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've noticed I have more trouble with these contemplative chapters than the action sequences; I guess that's one of the dangers of plugging Genuine People Personalities into your computer game dollies.]

Rest and Rat-Catching (continued)

Said Temple priest,'O Farmer Fat!'
'Where be ye winter hay?
For Last Seed's nearly up and gone
And winter's on the way.'

The resources that kept Earth's civilisations running had become depleted – the 'Energy Crisis' they called it – just like the food ran out for Farmer Fat.

'Be off with ye!' said Farmer Fat,
'I see no winter near,
But only apples ripe to eat
Washed down with foaming beer.'

There had been people playing the Temple priest, and warning of this happening, something to do with inefficient machines or something. But most of the rulers had played Farmer Fat to the hilt, and the warning voices were laughed and shamed – or worse – into silence.

'No fright of future doom for me,
Begone O grim and glum!'
And off the Temple priest did flee
Pursued by clods of dung.

As the situation got worse, nation turned against nation – nowhere more so than between 'China' and the 'United States of America' – in attempts to corner the last few remaining resources for themselves.

The empires of Earth had poured everything they had into one staggering, world-spanning war – a grinding war machine that gobbled up the very resources that it was being fought over, even as the rulers continued to assure their peoples that their way of living would be preserved.

And what became of Farmer Fat?
His fam'ly merely say:
He made them all good victuals,
And kept the famine at bay.

Except spring hadn't arrived on Earth yet and maybe never would.

I sat on the edge of the bed and thought about that. What I'd seen this far was the ruin of a city, yes, but I had also seen the nearest river – a virtually dried-up remnant in the midst of an arid wasteland. With little wet and nothing green, how long would life live here?

Well, that was a question for another sage, and not for a homesick mage, and I went down and collected my not particularly well-laundered Talon duds and battered armour and trudged over to Moira's. Best to do something constructive while waiting.

Moira was inside, attempting to sweep the floor. There was this discoloured area she wasn't keen on standing in.

“Oh! Rajirrer,” says she a bit breathlessly, “has D-Doc Haines returned?”

“Nope,” says I, “Can you help me try something out?” Doing something constructive might help her too.
“Try something?” She looks at my bundle. “Like what?”

I look around meaningfully and she directs me to a sturdy table with tools on it. “Right then,” says I, “I want to take the plates off this–” and I put down my cuirass, “–and fix them onto this,” and drop the Talon gear.

“Giving up your right to bare arms huh?” She grins at me, then realises I don't get it. “Never mind. Let's give it a try then...”

Moira did have the tools I needed to remove the pauldrons and plates from the gousset. It took an hour to lift the pauldrons off, and Moira was fascinated by the mail left behind.

“Man... I thought these rings were welded or something,” says she, peering at them, “but I can see rivets!”

“That they are,” agrees I, “and all handmade.” I didn't think it necessary to mention that the hands most likely belonged to Ayleid slaves.

“Oh, these ones aren't riveted,” she then says, pointing at a patch.

“Well, I've had this suit for twelve years,” says I, “salvage from bowling some marauders. And there's been bandits, necromancers, daedra, assorted wildlife, undead, and Mannimarco. So I've had it at the menders a time or two.” Twelve years takes the rough edges off those memories.

“Who's Mannimarco?”

“King of Worms – wanted to destroy the Mage's Guild,” says I absently, measuring up the pauldrons against the vest. “How's the best way to fix these on?”

“Huh?” Maybe I shouldn't have dropped that list on her. “Oh – uh – we can try rivets I think. Or maybe if I drilled in some bolts or... Idea!”

“Idea?”

“Lemme get some old belts. That way if this Talon suit falls to bits, you can keep, uh, your bits!”

“What a good idea!” exclaims I; certainly I wouldn't have thought of it. Better still, I could take the bright Ayleid clobber off and stash it when stealth was required. There are all sorts of obstacles to moving around unseen and wearing bits of clinky metal is one of them.

So out come a swag of leather belts. “One of the good things about running the store is I get first dibs on the best stuff,” says she by way of explanation, “so I have plenty for my lab!”

As we measured, fiddled, cut and riveted together belts, pauldrons and lamés, Moira started talking about herself – how she'd been here almost all her life, about the terrible journey she'd endured travelling from Canterbury Commons to end up taking over the store, and how she wanted to improve the lives of people. “Like the Wasteland Survival Guide,” she wound down, lifting up the harness we'd developed and looking at it, “that's gonna be a real life-saver now I've got Doc Haines as an assistant.”

Apparently Ernie and his dad weren't the first to emerge from the nearby Vault 101. There'd been a scout twelve years before, but she'd disappeared. “Guess someone or something got her. But ever since then, I got to thinking that a book like this would be really useful, and... well...”

I assure her I'm listening.

“Well, look around at the world we live in. It may be okay to you, but I've read about what it used to be like, and this wasn't it. So we all need something that keeps us going, despite all the terrible things around us. For me, it's things like this book.”

“And the chance to make things better, right?” asks I.

“Hey, it sounds crazy when you say it that way, but that's what I'm aiming for, yeah,” says she, “The Wasteland Survival Guide isn't much towards that lofty goal, but it's an important one. Look,” and she's got that gleam in her eye and she's waving tools around as she speaks, “Did you ever try to put a broken piece of glass back together? Even if the pieces fit, you can't make it whole again the way it was.”

Yep. I knew that from boyhood experience. Not even the thrashing dad gave me fixed that glass.

“But if you're clever, you can still use the pieces to make other useful things. Maybe even something wonderful, like a mosaic.” That gleam was a flame now. “Well, the world broke just like glass. And everyone's trying to put it back together like it was, but it'll never come together the same way.”

I just listen and try the armoured harness we'd created for fit.

“Lemme give you an example. A couple months back, I was playing with an idea for an elevated brahmin feeding system, so they don't have to strain their necks so much. But the caravan master said, 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it.'” And she sighs bitterly. “Guess that applies to improvements, too.”

And up leaps Zenithar and gives it to me right between the eyes.