France.”

“What?” was my intelligent response.

“Well... I took pre-war geography in school. There's a region of France whose people are called Bretons. I mean were.”

I just stared. I'd braced myself for strange things, and I could cope with two-headed cows, giant bugs and bloodthirsty bandits, but that this world had Bretons?

“Um... what about Redguards?”

“The only Red Guard I know off is part of the Chinese army.”

Whatever Chinese were.“Nords?”

He frowned, absently pouring gun ammunition into a pocket. “I remember some reference to the Norsemen of ancient Europe. We are talking human beings, right?”

“Well, yes, we have the races of Men, Mer–”

“Don't tell me you have mermaids on your homeworld!”

As most people know and I would later tell Haines, we have sort-of mermaids. As well as the sea-going forms of the dreugh, there are those nicer varieties adorning sailors, ships, grog-shops, gimcracks, poems and maps. Some folk even claim the Solstheim horker – basically a sack of lard with tusks on one end and flippers on the other – has been taken for a mermaid. Gods help the man that desperate.

I was about to explain this to him, but a distant high-pitched hiss stopped me. I froze at once. As we'd come east to loot the dead raider the only location it could have come from was due north, where the land dropped. I pointed and Ernie nodded and we crept to investigate.

Earnest headed in another fit of common sense to where a retaining wall still stood. Logical. In front of us the ruined road bed made a ramp down to whatever was making strangled scamp imitations.

Peering over the edge of the wall showed what might have been a small park at some stage, as it didn't appear to have been built on. A trench suggested a watercourse, but what took my attention was the figures tottering about it.

Haines extracted a wry-fool from his pack, and handed me his square piss-till. “Look through the scope,” whispers he tapping the tube on the top. So I do, and it's a nice little spyglass!

Unfortunately the figures in the scope didn't look any better. They looked dead, but they clearly weren't zombies. For one thing, they weren't obviously rotting and they moved easily. They were emaciated, but worse, they seemed to have no skin. I was looking at muscle and, I swear, insides.

And one was looking in my direction with cloudy, but still working eyes. Whatever the thing was, it was capable of pointing and screaming, which it did.

At us, squatting like idiots on a ledge in plain view.

I dropped the piss-till and took aim at one of the... well, they weren't exactly charging, since they couldn't seem to decide how to run, four limbs or two.

“What the hell are you doing!” Haines yelled at me.

I ignored him and launched a snowball – I don't know why, I just thought frost magics and there it went. Seemed to do the trick as it hunched over shaking long enough for Haines to aim and miss by a mile with an almighty bang.

“You could've –” he went on, shooting at the other horror and sending its head flying out its cully,[5] “– shot at it!”

Maybe he meant shoot the gun and not fling a nice Firestarter into the thing, sending it overcooked to the floor, which I'd just done. Why should he care? Results are results.

“I don't know how to use that thing,” says I, “so I stuck with what I know.” I also stuck my tongue out at him. (I know my tongue. It's always been part of my life.)

“Or did you learn to shoot guns when something was trying to kill you?”

Well, Ernie went red behind his visor, and his beard goes up and down. “Of course not!” he finally squirts out, “my father set up a target range for me!” He then looks down at his larger wry-fool. “He took it down later when he found out I'd converted it to hold radroaches and... um... charged for admission.”

I think for a moment and say, “Same here.”

And he stares at me.

* * *

When I was six, my dad gave me a wooden sword and shield for Emperor's Birthday. I was rapt, of course, and the hours in the day I wasn't doing chores I was General Ra'jirra of the Imperial Legion, defending the Empire from diabolical daedra, unspeakable undead, bloodthirsty bandits and mean ol' mages, “with a thrust and a stab and a parry-diddle-O” as the song goes.

One day I had to scoot the chickens back into the coop. Using all the logical powers a six-year-old could bring to bear, I decided the best way to make this really tiresome chore fun was to take arms and rout the evil poultry armada back to their fortress. (Hey, I was six, I didn't know the difference between an army and armada.)

Trying to explain to an irate father why two of our hens were dead and most of the rest flying everywhere but their coop was well beyond the explanatory powers of a six-year-old, unfortunately.

That night I was unceremoniously and dishonourably discharged from the Imperial Legion, my armaments consigned to the flames and my equally burning backside sent to bed without supper. In fact, I was on bread and water for a week.

Maybe that's why I've never been comfy with blades.

