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]

[Alrighty. I've been wrangling this section for ages, and I think this is a decent draft.]

Chapter 7: 21 August 2277: House 'Wares

The silence between Ernie and me was a little tense as we entered the shack grandiosely called Moriarty's Saloon. Haines looked like he'd been played the yokel after my demonstration of Conjuration magicks to the still-curious group loitering outside Moira's shop.

I didn't see what the problem was. Harden the Pugnacious had more or less challenged me to prove I did magic, so I did. As setting fire to the village was pretty much out of contention, and daylight meant you wouldn't be able to see Starlight, I invoked the pattern Volanaro had taught me all those years ago, and conjured up Mister Bones.

Mister Bones, in the time I'd spent summoning him over the years, had begun to develop a definite personality. While unable to speak, his pose spoke volumes at times, and he recognised the interior of the Faregyl Inn – especially at Tales and Tallows. He also had begun to be more canny in fighting, leading with his shield rather than the rusty axe seemingly nailed into his bony hand. When he appeared during negotiations – such as cutting off drunks or encouraging reckless experimenters to move to Black Plateau, he generally tended to adopt threatening postures, and at during one set of negotiations managed twenty-seven different poses before the spell wore off.

The demonstration didn't go well. Several people fled, including the children, several others just stood stunned, and Lucas Simms drew his gun. Mister Bones saw him and immediately took a threatening stance.

“Don't shoot you fool!” yells I! “He'll attack you if you do.”

And Mister Bones looks at me with a what-the-hell-was-that-all-about pose and then at Simms with a just-you-try-it pose.

Just then Haines emerged from Moira's, saw Mister Bones, and adopted a what-the-hell-is-going-on-and-what-is-that-thing pose with matching expression.

“Sorry Bonesy,” says I, “wasn't expecting that reaction.”

Mister Bones assumed an I'm-disappointed-in-you pose as I launched a dispel enchantment on myself, and he disappeared in an amber flash.

Haines did an impression of a freshly caught perch for a bit before finally saying, “When you've finished terrorising the villagers we'll visit this Moriarty person.”

Lucas Simms just shouldered his rifle with a flat expression and suggestions about using a little more discretion next time.

* * *

The first thing I noticed in Moriarty's was a ghoul thumping a buzzing, crackling ray-dee-oh with added swearing. “Why won't you work?” it demanded in a voice that could have come straight from inland Vvardenfell.

“It's not the radio, it's Gee-en-ar,” a young woman with golden hair in a rough bun said to him, “their signal's been merd lately.”

“Well I'm not puttin' the Enclave on,” the creature growled, “between endless futtin' Yanky Doodle and that cullyhole Eden it makes me puke.” And it gave the device another vengeful thump and turned back to rearranging the dirt on the glasses.

“Maybe we should pay this Gee-en-ar a visit,” says I quietly to Haines, “they seem to know a lot about what happens around here.”

“Later,” says Haines curtly, “Moriarty is closer. Wherever he is.”

Just then there was the sound of a breaking glass. The ghoul had seen us, and everyone else's eyes followed his.

It says something that I was getting used to it at this point. To be honest, it was a wee bit refreshing not to be stared at as the Great and Terrible Arch-Mage, but only wee, since I was being stared at as a What The Hells Is That, which is slightly worse.

There was a girlish little squeal from further in the room, and it wasn't happy, and it came from behind a roguish gent with an eyepatch who was standing up and glaring at me.

“Hey! You're that cat-man Maggie was talkin' about!” Well, obviously, since there weren't any other Khajiiti running around! “What the hell'd you do to her?”

“Now hold on there, sir,” and Ernie steps forward raising his hands, “Ra'jirra here didn't mean any harm by his, ah, demonstration.”

Yeah, right, seemed to be the consensus between Maggie's protector, the hard-faced guard, and Gob for that matter. “What the fut's that mean? Maggie comes screamin' in here, scared out of her mind, screamin' about cat-men and monsters appearin' outa thin air!” His hand's on his gun! “You got some 'splainin' to do!”

So I push Ernie out of the way and 'splain. The details aren't important, but I showed him my family portrait and retold the one about R'mara and Sheeyin's adventure in the yarn and Maggie got to giggling and the gent calmed down nicely. Apparently Billy had found Maggie after raiders killed her parents up north somewhere and had been protecting her ever since.

“Well that explains you wanting to kill me,” says I at last, “I'd be mad if some idiot mage scared my kits too. Hey, where's Ernie gone?”

“Out back with Moriarty,” Gob said, jabbing one cadaverous finger towards an anteroom. “Said he needed to talk with him, not listen to your home life.” He rolled his foggy eyes. “He might've defused that bomb out there, but he can be a real cullyhole huh?”

“Bomb?” was my intelligent response. You have to understand that this was my first visit, and I'd been more concerned with getting Ernie to Moira's than sightseeing.

