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]

[Righty. I may as well post some build-up to the exposition. The actual first epiphany will take a while as I compose the ballad of Farmer Fat!]

22 August 2277: Rest and Rat-Catching

It took a while for Moira to return to her normal self. At least, I'm assuming that being almost maniacally fixated on her pet project was normal, and not her way of coping with having a recently unmasked – and even more recently dead – spy bleeding all over her. Then again, her fainting hadn't lasted very long, although it had given us time to clean up most of the mess.

“Let me get this straight,” Ernie said in a strangled tone, “You want us to go into the DC ruins and fight rats... with a stick?”

And Moira just smiles at him tightly. “Mole rats can burrow into almost anything and cause a lot of trouble – you know, wrecking food supplies, chowing on injured people... So I figured I'd make a chemical repellent stick for people to shoo them off.”

And she digs out an honest to gods stick, a fair-sized tree branch really, complete with some sort of frighteningly green and potions-gone-wrong-scented glop all over it, and looks at it as fondly as we do incredulously.

“But I need it to be tested before I put the recipe to paper in the guide. So I need you to find some Mole Rats and test it out a bit.”

“Really.” Haines looked skeptical.

“It'll be easy,” says she breezily, “One tap with the applicator, and it overwhelms their senses with a sort of... 'feel-bad' sensation. Then they're gone before you know it!”

I loved Moira's breezy enthusiasm in the face of total ignorance. She reminded me of that nitwit Ancotar. There may still be a few bits left of him after he blew up Fort Caracatus.

“You could test it out on just a few mole ratties, but for real testing, try it on ten or more. There should be plenty in the Tepid Sewers, downtown. Just visit the Anchorage War Memorial and look downriver... outside Dukov's Place.” She makes a retching sound. “Unfortunately... I haven't worked out a Dukov repellent yet.”

“Well... if it saves ammo...” Haines says thoughtfully, then his brain works, “Why not? We'll try it out! Why, it could revolutionise animal husbandry – create mole rat farms!” And his eyes flash. “Why, there could be variants for other animals too – even these Super Mutants I've heard about!”

And Moira's eyes go wide as saucers, and I find myself saying, “Could have done with scorpion repellent when I came here!” and she bursts into giggles. Turned out it was more the idea of someone sending Super Mutants running with a stick than making stuff for shooing giant bugs that set her off.

“Okay, okay!” she finally says, “You guys go find some mole rats and try it out. Good hunting!”

As we turn to go my left hip plays up and I must have stumbled.

“Ra'jirra?” Haines grabbed me before I fell into the counter. “You okay?”

“Dunno,” says I, “But... look... Doctor... do you need me with you?”

I feel Haines' hand running around the left side of my waist and he brings it up red and sticky. “Not in this condition,” says he, “besides, I've survived four days alone, and I've encountered mole rats before. As a Scientist and a doctor, I recommend bed rest.”

There are people who think Ernie Haines was a fanatical sort, but sometimes he made good sense. This was one of those times.

And so we left Moira's and went over to 'my' place. Unsurprisingly people were talking about what happened earlier, but all I wanted was to rest up and follow doctor's orders. Just to add spice to proceedings the storm atronachs in my head were back and working themselves into a frenzy; being Arch-Mage and unofficial ambassador of the Empire, having a nervous breakdown in public wasn't a good idea.

“I'll be back in a couple of hours,” Haines said, escorting me to the bed in a small upstairs room that also sported a desk and cabinet. He had the decency to turn away as I painfully unpeeled the Talon body armour; fresh red streaks worsened the mess of my body fur.

“You appear to be wounded sir,” Wadsworth noted from the doorway, “may I suggest you seek medical attention?”

“I just need rest,” said I to the machine and more or less passed out until I was woken a couple of hours later by Haines dumping several books and a change of clothes on the table. New stains on his Talon duds smelled of gore and potions gone wrong. The atronachs in my head had at least settled their differences if not ceased hostilities.

“You might find these interesting,” explains he, “and there's something to wear if you're sick of that body armour.” And he grimaces. “Look, I felt the same way when I... left... the Vault. 'What the hell's happened to the world', sort of thing.” And he hefts the stick. “Anyway, at least mole rats don't shoot back – and you can eat 'em! Oh, speaking of which...” and out come more damn Nuka-Colas and some boxed foodstuffs.

“Find any mole rats?”

“A few,” was all he said, “I think Moira might be a little disappointed though.” And he frowns. “Either that or I'm hitting too hard.”

There was a basin downstairs next to another fridge, and I used it to wash myself after Haines left. The dribbling water was tepid and didn't smell too good, but at least it got most of the blood off. The scarring on my side had broken open, but that wasn't my main problem though.

