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.

______________________________

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.

_______________________________

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]

[This next chapter ballooned in a way I hadn't expected. As such, I'm hiving this 3000+ word piece into its own chapter, since there's a couple very emotional incidents. Kudos if you get the reference.]

25 August 2277: Blowups Happen

“Now that's what I call an entrance!” The voice was familiar, a boisterous growl that came from the Redguard man hanging over the balcony rail. “Glad you guys could make it!”

“Glad to see you too Three Dog,” the warriors' leader called back, “but we had these two tag along.” Her thumb jab said quite clearly that she wished we hadn't.

“Those two...?” he peered at us through the ever-present dust and smoke. “Hey – is that Doc Haines in that mask down there?”

And Ernie pulls his helm off and I catch it before it hits the floor. “I certainly am,” says he arrogantly, “and I'm told–”

“Well hot damn! The saviour of Megaton himself heeds my call!” Ernie looks about to object, but Three Dog charges on, “Well c'mon up to the studio Doc, and bring your friend! We got a lot to talk about!”

And then I'm chasing Haines as he charges up the stairs hard on Three Dog's trail.

Three Dog's footprints led us into a large room festooned with machinery of all kinds, desks, tools and a humming smell like shock magics. Despite his waiting for us at the top of the central stairs, his voice came from elsewhere, enthusiastic as ever:

“The boys and girls of the Brotherhood of Steel continue to fight the Good Fight, folks. They've recently stepped up patrols in the downtown DC ruins...”

And I look surprised and Haines smirks at me thinly. “The wonders of Science,” says he, “in particular, the wonders of sound recording, but never mind that now.”

I think that made it two-all now Or did Haines doing magic make it three-two to him? And why was he all fidgety?

“Hey, it saves my lovely voice,” Three Dog agrees, “especially since as soon as repairs are completed, I wanna interview you... two.”

He's staring at me, especially my tail. “I'm sort of lost,” says I.

“That's Ra'jirra,” Haines adds shortly, shifting from foot to foot like there's a slaughterfish in his pants, “he's a Khajiit from Cyrodiil. Now about...”

“Woah,” Three Dog is still goggling at me, “this is gonna be... interesting.”

“Well, interesting or not,” Haines finally bursts, “I've been told you spoke with my father and I've spent three futting days grovelling through metro tunnels to get here now where is he!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Three Dog raised his hands and gave Ernie a look. “Smoke a peace pipe. Take a deep breath and count to ten. Whatever it is you need to do to calm down. You need Three Dog's help, and Three Dog needs your help. Let's get together and make it work.”

Haines was actually shaking so I step in fast.

“He's got a point, Doctor,” says I, “I think this man needs some proof you're trustworthy.” I cocked an ear. “Especially regarding this 'Good Fight' you're talking about in the background. Last time I heard that phrase, the Black Horse Courier was using it during the Oblivion Crisis.”

“You're one smart cat, y'know that?” Three Dog smiled at me behind his spectacles. “Sounds like you've fought a Good Fight of your own, so you know what's at stake. I got a problem I can't fix on my own, and, well–”

“I don't give a fut about your goddamn futting bullmerd!” Haines suddenly screamed and I had to pull him away from a startled Three Dog, face red and gods help us he was starting to cry! “You're blackmailing me!”

There were startled voices and clanking footsteps as Brotherhood soldiers entered the room.

Well, there was only one thing I could do wasn't there? I fetched him one across the face. Claws sheathed of course, but it took some control.

“Pull yourself together you fool!” snarls I into what now resembles a startled plum, “You're a man of Science, not a baby!”

“B-but I'm... I'm so c-close...” Lovely, he was whimpering.

“Three Dog,” asks I over my shoulder, “is there a cot or something he can blub his eyes out on?”

“Uh... through there,” points he and I deposit the shaking Haines on a much-abused mattress before returning to Three Dog.

“Sorry about that,” says I to not only Three Dog but the two soldiers giving us the puzzled eye, “but I know he's got some really pointy questions for his dad, so he's obviously wound up.”