“Yeah, the bomb! Big round black thing in the middle? What got the town named after it?” Gob looked at me scornfully. “Well, two days ago the Doc there was helpin' Walter fix the water pipes in town, and he decides hey, while I'm here, let's fix that bomb, so he did.” Gob grinned and shook his head. “Next thing I know, Simms comes in here and lays a hundred caps on the counter – drinks on him toastin' the good Doc.” His face darkened. “Weird thing though – this Burke guy who used to hang out in the corner over there. Just asked if it was true, jumped up and left like he'd been insulted.”

“And have you finished giving our guest a freebie?” The man glaring at the ghoul had a lilting accent that didn't match the ice in his eyes. They switched to me and I felt my hackles rise. If this was Moriarty then I'd be taking my trade elsewhere.

“Just tellin' him about the bomb,” Gob said nervously.

“Anyone could tell... him... about the futting thing,” Moriarty said disgustedly and smacked Gob upside the head. “Go clean the rest room and do something useful.”

Gob just shrugged meekly and trudged to the back. 'Rest room' is what they call privies in the Capital Wasteland, but they smell just as bad.

“Well, you've got what you wanted to know,” Moriarty was talking to Ernie but his eyes were still frozen on me, “So either buy a drink or fut off.”

“Indeed,” Ernie said stiffly, “And besides, we have work to do first, play later. Shall we go, Arch-mage?”

“By all means, Doctor.”

And off we fut.

* * *

As we navigated around the south end of Megaton we both found mutual ground regarding the venality and general cullyhole-ness of one Colin Moriarty, proprietor of Moriarty's Saloon, and that we would be taking future trade elsewhere. “Maybe the Brass Lantern,” says Haines, pointing to a stall at the bottom of the crater, then he pauses. “Follow me.”

I don't bother to ask where we're going. He leads me over bridges and across decks and at one point across someone's roof to stand in front of a building.

“Here,” says he, “I'll let you do the honours.”

And he hands me a key!

“What's this?” is my intelligent response.

“I was given this house,” Ernie explains, “after defusing the bomb down there.” And he points to the bomb – it says something about my preoccupation that I missed it when I came in here. “Right next to it there is the local cult that worships the bloody thing... religion. The Brass Lantern's right below, the clinic's right behind it... After you?”

So of course I take the key and slot it into the lock and inside I'm approached by a big metal ball with three eyes.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” it says in a posh voice, “I am Wadsworth, your personal robotic butler.”

I looked the... machine... over dubiously. It seemed to be floating on a column of air – hot air at that. As well as three eyes, or what I assumed to be eyes, it sported three spidery arms, one of which was tipped with a jagged circular blade, one with a suspiciously blackened nozzle, and another with an evil-looking claw.

“I am here to look after your needs and to keep you happy and entertained,” it declared proudly. “What can I do for you?”

Need I say I was at a complete loss? Doctor Haines to the rescue!

“This,” says he smugly, “is a Mister Handy robot. We had one in the cafeteria in Vault 101. Wadsworth, what is your functionality?”

“My functionality is your pleasure and comfort sir,” the robot declared, “I can clean, exterminate vermin, distil limited amounts of water, provide quality haircare and even tell jokes.”

“Jokes?” says I, “Well, let's hear one.”

“A neutron walks into a bar and asks, 'How much for a drink?' The bartender says, 'For you, no charge.'”

Only Haines got it, I saw him smirk.

Wadsworth rotated between us uncertainly, then focussed on Haines. “Your hair needs some attention sir, may I recommend the combover?”

“Would you like a haircut?” Haines looks at me.

Right. A haircut from a floating ball that didn't even have proper hands to handle shears and comb. “You first,” says I.

“Certainly!” Wadsworth cries, “I am programmed with a multitude of hair shaping scenarios, if you would care to choose one, I would be happy to replicate it for you.” And it extends a sort of circular screen and up comes a picture of Haines with a new hairdo. As he looked at it his face became speculative.

“Can you tint my hair? Say, black?”

“Certainly,” and the picture changes its hair colour.

Once Haines had decided not only a hairdo but a beard-do as well, I was honestly surprised at how effectively the machine worked. I won't try to describe its actions – let's just say better Haines kept his eyes shut during proceedings – but when it was finished, Doctor Earnest Haines looked ten years younger and I said so.

“Really?” preens he, flicking stray hairs out of his collar, “I'm glad to hear it. Thank you, Wadsworth.”

“No trouble at all sir. Is there anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“I'll just clean up then sir,” says Wadsworth and it floats off doing whatever it is the robot does with nobody around.

“I have my own house,” Haines explains, “outside Springvale, and it's all I need. But you... I'd like to give you use of this place. If you want a space to yourself, that is.”

And I has a think, and finally, “Sounds fair. Keeps me away from you too right?”

Haines just smiled thinly.

* * *

“So why are we here again?” asks I outside the waystation where we'd met what felt like a million years ago. The setting sun drew tattered palls of shadow over the dead city.

