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]

[Ugh, the wording. Lots of digressions and crawling into people's heads. One exception is Tar-Meena; she doesn't mind Ra'jirra's fatherly delight in his hatchlings, but she insists they stay well away from her precious Archives. There's one more chapter taking place in a Megaton afternoon before Ra'jirra and Haines make an unwelcome discovery. Partly because I have more business here, partly because of dangling conversation threads.]

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Chapter 6: 21 August 2277: Megaton

I think it best that I perform a public service and explain for idiots what radiation is, more or less, so you can use your own judgement and stay the hells away from it.

According to Haines, the people of Earth had discovered that all matter is composed of bits called atoms, which are too small to see, and which stick together to make water, air, and everything else. In fact, they're so small that they're right on the border between being honest-to-gods stuff and energy.

“Energy cannot be created or destroyed,” Haines recited like a liturgy, “only transformed.”

Some atoms are unstable. So if you get a big enough lump of some stuff made of unstable atoms, the whole thing explodes as all the atoms turn into energy – heat, light, shock, and a whole raft of other energies we people of Nirn mercifully haven't even discovered yet.

Because these Earth clowns made weapons called bombs that used this 'critical mass' idea, and look where it got them.

Or if someone has, they went boom before they could tell anyone.

Anyway, some of these energies are lumped together as 'radiation', and it's these which were, apparently, causing Haines to feel weak and fall apart, and were giving me headaches, as well as an unexpected magicka boost. Evidently magicka is an energy – one that these people hadn't discovered!

Radiation cannot be seen, usually, but there are ways of sensing that it's there. Lots of dead creatures and plants for starters.

Anyway, that's the basics of radiation. And between you and me, no matter how badly you might need magicka, the side effects are simply not worth it: unable to eat, hair falling out, skin bruises and splits at the slightest provocation, literally puking up your guts, your brain literally rotting away in your skull, and a slow, horrid, painful death.

I may have some of the details wrong but radiation will kill you anyway.

________

We were quite the pair when we arrived at the Craterside Supply in Megaton that afternoon. Actually, we were quite the pair when we arrived at Megaton in the first place, but that goes without saying. I just ignored the inevitable stares and helped a decidedly enfeebled Earnest Haines up a rickety metal ramp and into a shack that Haines assured me was the main store in the place.

Speaking of places, Megaton is a walled village built within a huge crater over two hundred feet across. Apparently it's made from the carcass of a huge flying machine, one of many which dropped the atomic bombs here. And one of them didn't go off. That one still sits, mercifully defused, in the middle of the village, worshipped by its own cult of loonies. I'll describe it later.

Note to Arondiel: I'm talking about the bomb, not the flying machine. It wasn't until much later that Ernie deigned to explain how that damn thing worked.

Also please note the crater housing Megaton was made by a bomb that didn't explode. If it had, the crater would have been measured in miles, I'm quite certain, and there would have been no reason at all for me being here.

The crater walls have been enlarged by barriers of scavenged metal about thirty feet high or more, making it one of the best fortified places in the Capital Wasteland area. I know this because the sheriff told me himself, later on.

But right now a rather dirty and slightly singed young woman I decided was Moira was goggling at me and Haines from behind a counter, and also at our entourage: a scowling dirty Redguard boy in an overlarge coat, a girl who again looked sort of Breton under all her dirt, an oldster of indeterminate race, and two or three extra gogglers.

“Ah, Moira,” Haines said as though fronting up with serious radiation poisoning and an armoured Khajiit in tow was a perfectly normal occurrence.

“Uh, hi, Ernie,” Moira didn't look like a mad scientist, but then there was that odd smell in the air speaking clearly of potions gone wrong. “What... I mean who... uh...”

“Ra'jirra, this is Moira Brown, she runs the Craterside Supply,” says Haines in as breezy a tone as he can manage. “Moira, I'd like you to meet Ra'jirra the, er, Khajiit.” Yep, he's enjoying her discomfort. “I was explaining to him about your survival guide?”

“Oh! He told you about it?” She perked right up like one of those twitty apprentices convinced they're going to turn the world on its ear with their profound discoveries. “Yeah, lemme explain why –”

I hold up a hand. “Maybe later ma'am,” says I, “but right now Doctor Haines here needs your assistance.” Ernie rolling his eyes suggested that was a bit more important than explanations about survival guides.

So she looks again at Haines and notices. “Oh, yeah, I'll tell you later,” says she, and then says to Ernie, “So, feeling a little under the weather... or maybe over the guy-gur counter?”

Oh what a lovely bedside manner. I would soon learn that the official healer in town was even worse. This meant people tended to sew their own limbs back on and stuff like that.

