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]

[In my notes, I wrote 'Moira wasn't happy about the repellent'. How things dilate.]
Rest and Rat-Catching (continued)

“They just stopped,” I breathed to the rusty ceiling.

It would take later reading to understand – especially history books. Just over a hundred years before the Great War, Earth had emerged, battered and shaken, from the second nigh-world-spanning war in less than fifty years.

All anyone wanted to do was regroup and regain the happy societies that they'd left behind, and no more of this terrible technological advances undermining society, thank you very much.

I know I'm not explaining this very well, but in less than four decades the Earth people had gone from the mass array and the cavalry charge at the start of the first world war – it was drowned in mud and blown to bits – to unleashing the power of the atom and stopping the second one.

That sort of thing probably affects you. Imagine a nation of Kvatch survivors all trying to rebuild their old lives and forget that war ever existed.

They had stopped developing technology, at least on the surface. The scrapbooker had it – any new advances were hoarded in secret for weapons. But there was something else: a sense of self-satisfied inertia. They hadn't seen the need to adapt. They thought their way of life was perfect.

It wasn't just technological developments – for evidence, please see Notes on the Bureau of Technological Advancement, which worked to either hide, cripple or delay innovations. Society itself was frozen in amber – ways of living, ways of thinking, ways of worship of their single god.

Funny thing – their god didn't have a name. Most people just called him 'God'. Rather like a shepherd I met outside Kvatch. He explained his flock was named 'Sheep', 'Sheep', 'Sheep', 'Sheep' and 'Sheep'.

“You don't give them names?” asked I.

“No sor!” said he, “No point! They be too daft to 'member them for a start, so they wouldn't respond iffn ye call'm, and besides they'll be mutton soon enough.”

Some books of theology I read – such as PRAY! And Grow Rich – make me think some Earth folk treated God the same way.

* * *

“Who stopped?” Oh – back to the present. Moira was staring at me. And so I explain my little revelation and about my reading about the Resource Wars.

“So it's as though they just decided no more changes, we're perfect,” says I winding up.
Moira just looks at me thoughtfully.

“Maybe you're right,” says she, and absently reaches over and tweaks some of my straps. “Maybe I can put that in the book... Yeah! I'll rewrite the foreword!”

And she goes and sits in front of her contraption with the glowing green symbols.

“You write with that?” asks I, “What is it anyway?”

“This? It's a terminal... uh... which I got hooked up to a... a... um...” and she looks really uncertain. “D'you know what a computer is?”

“Nope,” says I.

Her explanation was tortured as she obviously was trying to explain something that was, firstly, so mundane to her she didn't know how to explain it, and secondly, she didn't know how it worked, just how to use it. Then again, I use alchemical gear all the time and I wouldn't know how to make any to save my life.

Earth people dealt a lot in information – files, paperwork, and their libraries when intact would have put even The Imperial Library to shame and made Tar-Meena think she'd died and gone to librarian heaven. So much so, in fact, they created machines to handle all this information in scales and ways unthinkable and impossible to us. And these machines they called computers.

Somewhere in the Wasteland, there was a central 'main frame' which people accessed from various points by means of devices called 'terminals'. At these terminals, you typed your instructions and data on a mess of push-buttons called a 'keyboard', rather like the keyboard of a harpsichord or one of those pianoforte things. And the results were displayed on what the engineers, with great imagination, called the 'display'. However, Moira had another gadget roped up to it she called a 'printer'.

And that was how her book was going to get from her head to paper – as long as there was paper to put through it – and as long as Haines didn't get himself killed doing the research.

* * *

Speaking of research, Ernie returned stained, spattered, toting a heavy metal metal box, and annoyed late the following morning. I know this because I heard my shack door bang open and his voice calling for me.

“I'm here, damnit,” I groaned, hauling the old carcass out of bed and lurching over to the railing, “What took you so long?”