“I'm doing research for Moira Brown, as you've been told,” says he with an annoyed look, “and so far, I've been nearly blown to bits from landmines as well as almost having a very personal meltdown – as you know first hand.”

“What's a landmine?”

“Oh for... It's an explosive device that rests on the ground. Objects that trigger proximity detectors or stand on them–”

“Oh, like the 'Bouncing Borbas' encountered through the Oblivion gates!” I was quite pleased with myself for making the connection.

Haines looked like he was about to crap a brick – backwards. “Er... these don't bounce.”

“That's a relief.” I fingered my quiver, flicking through the shafts. Nineteen-odd. My stay here was going to be troublesome if I didn't find some way of getting my arms and armour mended, and I got the impression that fletchers were few and far between. Magic's not endless, and the pistol Haines had given me still felt wrong on my hip.

Haines himself spun around and fired several shots at a mangy dog which had followed us down the bank. The last shot blew its skull apart, causing the corpse to go head over heels down to where we were.

“Anyway,” says he, skulking along the side of a ruined tower, “my mission is to investigate the Super-Duper Mart down there and see if there's any food and/or medicines inside.” His face went grim. “In my home, there's a terminal that the previous occupant used. What Moira doesn't know and I do is that raiders took the place over a year ago.”

As we rounded the corner, Haines dropped to a crouch and peered through the scope at the boxy building under a large, probably once eye-catching sign, now rusted and unloved. I squinted at the characters that adorned each panel, matching them to what I had gathered of the English alphabet.

Haines nudged me and passed over his laser pistol. “Check the awning.” I looked through the scope and saw a corpse apparently – no, it was hanging from the awning. Yep – raiders.

Somebody fired a shot. We froze, looking eastward. What we saw through Haines' scope was a raider actually doing pretty well against three better armed and more professional-looking thugs. I say 'thugs' because that's what we found out they were.

I'm not stupid, so I tapped Haines' shoulder and made a sweeping gesture west and north. He nodded.

We broke cover, swinging west towards the back of the mart, clinging to the shadow of the slope behind our destination. The mystery trio didn't see or hear us, being too far away, and we relaxed slightly once we reached the building.

“What sort of place is a 'Super-Duper Mart' anyway?” asks I softly.

“A place where people did their shopping, of course,” Haines murmered irritably, “Buy food, basic cleaning materials, housewares, all under one roof. Generically, they're 'super-markets'.”

Oh – so it was like a cross between The Feed Bag and Three Brothers or something like that. As the last rays of sun fled, I invoked the Eye of Night.

We continued our circuit around the west, then north sides of the building, then froze. Voices meant the thugs were still in front of the building.

“What didja say he looked like again?”

“He's bald with a beard. Totes a scoped laser, but he might have a rifle on 'im. Just watch it – he's got some sorta mutie for company.”

And we look at each other in alarm. Why the hell are these guys waiting for us?

“Well how futtin' long are we gonna wait here?”

“As long as we have to, dumbcully. Our intel is they're coming here, so they're probably close by. And thanks to that futtin' raider they prob'ly know we're here.”

“So? Makes for a fun fight. Now, we split the caps even stevens, right?”

“Are you crazy? Whoever deals the death blow gets half and the others a quarter each.”

And my hackles are rising and I see Haines' teeth flash. Assassins. We should have known.

I watched Haines shrug off his pack, pull out a pair of rifles, and took the one he handed me. He also pulled out several objects I didn't recognise before nodding back the way we came. Rounding the west side, he turned on the light of his Pip-Boy. I winced and closed the Eye.

“Now pay attention,” whispers he, and I learned how to work an assault rifle. He made me load and reload the gun several times, then nodded. “I'll toss some grenades to soften them up,” he added, “And that's where the rifles come into play.” And he smiles grimly. “Welcome to your first firefight.”

And off goes the light and I open my Eye and we creep off to war.

Ernie's 'grenades', when thrown, bounce a little way before exploding – unfortunately too far away to soften the assassins enough – “What the balls!?” – “Find cover!” – “Two north!” – hard-faced men in purpose-made raiment with a claw design, and toting assault rifles of their own – “Talon Company!” – I pull the trigger but the damn gun wants to kill the sky – to hells with it – I drop the gun and summon a scamp – “Where'd the hell that come from?” – “It's shooting at us!” – my arrow leaves the string and one falls grabbing his belly – “Keep firing!” – I loose arrow eighteen and another drops his weapon from an arm gone useless before Haines blows his head apart – a clink – something loud knocked me down – my bow's gone – pistol – the world's at an angle – summon Mister Bones – the gutshot guy's screaming whatthefut over and over again – the other's turned to face Bones with gun spitting – something hit my pauldron – gutshot's in front of me fumbling with a stimpack – put the gun to his eye – he spits – falls eye a hole – someone in front of me – gun as a club – knocked down but I still have the gun – and hand free – left-handed spellcasting – woe upon you – I passed out.