“Moira... my Pip-Boy's reading nearly 700 rads right now,” Haines manages to say in a civil tone, “I feel like I'm about to burn a hole through the floor, the only reason I'm standing is this counter, my skin is beginning to fall off, and I swear if I listen closely I can hear my genes crying.”

Genes? Another mystery word for the list, thought I.

“So, fatigue, tissue damage, and you're experiencing delusions, too? Fascinating!” She reminded me of Arondiel, the fly boy. “Now, after taking a few notes, I'll take care of that nasty radiation with a bit of my own home-made concoction. So, if you come over here,” and she points to a wretched-looking cot down the back, “and if your audience would like to give us some space,” and she looks hard at the gawpers, “I'll get right to it.”

“So you know some alchemy for curing this radiation then?” asks I. “I think a dose would do me good too.”

“Well,” says she, “I know a little chemistry –”

Must be what they call alchemy here, I thought. Or was it something else entirely?

“– But mainly it's a nice tall glass of rad-cleansing brahmin milk. Laced with a whole lot of Rad-X and RadAway.”

Oh.

“And maybe even a more reliable way to get rid of radiation! ...Assuming it works, of course.”

Uh-oh. I could see Haines thinking the same thing.

“I've never had a chance to test it out on someone so heavily dosed, but I'm sure it'll work out fine. Exciting, isn't it? Now, let's see,” and she turns away and starts rummaging through dented desks and crumpled metal cupboards, “a little brahmin milk, some magnets, a few happy thoughts...”

I've seen research being done, and I've seen the healers at work, and what Moira was doing wasn't research and would make any healer worth their salt hit the skooma. Basically she poked, prodded, stuck tubes connected to pouches of gods only knew what sludge into his arm, asked stupid questions, took samples, stared into a contraption with green symbols on a screen while tapping away on a mass of keys like a harpsichord gone wrong, and let's be honest here. She was making it up as she went along. As a secondary observer, I noticed to my dismay that whatever was in those pouches seemed to be having more effect than anything else.

I say 'to my dismay' because I'm no soothsayer, but I could see plainly that the “being stuck like a pig” cure was going to feature large in my future.

“What's the pouch things?” asks I of the nearest gawker.

“RadAway,” says he, “absorbs radiation and heals some of the damage. Only thing is the stuff does a number on your head and guts.”

“Lovely,” says I, “now I know what I've got coming next.” I looked over at Haines who was dozing in his chair as Moira did anything with a selection of small vials and other gimcracks.

“Huh? What's that?” She swung around to look at me. “You get irradiated as well huh? That's... uh...” and the confused look returns to her face, “great I guess, but...”

“I'm a Khajiit,” says I before she asks, “and it might throw off your results, right?”

And she just blinks at me and then the bottle-cap drops. “Yeah, right, exactly! Well, I can maybe do a few checks, but since you're a mutant –”

And she stops dead because I'm not hiding my annoyance. Yes, I don't look human, but – “Let me set you straight,” says I, “I'm a born and bred Khajiit, for more generations than I have fingers. Despite that, the arts of the healer and the alchemist work as well on me as any man or mer. And if anyone calls me a mutant...” and I trail off and look around meaningfully, then the increasingly pugnacious-looking Redguard kid pipes up.

“You don't try nothin' mister,” says he, “my dad's the sheriff here, so you just watch it.”

Gods! If I closed my eyes I could imagine that coming from my fearless J'dargo, facing a drunk at the Faregyl Inn! It's a wonder he's still alive.

“Well then, young sir,” says I soberly, “I won't start anything.” Which is a good way to run your life. Let the other pugnacious idiot seek help getting their head bashed in.

“Sounds good to me,” said a voice that probably started in the man's boots before emerging from his beard. His coat – his son was wearing a cut-down version – bore a metal star, as did his broad-brimmed hat. “None of these folks causing you trouble?”

“Apart from making me feel like I'm in a menagerie, no,” says I, then I tap my chest. “Ra'jirra,” and I pause, then decide what the hells, “Arch-mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild, currently picking my nose and awaiting rescue.”

“At the same time?” Yep, I was going to get on fine. “Lucas Simms, mayor and sheriff of Megaton. I see you've met Harden,” he adds. “So where you from?”

“Cyrodiil,” says I, “which is probably a lot further off than even I think.”

“Did you have to mention you do magic?” Haines had come around at last, albeit with, I suspected, stomach pains and a headache, as well as an irritated expression.

“Nice of you to come round,” says I, “how're you feeling?”

“Horrible,” says he, “I don't think I'll be able to eat anything for a week.”

“That's RadAway for you,” says Simms the elder with a knowing smile. “Oh, and make sure you drink plenty of water. That stuff goes in orange and comes out green.”

Oh, joy. Laughter made me realise that I'd groaned that aloud.