“I can see that,” Three Dog shrugs, “but the Good Fight is bigger than him, his dad, or any of us. I'll do whatever it takes to keep the Capital Wasteland free.” And his face goes stony. “Whatever. It. Takes.”

“Do you want us to keep an eye on, uh, that guy?” one of the soldiers asks.

“Naw man,” Three Dog replies, “He's kinda upset or somethin'.”

And the soldiers nod and return to their posts.

“Hopefully I'll be found soon and I can get away from that idiot,” says I disgustedly, “I wasn't meant to come here but a spell went wrong.”

“You mean like a magic spell?” Three Dog looked confused. “Listen, I really need to ask you some questions, but until we come to some agreement there's no point.”

I remembered Gob and his radio.

“Like fixing your signal?” Somewhere Zenithar applauded. “In Megaton, someone said your signal's been merd lately.”

“Yeah, it's merd, and I'll tell you why.” Three Dog's face softened. “Galaxy News Radio is my baby. I love it, I feed it, I keep it changed. But there's one problem: no one outside D.C. can hear her cry. You see, some brainless Super Mutant thought it would be funny to shoot at the shiny round thing on the Washington Monument.”

“And you need someone to find a replacement.”

Three Dog beams! “Man O man, are you the cool cat! Yep! That shiny thing was our broadcast relay.” And his face falls. “Now it's swiss cheese. Without it, our broadcast range is... politely speakin', quite limited.”

“Not that limited surely?” says I, “there was a radio out near the Super-Duper Mart picking you up. In fact, yours was the first voice we heard through the portal before...” I trail off.

“I was?” He looks surprised and pleased. “Well, I've been told that's close to the edge of our range right now. With that relay in place, you'll be able to hear me all over the Capital Wasteland – instead of those Enclave cullyholes. More to the point,” and he leans towards me, “when your rescuers show up, wherever they show up, they'll be able to take a tip from ol' Three Dog about your whereabouts.” And he winks.

Assuming their portal opened up near a radio tuned to GNR of course. But a slim chance is better than none...

“Right then,” says I, “Where can we find one? Sooner we know, the sooner we get you up and running.”

“Oh all right!” Haines emerged from the bedroom where he'd been ear-farming. He still looked terrible, but at least he was resigned rather than hysterical. “Let's do this. After all, you need knowledge of Science to fix relays.” He gives me a meaningful look. “Somehow I doubt your magic will work.”

Three Dog looked a bit puzzled at us, then decided not to worry just now.

“OK then!” and he rubs his hands together. “My relay was the same kind they used on the Virgo II lunar lander when it went to the moon, and a little Brotherhood birdie saw said space vee-hickle over in the Museum of Technology. Go take that dish to the Washington Monument and plug it in, and come back and see me. I'll be brushing up on my interview skills. And you'll be going out live on air!”

“The Virgo II?” Haines actually perked up. “Well now! We'd better be off! Come on Ra'jirra! You're about to see what Science can do!”

Three Dog and I exchanged worried looks as Haines charged towards the door.

* * *

Haines had me worried. He'd made it clear before on my first night here that he held a grudge against his father for abandoning him, but that disgraceful exhibition in front of Three Dog suggested something else. He'd been increasingly manic as we approached GNR, recklessly endangering my life, then once inside he went off the deep end, hit bottom about the time I hit him, and now he was manic again.

If we did find his dad, I'd be ready to prise the two apart. I honestly wasn't sure if Haines, to use a crudity of Zul gro-Radagash's, would kiss'm or kill'm.

I don't remember much of our descent into those damnable metro tunnels again – I did note that Haines immediately went all business though as we entered unknown territories. There was a raider camp, which quickly became their necropolis, then Ernie gave a glad cry as he extracted a limp thin booklet from a corpse.
“Grognak!” cries he happily, “a Grognak number eleven!”

“What the hells is a Grognak number eleven?” asks I irritably, as Ernie switches on his Pip-Boy light and settles down on one of the bigger blokes to peer through it.

