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.

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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]

[Ah, interludes. To write, like Treydog, in snippets of letters, memoranda, and such? Or... well, I needed the exercise in third person writing. To be blunt, tried mock minutes but nothing came out right.]

Interlude: Loredas 11 First Seed 4E8, 11 bells of morning

Brucellus Vito, pilus of Black Plateau Security and Battlemage Training, rapped his stick on the table.

"Thank you all for coming," he said quietly, "at such short notice. The Arch-mage would have been pleased, and it's the Arch-mage we'll be discussing."

"I hope this won't take long then," was a statement coming from an elongated Bosmer down the far end of the table. Oh, of course, Arondiel. The fly guy.

"I think rescuing the Arch-mage is more important that sending more convicts to their deaths," Tuls Laren said acidly. "Honestly, are you ever going to let go of Tarhiel's stupid ideas?"

"Order," Brucellus said ominously.

"They worked damnit! It was just the landing that was fatal!"

"Order," Brucellus said again, but a little more ominously. The two magi took the hint and shut up, glaring daggers at each other.

"To recap the events of the past day and a half," Brucellus ticked them off on the report sheet in his head, "Arch-mage Ra'jirra arrived Fredas 10 First Seed at nine-and-quarter bells, and was taken directly to Laboratory Seven, Building Three, assigned to Laren, Tuls. There he was shown the portal which Laren had created, linking the laboratory to an unknown location for, at that point in time, a duration of six and one-half days. Due to the portal being opaque no identification could be made as to the portal's destination at that time."

There were various mutterings and scratching of quills as the assembled took notes.

"Said portal's intended destination was a point immediately outside Building Three for a proof of concept." This produced another flurry of surprised note-taking and Laren stared at the table.

"Did you try a smaller portal first?" That was Er-Ma, a collected young hatchling of three-and-thirty and wise beyond her years. Bruce had heard that Er-Ma had been part of a coven or something before heeding her true calling and arriving at the Leyawiin guild-house. Right now her unusually bright eyes were trained on Laren.

"Of course" he replied, "I'm not stupid! The original portal was only a foot across before it expanded!"

"Order," Bruce used a vocal trick that had in the past terrorised whole platoons. Herding cats, he thought to himself. "We can discuss good research practices later. If I may continue:

"At about seven-and-quarter bells in the evening, an intruder emerged from the portal. Intruder was hostile and attacked Pierre Beugalle, injuring him fatally. Arch-mage Ra'jirra apprehended the intruder long enough for security staff to secure the prisoner."

"That would be the wild woman," someone said thoughtfully, "quite the privy-mouth wasn't she?"

"The intruder was taken to the cells, searched and locked up for the night," Bruce forged on. "Interrogation of prisoner 'Dead-bolt' commenced Loredas 11 First Seed at seven bells of morning. Interrogation run by Brucellus Vito, Arch-mage Ra'jirra and Magician Tuls Laren in attendance for first half-hour before returning to laboratory."

"I love military talk, don't you?" Arondiel murmured to nobody in particular.

"Better than listening to you," Er-Ma channelled the feelings of most of the assembly.

"Do you mind?" Henantier said irritably, "I want to hear how she escaped."

Bruce shifted a little in his chair.

"Interrogation of prisoner 'Dead-bolt' concluded nine bells of morning," he pressed on tonelessly. "Brucellus Vito departed room before prisoner was transferred back to holding cell prior to transfer to Imperial City prison and sentencing for murder of Pierre Beugalle. At this point prisoner... managed to incapacitate the guards, unlock shackles and escape." The words tasted like dead fish and bog beacon.

"Four of them," Laren shook his head, "I still can't believe it even now. What the hell happened?"

"You should have given her to me," Arondiel snapped, "I need more research associates!"

"She managed to knock out four damn guards, you jackass!" Laren shouted, "Can't you think about something other than your stupid research for one second?"

"Stupid research? Look who's calling who stupid! Playing with holes in space when we could be flying!" Arondiel was up on his feet and turning red.