“Well, the good news is – you're alive!” Moira chirped happily to Haines, who didn't seem cheered by that. “But... um... there was a little side-effect.”

“You mean something worse than a force-regrown digestive tract?” Ernie was exaggerating. It's the lining in your guts that gets regrown, apparently. I shudder to think what happens in your brain.

“No, not that bad! Just a teeny, tiny, um, mutation.”

Haines went even whiter than he already was. Apparently mutation tends to be a bad thing.

“But it seems to be benign, at least.” She tapped away on her contraption and peered at the green symbols. “Looks like a form of radiation-assisted regeneration.”

“Fat lot of use that is,” Haines grumbled, “seeing as I don't intend getting radiation poisoning ever again.”

Moira didn't answer that as she dug into a box and extracted some items. “Here,” says she to Ernie, “take a few radiation chems, as my little way of saying, 'I'm sorry I twisted your DNA like a kitten with a ball of yarn.'”
And then they stop and look at me since I burst out laughing.

“Sorry, sorry,” says I, “you haven't seen what my little kits could do with yarn. Trust me on this.”

________

Abhuki liked to knit. She knit vests. She knit caps. She knit scarves and really quite pretty placemats and gloves and such. And she made a nice drake out of it. Which for the slow meant she had a chest full of bright coloured materials and needles.

When the twins were three, they went upstairs to play, while Abhuki manned the taps, and S'jirra and I were in the basement, checking inventory. One of the downsides is that the Arch-Mage has to do all the shopping in the Imperial City where Bravil's markets don't cut it.

Anyhow, there's a crash from upstairs followed by a shrill howling duet that shook off all thought of shopping trips. S'jirra and I jumped up and adjusted our clothing and headed upstairs where the patrons were all staring up at the ceiling and Abhuki was nowhere in sight.

So we went upstairs and saw Abhuki outside her room, arms folded. She looked up as we approached, and I noticed she was trying very hard to not laugh.

In the middle of her room was a large ball of assorted yarns which apparently had attempted to engulf the rest of the room's contents... including two very frightened little Khajiiti girls, staring out of their brightly-coloured bonds with eyes the size of their heads!

________

“And that,” I finished up once the laughter died down, “is what kittens can do with yarn!”

Moira was busy with picking herself up off the floor, while Haines just looked pained. “Thank you so much for that slice of your home life,” says he stiffly, “now I look forward to you getting the treatment.”

“Oh yeah,” Moira says uncertainly. “Uh, you'll have to remove your, um, upper, armour... stuff.”

“My cuirass? Just remember I'm a married man,” says I, and a fiddle with the straps later off it comes. I wanted a good look at myself to ensure that I wasn't shedding my hair. S'jirra would have a fit.

And I wasn't taking off my greaves in public. S'jirra would kill me.

My torso looked shed-free, although I needed to lose a few pounds. But you try saying no to my wife's cooking.

My cuirass looked like it was holding up nicely apart from a couple of ghoul-induced dents.

Moira was looking like a cross between a carp and a startled strawberry. Maybe she was allergic to Khajiit hair or something.

Ernie was getting colour back into his mug and concealing a grin.

“Right,” I went on as if nothing had happened, “let's get this radiation out of me if you don't mind.”

________

From Moira Brown's notes

This Rajirrer guy (how does he spell it?) looks like a cat. One of the big cats. That fur of his makes it difficult to find a vein to set up a RadAway dose though. At least I did find one and it seems to work, he did mention that his energy was coming back and his stomach was starting to hurt.

Doctor Haines says he ran into the guy in a building more or less east of here late yesterday chasing a raider. There was some sort of magic portal that the Ka-jeet came through, and he looked like he was about to puke when he said “magic” - Haines I mean. Apparently the portal closed suddenly so this guy's stuck here awaiting rescue.

Haines can be such a prick sometimes. Maybe I should warn Rajirrer about that before he smacks his head off for an insult or something.

________

From Earnest Haines' journal

I had no idea Moira's terminal patched into a medical computer system until today! It seems, despite her magpie habits and undisciplined attitude towards Science, she can work wonders with genetic analysis. Perhaps I should re-evaluate her merits.

Naturally I asked her what genetic analysis showed on my furry compatriot compared to the normal human genome.

What she found out was nothing short of jaw-dropping. Well over 80% of his DNA is a match for homo sapiens!
It is my current hypothesis that this “Cirodil” place is somewhere else on Earth, and that Kajeet and their mysterious powers are the result of genetic manipulation by another country's super-Science, perhaps somewhere in Africa or the Antipodes.

I shall be careful not to let Rajirra go home with an excuse for them to conquer us. After all, I am an American free – and I would prefer to learn about their Scientific knowledge as an equal!

________

The bloody needles were blunt again. Just as I expected.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Oct 4 2010, 11:28 AM