As it happens, Grognak number eleven is a chapter-book in a style called a 'comic': a story told through a sequence of small pictures, adorned with bits of text to show speech, sound, and at times tell you what was going on. Ernie had some copies of Grognak the Barbarian as a child, and fortunately I don't see such books becoming widespread any time soon.

* * *

To give you an idea of the type of story Grognak the Barbarian is, let me describe the cover:

The cover depicts, in pride of place, a dark-haired musclebound Nord (Grognak, no doubt), wearing a fur loincloth and brandishing a ludicrously large battleaxe over his head – perfect for letting his opponent run him through his unprotected torso. And I mean a ridiculously musclebound Nord. His calves are as wide as his head.

Another artist has drawn the foe: some sort of dragon or worm thing, the style of which pays attention to neither perspective nor proportion. In fact it looks like the artist cribbed it out of someone else's book – on gargoyles. The creature is evidently supposed to be rearing erect and threatening to attack.

Cringing behind Grognak the Overblown is a third artist's contribution: a nearly naked woman, evidently liberated not only from clothing (shackles aside), but any limitation of anatomy. Or gravity in the case of the bosom.

Was there a fourth artist? The sketchiness of the dungeon, or mountain range, or whatever it was behind them made it difficult to tell.

The legend on the bottom of the cover read: ESCAPE FROM THE LAIR OF THE VIRGIN EATER!

The story as I could make out followed on from previous editions, like The Argonian Account, and it seemed that the barbarian had entered some sort of temple to rescue a virgin sacrifice, and was now leaving, by dint of unlikely feats of agility, sneaking, and eventually bombastic, implausible and oddly bloodless feats of axemanship against poorly drawn monsters and fanatics in robes.

Then he ended up in dire peril prior to no doubt escaping again in episode number twelve.

And this was considered good entertainment for Earth children, as opposed to the Arena where real people fight real enemies with real skill and tactics, or a public execution, which is also entertaining if slightly less educational.

(I remember well when they finally did something about the Horn Cave Gang and made a public example of them at Bravil. You should have seen my dear little girls squeal and jump when the ringleader's head went rolling towards them... and their faces when I told them they had to give it back. But I digress.)

Actually, reading the thing made me angry. It wasn't the fact it was written and drawn by committee. It wasn't the moronic plot. It was the fighting scenes.

As any child knows, where people are fighting there's bodily fluids – preferably theirs – all over the shop: blood, merd, piss, tears, stomach contents, you name it. Yet in these pages Grognak sailed through bowling baddies without so much as a sweat stain. Maybe his axe was blunt. I asked Haines about it.

“Don't be ridiculous!” exclaimed he, “That sort of thing was banned by the Comics Code Association. It could corrupt children's minds.”

“And near-naked men and women wouldn't? Look Haines, that girl's clothing should have fallen to bits ages ago and the way they're running it'd be flapping about like flags in the breeze. Speaking of flapping,” and I poke a panel where Grognak and the Lady Whatsername are jumping from a ledge, “From that angle her womanhood would be on display for all to see. And I can't see a loincloth under his posing pouch either. But what really pisses me off –” I tap a combat scene. “In reality, that axe should be trailing intestines, maybe a kidney or two, and the floor would be soaked, making footing treacherous. This is rubbish.”

Haines looks murderous, but I keep going. “I'm speaking from experience, Haines. Melee combat – hells, any combat – is messy. And people have privates. And they fut. It's how the race survives. Why in the names of the Nine did your lot pretend otherwise?”

And his mouth flaps like a landed fish and I realise he didn't know. I wouldn't get even a halfpie decent answer for days yet. I wish the missionaries well.

* * *

Now, I made that digression because of what happened next. Haines started screaming at me.

Some of his screaming was about Science versus magic. Some of it was about the populace of Vault 101. A lot of it was about people like Moira and Three Dog and an Overseer of some sort being more or less mean to him.

There was quite a bit about us citizens of the Empire being 'arrogant futting barbarians' which might be right from a pre-war technological standpoint, but currently that was a wee bit moot.