* * *

But anyhow I told that tale to Ernie, and he scoffed. “Bugger your chickens,” says he, “the fact remains, and I doubt I am wrong, that your learning to use modern weaponry will improve your chances of survival until you are hopefully rescued.” He points to the piss-till. “Now pass that weapon, please.”

Oh well, I tried. I picked up the boxy little thing and gave it to him and he gave me a familiar shape in return.

“One standard ten-millimetre pistol,” he announced, “as issued to Vault security officers. Now then,” and that's how I found myself with a gun in hand watching Ernie place a rusted piece of junk he called a tin can on the ledge some twenty feet away.

I can't go into details due to Imperial oaths[6], but I will admit that it took me two whole 'clips' before the can was knocked off the edge. I shook my head, trying to get the sound of gunfire out. Give me a nice quiet bow any day.

“Don't worry about it,” said Ernie, “Most rounds are fired solely to stop the other lidgie firing straight. You'll get the hang of it, since you can fling... energy... as well. So – enough target practice, let's see what we've got here.”

I go to hand him the gun but he tells me to hold on to it. Fine. It'll be a nice souvenir when I go home.

And so we get closer to the corpses. They're ripe aren't they!

“Urgh,” says Haines as he rifles through their meagre claddings, and then turns to me. “Pocket money,” says he, dropping half a dozen metal circlets with crimped edges into my hand.

“Money?” I dig into my purse and pull out a drake. “No mate, this is money.”

And Haines snatches it and turns it around and peers at the image of Uriel Septim on one side and the Imperial Dragon on the other and runs his finger along the words along the edge, trying to make them out.

“Well,” says he pocketing it, “your money's no good here. Bottle caps! That's what they use for currency these days. Anyway! These must be ghouls, and I believe they inhabited that drain over there. Let us investigate.”

Inside the drain were more ghouls, stagnant water, and several metal gates stopping us progressing further. A pair of tunnels of extraordinary smoothness rose up to the east and we followed them. “Can't see a thing,” Haines grizzled and turned on his light again. I quickly turned away to avoid dazzling my night eyes and saw a shape in an alcove that wasn't a ghoul.

“Your eyes are good,” Haines remarked as he quickly divested the half-eaten corpse of its valuables: A gun Haines identified as an 'assault rifle', some ammo and some 'meds'.

“There's another up top,” says I, and so the second corpse came to pass, along with a metal box which yielded something too big to be a gun.

“That's no gun,” says I, “another of your 'far worse' weapons?”

“Indeed,” says Haines haughtily, “a missile launcher. Rather clumsy, and this one's in terrible condition... did you hear something?”

Haines two, me one. Apparently this sewer was a ghoul lair, and another quartet had returned home and weren't happy we'd been messing with their larder. We weren't happy with their attempts to put us on the menu either, so it all balanced out bar the shooting, shouting and whacking once-human wretches with blunt objects.

I poked one peculiar ghoul, which was still glowing an unhealthy green, but it seemed it wouldn't be attempting anything again. “What's with this one?” asks I, “When it flared up like that. Replenished my magicka reserves a treat.”

Haines came up, his Pip-Boy ticking away happily. “It what?” He looks at the ghoul and looks at me uncertainly. “Maybe it's an elder. Perhaps this is the redoubt of a ghoul... tribe, I guess. But what's this about magicka?”

Time for me to play the scholar! “All men, mer and beastfolk have a natural reserve of magicka within them. With tutoring and practise, they can use it to touch the Aurbis and create effects in this mundane world. Most times, it naturally regenerates slowly, unless you're unlucky enough to be born under the Atronach, or there's a damping field such as Dagoth Ur placed over Morrowind.” And I look at the glowing corpse and frown. “Normally I'd only get such a charge from a welkynd stone, or a really expensive restorative potion... and it wouldn't itch so much.”

Most of that sailed straight out Haines' other earhole and went splat on the ground.

“Well,” says he, and consults his Pip-Boy. “That's an effect of radiation exposure not covered in the books. Most remarkable.”

My cully heard 'radiation' and tried to hide up around my neck.

“Hang on,” squeaks I, “Radiation? As in 'tick-tick-tickety means run your cloony outa there'? As in needing, uh, Rad-X and RadAway to survive?”

“Oh, don't worry,” says Haines happily, “I have those in abundance, as well as a fine purgative system at my house, allowing me to absorb plenty of rads without fear.”