"What's the point in flying when you can't get down safely!" Laren was turning purple. "And you're so stuck on Tarhiel's stupid spells you're not even –"

Bruce closed his eyes, counted to ten in increments of five, then brought his stick down on the table. Hard.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Mage's Guild!" Brucellus Vito rarely raised his voice unless he was extremely excited. The fact he was raising it now caused everyone to freeze and egos to shrink back to normal.

"I think Ra'jirra would appreciate it if we all, as he liked to say, 'mucked in together' and applied ourselves to the task of locating and rescuing him." He twitched one corner of his mouth. "Backbiting, no matter how deserved, might make him ticked off."

Arondiel glared at Laren and then found something fascinating about the table. Having 'ticked off' the Arch-mage previously he didn't want that to happen again.

Laren opened his mouth but Holmar beat him to it.

"The Nine may not let us." This intonation hung in the air for about two and a half seconds before the table burst into seven and three-quarter seconds of furious objection, followed by Bruce rapping his stick for order.

"Holmar Long-Drink," he asked with an unnerving flatness of tone, "please explain your statement."

"The Nine blessed us with the gift of tongues," the priest said, "And they brought unto us the one known as 'Dead Bolt'. The portal of Tuls Laren enlarged without warning. Mayhap the hand of the gods was moving afore that day. Think you: how could a slip of a girl subdue a quartet of armed men? Look to the blessed Divines, for 'twould appear a Champion was required, to tread that distant soil in its hour of need..."

Bruce looked around at the rest of the attendees. Laren was frowning at nothing. Arondiel, Henantier and Er-Ma were wearing identical glazed expressions along with a substantial cross-section of the others as Holmar continued to preach.

"He's right." Laren's determined tone shattered the spell and Holmar stopped dead, glowering at the interruption.

"It makes sense. There is no logical explanation except that outside forces manipulated the portal's daedronic fields – and given the translation magic Holmar's probably right on the money."

"Probably?" Holmar sputtered.

"Also note that we were unaware of the language problem until Ra'jirra arrived, and then that criso appeared after he did, and then she somehow manages to free herself from her shackles and four guardsmen." The Dunmer looked around.

"I am loath to use such a phrase, but, well," his face looked like he'd swallowed a lemon, "the gods did it. The question is: Why?"

"Ours is not to question the gods," Holmar intoned stonily, "but to obey their dictates. To do otherwise... is sin."

The meeting was brought to an abrupt close due to attempted murder.

* * *

In the following hours Brucellus Vito took charge.

He had a few words with Arondiel regarding the possibility that, despite Trebonius Artorius' notorious and well-documented incompetence, his underlings may have been somewhat more effective, and as such maybe analysis of levitation as observed and cast by other guild members might be worth revisiting. After all, the Arch-mage himself had suggested doing so on several occasions, and surely such a recommendation counted for something?

Arondiel looked doubtful.

Bruce remarked that while doing so, he might find something that would help reopen Laren's portal and keep it open before Laren did.

Arondiel looked more than a little interested when Bruce left him.

Bruce also visited Holmar Long-Drink in the infirmary, ostensibly to check on his condition. While that ecclesiastical worthy was unable to speak, he was able to nod when the pilus prior requested that he be informed should Holmar be granted any further insights into the Nine's intentions.

While at the infirmary, he also checked on Er-Ma. Apparently her arm had only been dislocated and would heal up by tomorrow afternoon.

Finally he visited Tuls Laren. The Dunmer had retreated back to Building Three and flinched when Brucellus entered the laboratory.

There was some one-sided discussion regarding respect for the clergy and general etiquette, with particular focus on the observed relationship between Holmar Long-Drink's throat and a pair of hands which appeared to be attached to Tuls Laren.

Tuls made statements regarding the personality and genealogy of Holmar Long-Drink and the nature of magical research.

Brucellus made it clear that he didn't give a fourdrake and that if it wasn't for the urgency of locating the Arch-mage the jail manifest would be longer by one Tuls Laren.

Tuls said nothing of note in response.

Brucellus added that Arondiel was revisiting pre-Nerevarine records of the Mage's Guild and might find something useful.

Tuls expressed significant doubts that this would happen. The exact wording involved speculation on Arondiel's family tree of a highly libellous nature.

Brucellus stated that he would expect a status report by tomorrow noon.



This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 25 2010, 10:38 PM