The good Doctor Haines just scowled at me and waved the magic rat-scaring stick, which looked big enough to be called the Staff of Moira. So I will.

“Moira's precious repellent doesn't work,” he said disgustedly, “and then there were raiders.”

So I follow him over to where Moira's opening up for business.

“Oh, hey Doc!” Moira looked cheerful. “How's that repellent working?”

“Well,” Haines began carefully, putting his box on the counter, “The first three mole rats I encountered, the repellent didn't really drive them off, but their brains exploded.”

“Their brains... exploded.” Moira stared at him as though she thought he was mad.

“Just like I said,” says he, “I'd strike them, but they still attacked. On the second strike, what looked like mixed blood and brain matter was expelled through the ears, nose, mouth, and to a lesser extent the eyes.

“I had to suspend testing due to there being a raider base within the Tepid Sewer location. Once that was dealt with, I located another seven mole rats and, ah, resumed testing.”

He had a rummage in his increasingly leaky metal box and extracted a head that I assumed was off a mole rat. Now, imagine a regular rat's head. Double its size. Remove all the hair and add heaps of jowls, dewlaps and wrinkles. Squash the muzzle in and make the front teeth twice the size and three times as long. Paint the whole thing a burnt shade of pink. Congratulations! You've got no idea of just how hideous a mole rat is.

“As you can see,” Haines pointed out, “aerated blood and clumps of otherwise liquefied brain matter can be observed emerging from the ear and nasal canals, as well as leaking out around the eyeballs, causing the protrusion in this example, and also from the tear ducts, which suggests matter flooded into the sinus cavities.”

He poked one of the rivulets of pitted brown-grey ooze, which made a horrid crunching sound and – oh gods, I wish I could describe the smell!

“The repellent chemical seems to penetrate the skin with minor surface burning and swelling, and enters the bloodstream, thus arriving in the brain. Contact with brain material results in a violent chemical reaction producing gaseous sulphur compounds including hydrogen sulphide. The expansion of the gas results in the rupture of the dura mater and expulsion of partially aerosolised material–”

Moira finally found her voice. “AlrightwegedditnowputthatfuckinthingAWAY!” she gagged before clapping her hand back over her mouth. The new guy acting as store guard looked as green as she did – and I felt.

“But I'm not finished,” Haines protested, “I mean, if you look in the mouth–”

The guard bolted out the door.

“–you can see how the brain matter–”

Moira joined him faster than a Cheydinhal horse.

“–has flooded the nasal cavity–”

And I joined the other two puking over the side.

“–and also the... pharynx,” Haines finished rather plaintively from inside.

We ignored him and continued leaning over the rail until our stomachs decided it was safe to resume their posts. Inside the store, Haines grumbled and there was this disgusting splot, probably him dropping the head back in the box.

He then emerged from the store with his box under one arm. “One more thing,” he added, “the repellent does not seem to affect the meat. I speak from experience when I say that cutlets from the, ah, test subjects were quite nutritious.”

“Uh.” Moira's colour was probably still around her knees and rising. “Well, we don't... really need the... the head... I... reckon that's a dead end. Uh, research-wise.”

“Are you sure?” Haines was looking at her without actually looking at her. “I think this sort of Scientific research may be a great opportunity for taming the local wildlife.”

“No! I mean, I just wanted to drive them off or herd them, not kill them! If they could be domesticated...” and she trails off looking at where the box is dripping from under his arm and bolts inside, then came back out with an armful of chems – the Earth equivalent of potions.

“Look, keep the repellent stick, and take these for your trouble,” says she quickly, “they're left over from working on the repellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta store to run...”

And back in she vanishes, followed by the guard, who looked at us.

“Might be an idea to let her cool off for a bit,” says he.

“That's a good idea, actually,” says Haines to nobody in particular, then he looks at me.

“Ra'jirra, I'm off to meet Three Dog. Are you up to joining me?”

“That rat head isn't coming with us is it?”