I was already heading for the door. All right, the grate. “Don't worry? You could catch on fire or something!”

“Well of course don't worry!” Haines wasn't following. He was making himself comfy in the spot where his Pip-Boy was ticking fastest. “This is all part of the plan today. Tomorrow, I assure you, I won't be leading you into any more hot zones than I have to.

“My mission is to contract radiation poisoning, preferably six hundred rads or more, for Moira to do her little tests and work on her 'Wasteland Survival Guide.'”

Just then his Pip-Boy rang a little bell. “Ah!” exclaims Haines looking at the thing, “Minor rad poisoning! We're on the way!” And he rubs his head.

I gave serious thought to just fleeing back to where we'd met and leaving my nutty travelling companion to his fate. Yes, I might well starve, or get stomped on by something (or several somethings), but hang it all...

...I was stuck here nursemaiding this loon. The gods had decided, and I might not like it, but at least I could... I could learn from it. While things weren't trying to chew my tail off anyway.

“Have you never seen a khajiit before?” asks I.

“Hum? No...” Haines says quietly and winces. “Only humans.”

“No mer? Maybe you know them as elves.” He just shook his head. “Only in fairy tales.”

“What about the Orsimer – you know, orcs?”

“Big green things? Snaggle teeth? Aggressive and love a fight?”

That was Zul gro-kissmycully-Radagash[7] to the life! “You have them then?”

“Only in fairy tales.” He leaned over to one side and was noisily sick. My night-eye vision revealed bluish tints that could have been blood.

I didn't ask about Argonians. I could guess what the answer would be. A whole world of nothing but humans boggled my imagination. Or perhaps, just perhaps, they hadn't found other races yet...

“So how much of the world has been explored?” Perfectly sensible question.

“All of it!” Haines rasped. “We've sent explorers to the deepest deserts, to the North and South poles, dived under the seas and seen the Earth from space. We've even been to the moon! What d'you think of that eh? With your magic and horses and boats oh my?” And then he was sick again.

I assumed it was the radiation talking at the end. No mer, no beastfolk, no orcs. Unbelievable. Maybe they'd been... I decided not to ask.

A little bell rang.

“What caused this war anyway?”

Haines forced his eyes open, and even my night eye could tell they were discoloured. “Natural resources. The last supplies of oil, the last mines of uranium ore. We needed those to survive. But the futtin' Chinks thought they could just invade our territory and take it. Spurrys. We showed them up – power armour.” He smirked and his lips cracked into a maze of blood. “They dropped the futtin' bombs on us, so we dropped ours on them.” The smile slipped. “And destroyed ourselves.”

“What – the whole world?” I couldn't understand. Haines observed this and I agreed with him.

“You've no idea what atomic bombs can do. Look at me.” I didn't want to because there were hideous bruises or lesions appearing on his skin. “When they went off, they kicked up dust. And it wasn't just us versus the Chinks – it was our allies in Europe, their allies in the Middle East, nobody was spared. The radioactive dust in the air, the fires, the destroying of all civic infrastructure... millions died. Thousands of millions.”

Exaggeration, I thought, it must be. Haines is going potty from all that radiation. An entire world destroyed? Thousands of millions of people killed? Impossible. At least, that's what I thought at the time.

A little bell rang. Haines hauled his Pip-Boy up to his face, drooled bloody and coughed. “Well, I'm nice and toasty, don't know about you,” he chuckled. I wish he hadn't. It sounded like our beloved Champion of Cyrodiil during a banquet. (To qualify that, at least Haines wasn't pawing anything in a skirt and – oh, let's be honest, I speak from agonising experience.)

Anyway, Haines levered himself up to a standing position. “Let's go back to Megaton and let Moira do her worst, eh?”

_______

[1] From the Latin merda, literally 'full of excrement'.
[2] From the Latin futu. Self explanatory.
[3] From Latin clunes, 'buttocks'. No reference to actors British, Hollywooden or otherwise.
[4] Refers to the female partner's actions during sex (derogatory); 'b*tch'.
[5] Slang term for anus. 'Cully-licker' is a good offensive term, especially for Khajiit.
[6] Let's just say Ra'jirra brought more than a good tale back, and leave it at that, shall we?
[7] I would like to clarify at this point that the full name Champion of Cyrodill, Hero of Kvatch, Knight of the Thorn etc. is Zul gro-Radagash, period. This disclaimer is brought to you in order to prevent possible injury or death.