Ever since I'd entered the portal, I had been hauled from one shock to the next. The radscorpion stabbing me in the arm. The ghouls. Radiation poisoning, and Moira's 'cure'. And nearly dying outside the Super-Duper Mart. Almost always accompanied by the angry young fanatic who insisted on being called Doctor Earnest Haines.

I needed a rest. I needed the chance to just take it all in.

And I needed to know where the strange sense of looming, gibbering madness came from.

Upstairs, I lifted my cracked helm and looked at it. Nothing to be done; there were no smiths here, I guessed. And if there were, they wouldn't know what the hell to do with it. I put the helm gently on top of the cabinet.

My new threads were a pair of blue pants, slightly too short, paired with a short-sleeved shirt, and fairly comfortable shoes. The whole ensemble was dirty, but that went without saying. Anything not utterly ruined was dirty in the Capital Wasteland.

Peering at myself in a broken and dirty mirror, I couldn't help noticing that, again, I actually looked quite spiffy. Earth people had good tailors!

Better still, my new garb meant that I could now take off, and have a good long look at, my Talon threads, since I'd be relying on them fairly comprehensively.

I laid out the bulky vest and the blood-crusted padded leggings on the floor downstairs, then had a think and laid out my ruined cuirass next to it, along with a selection of tools. The more I thought and the more I looked, the more I realised I'd have to visit Moira's again if my plan was to work, since I didn't have all the tools I needed.

So I forsook that, told an inquisitive Wadsworth to clean the Talon suit, and went upstairs and settled in for some heavy reading before lunch. I say 'heavy' since I had to not only decipher their alphabet, but also try to work out concepts and interpret local slang from the context.

Also, I had to winnow out useful wheat from the chaff.

Haines had been collecting books during his sojourns. Some were flimsy things that fell apart if you looked at them cross-eyed, such as one item entitled Guns & Bullets. It was also grimy and looked like it had been passed through innumerable hands. As I stumbled through it, I saw why: Once you took all the bardy bits out, there was a fair whack of useful information that could stop you from either breaking your weapon, or dying, or both.

The sheer speed of bullets is the main reason not even plate armour can withstand, say, a direct hit from a .308 'round', and why hits from other weapons can be so messy. On Earth, combat mainly involves trying to shoot the enemy without being hit – a nervy game of waiting for him to stop to reload, then popping out of hiding and hoping that he hasn't reached cover yet. In the open, it's running like mad, spraying bullets all over the shop and – well, you know.

All through the pages were pieces hawking all sorts of businesses and items, not all of which were guns. One page was devoted mostly to a painting of two victorious men returning home with their quarry in the back of a vehicle. I applied the great Ra'jirra brain to deciphering the Earth alphabet and discovered a new word: 'radio'. So that's what we heard blathering away on the other side of Laren's portal. Galaxy News Radio. Apparently this 'Chevrolair' 'pickup truck' boasted one, so you and your passengers would 'stay entertained getting there and back!'

After two attempts I gave up on a hardback volume of dreadful tales labelled True Adventure Stories of MEN Magazine, where men were men, women's clothes fell off, and foreigners were godless scheming evildoers ready to utilise thugs, drugs and exotic animals to further evil schemes that made less sense than Sheogorath at his craziest. Even Zul gro-Rubbish would have scoffed at them.

I dipped into and grimaced at the smugly arrogant racism of The Boy Scout's Guide to Defending America, which pitted American boyhood against just about everyone who either lived beyond their borders, looked 'Chinese', or didn't adhere to a surprisingly rigid set of cultural norms. For a culture that bandied the word 'freedom' around, they seemed rather leery of it.

I leafed with increasing interest through a 'scrapbook' of what looked like annotated clippings from other publications – a piece of paper glued on the front called it Resource Wars Coming 2050. (I think that was the year the collection was started.) Somewhere in there was the explanation I was after, buried in the mass of yellowed and singed scraps.

By the time I'd worked that far, I had collected a kaleidoscope of impressions, but nothing coherent. I was going to take a leaf out of Dagail's book and let my unconscious sort them all.

“The time is two pee-em sir,” Wadsworth said from the doorway, “May I assist with lunch?”

Lunch at two ('pee-em' had something to do with afternoons, I guess) was:

– something claiming to be a 'Salisbury Steak', a ghastly brown object which neither looked, or felt on the tooth, like any steak I'd ever had, cringing beneath a glutinous blob of gravy – and Wadsworth's heating it up didn't help;

– 'Dandy Boy' brand red wizened things claiming to be apples – and may have been at some point in the past;

– another gooey-feeling Nuka-Cola to wash them down.

I then had a rest while my innards debated whether my repast lived up to the claims on the boxes. It sounded like my stomach was on the affirmative side, supported by my sweetbreads, but my intestines and bum-gut were more than a little unconvinced.

Just when the debate reached its noisy height, I had my first epiphany.

(To be continued...)