But mostly it was a geyser of therapeutic raging, battering itself to death against the cavernous Metro walls.

And I just stand there and listen as he begins to run down like a broken Dwemer animunculus, sagging back onto his impromptu seat, face puce, breathing hard. Yes, I'd have hit him again if he'd got violent.

“Feel better?” asks I softly.

“No,” comes the sulky reply.

“Fine,” says I with no sympathy whatsoever, “Guess how I feel.”

And he stares at me.

“I'm trapped in a demented futting world where the inhabitants destroyed themselves and can't futting get over it and move on. I'm separated from everybody I love: my parents, my mother-in-law –”

Haines' face twitched but I charged on.

“– My wife, my three children – not to mention all hells could be breaking loose in the Guild and no doubt whatever the fut's going on up Skyrim way is heading south towards my family.” I'm starting to breathe hard too. “Worse, I'm sure I've been deliberately tricked into coming to this merdhole in order to help you and –” finally I managed to express my fear and anger – “Like as not I won't be allowed to go home until your gods-damned futting piece of merd task is done!”

Now Haines was gaping at me and I was the one upset and puffing like a bellows, blasting my frustration to the stony ceiling.

And it felt so good to let it out.

“You belong here,” I managed to continue when I regained my self-control, “I don't. Maybe it's because I was the Champion of the Mage's Guild when it was under threat. Maybe the Nine decided I'd be the perfect mentor for the Champion of Earth.”

“Ch... Champion of Earth?” Haines blinked. “M...”

“You,” says I, sagging to a nearby bench. “It all fits. Your father knows what needs to be done, I guess, he's gone to prepare the way. But he can't do it, so the mantle's fallen on you. So we have to follow him. And finish the quest. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” Haines whispers, then gets up and walks off, murmuring to himself. I just sit there, wipe my eyes and watch as he wrestles with my big reveal.

Haine's and Zul's situations were similar. Haines may have been hounded out of Vault 101, but at least he didn't get jug trumpets like Zul gro-Radagash.

At the same time, Haines had no idea of what awaited outside, or why he had to flee, did he? Zul never found out what the charges were, but at least he knew what Cyrodiil was like outside and (eventually) why he was jugged in the first place.

“Culture shock,” Haines said as he returned to where I sat, “I think we're both suffering from it.” And he smiles, but it's a bit forced.

I just nod.

“I keep underestimating you,” he goes on, “after all, you're a very powerful... man... aren't you?”

“I'm the Arch-Mage. That's top dog in the guild. And I get to be bored to sleep on a regular basis in Imperial Council meetings. Yeah, I'd say I'm –”

And he breaks into song! “'The real tip top – Top Cat!'”

And I stare at him and he just grins and the next thing both of us are laughing fit to bust.

(I discovered a Top Cat Annual later on. Much cleverer and wittier than Grognak. Nicer to look at too. However, I did ask Haines to refrain from singing again.)

* * *

One metro tunnel led to another, and finally we emerged in what Haines told me was The Mall. Imagine a linear version of Green Emperor Way, but with roads on both sides, and the remnants of gardens in the middle. Now all they were were sad sundered masses of earthworks and trenches – and super mutants. Things only looked grimmer in the sunset light, but hopefully it would make it harder for the greenies to see us.

Behind us, a stern stone building wrapped heavy shadow arms around the metro entrance, and a female ghoul looked at us curiously through the smoke from a tobacco roll (Earth people call them cigarettes. I call them disgusting. Zul gro-Radagash calls them 'air sugar'.)

“The Museum of History,” says Haines dismissively, “we need to go further along.”

“Just watch your cloonies,” the ghoul woman grated, “the super muties're real pissed these days. Where you headed?”

She sounded like an Ashlander man in tight pants.

“The Museum of Technology,” says Haines, “why?”

“I've seen the big futters goin' in an' outa there a time or two, that's why. Like I said, watch your cloonies.”

And we look at each other. “Wonderful,” chorus we.