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.

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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]

[And the second half cometh. I've been sweating over how to describe the radio interview with Three Dog - after all, Ra'jirra alone is fascinating enough - and then there's the fact that in-game I didn't visit Rivet City for another five days. The more I think about it, the more complex Ernie's relationship to Dad becomes...]

After a long tense wait, we crept through the doors into the West Wing. We were on a balcony, overlooking another flying machine, this one made of metal and more sophisticated than the Wright Flyer. Immediately off to my left, what turned out to be another flying machine, this one not only driven forward by its engines, as I would later learn, but directly held aloft by them.

Right in front of us were two sets of great footprints, leading off leftward to a shattered pair of doors. We looked at each other, then moved right, heading down a flight of stairs.

The chamber was split in two by rubble. Evidently there had been a wall of some kind erected, but now it had collapsed. Beyond it, a bulbous object with a porthole rose overhead.

“That's the Virgo II,” Haines whispered, “so we go this way.”

This way led to a circular chamber with a domed ceiling. A ramp led downwards to meet two others in the middle, where a small plinth held a dumbbell-shaped object that looked as though it could be moved. Between the ramps, terraced levels, which no doubt once held seats, made stairs for giants. Across from us at the top of the seating an ornate-looking thing like an altar presided.

“Is that some sort of orrery?” The whole edifice wasn't as grand as the Arcane University's, but its shape and design rang a bell.

“It's the planetarium,” Haines was looking annoyed, “It, ah, displays the night sky, stars, planets, like that.”

“Fine,” says I, “it's an orrery then.”

“No, a planetarium. As in, educating people about the stars and planets. Not about, oh, magical forces or whatever.”

“Watch it Haines,” says I, “I was born under the Steed, which is why I'm so fast on my feet. And since it displays the night sky on demand, and I bet also allows you to turn and twist it at your pleasure, it's a frigging fancy orrery.”

And he gurgles incoherently at that until a voice disrupted proceedings.

“For as LONG as History has been reCORDed,” the voice intoned bombastically, “Man has had an inSATiable hunger for knowledge regarding the Universe!”

And we freeze. Behind us, a door squeals open. Somehow we'd set off the orrery machinery!

“Up there!” Haines hissed, pointing to the altar thing. I don't hesitate, I'm away bolting for cover. Turns out the altar is the control system for the orrery – and it's broken.

“To understand why Man is so INterested in this unknown expanse of Space around our world –”

Right now we were more INterested in the known threat lumbering its way downstairs. Make that both of them. Thank you very much, oh long-dead and overcooked announcer.

“– We must take a journey.”

Haines is lagging behind laying mines before taking a journey at speed to where I'm crouched behind the control panel. The central contraption has spun into life as the lights dim, projecting star patterns. More interesting is the pattern of light and shadow where we entered. It looks like two super mutants, or one super mutant with two heads.

“Please! Sit back, relax –”

Oh dear. Walking on a landmine can't be all that relaxing.

“– and free yourself –”

Another almighty bang and the front mutant bled out from what was left of his groin after his hip gave way.

“– from the BONDS of our planet –”

His off-sider screamed angrily and levelled an assault rifle our way. Worse, this one deliberately stepped over his mate's corpse, skipping the remaining mines completely.

“– as we take off for the s-stars –” the recording crackled, then stuttered, then fell as flat as we did. Rifle rounds whizzed overhead and gouged walls, the controls, and the star-flecked ceiling.

I jumped up and flung Firestarter at the beast, which I noted was wearing what looked like a helm that had been split open in order to fit that fat green bonce. Again, the monster gaped at the approaching fireball – but this time it jumped to one side.

A smart super mutant. Wonderful.

Haines was scampering away, his laser pistol out and stabbing into its bulk with a smell of cooked flesh. I got the idea at once and headed the other way, grasping the lightning and sending it into the mutant's chest, before clawing my little pistol out of its holster and sending several shots anywhere near it.

And that was pretty much the fight. After the creature finally gave up the ghost – not literally, I didn't have any soul gems – Haines holstered his gun and stalked over to me.

“Would you mind, next time,” spits he, “considering actually, oh, aiming at the enemy?”

“Whoops,” says I, “Sorry about that.”

Haines used a selection of rude words, but he was concerned about my apparent lack of competence regarding firearms, since it appeared that it not only affected my aim but also the efficacy and safety of pincer manoeuvres, and perhaps I should consider a little target practice after we finished our business?

I got a bit tired after the second chorus and laid Convalescence on him. “There, I healed it,” says I, “better?”

Haines just looked at the new tissue where one of my bullets had clipped his arm. Then he remembered where we were and closed his jaws. “Well,” says he stiffly, “I accept your apology.”

And he turns and stalks down to the corpses and starts stripping them.

“This one with the assault rifle,” says he, “I swear it's bigger than most of the super mutants we've seen before.” He was right. This one was a foot taller and even more overstuffed than normal – and the standard super mutant looks like it's fit to burst.

“D'you think that giant outside GNR Plaza was once one of these?” asks I pointing at the body.

And Haines looks at me with wide eyes. “You mean these could keep growing until...” he shudders. “God, I hope not.” And he picks himself up and advances on a door.

That was locked, but the other one wasn't. Inside that was a small office featuring a number of nice things including a terminal that unlocked door number one, and a luminous blue bottle.

“Nuka-Cola Quantum!” Haines snatched the potion and gazed at it. “It was all-new just before the war.” And he packs it away, adding, “Get a pretty cap for it, I'll bet.”

Through the unlocked door we found ourselves in a small corridor that no doubt led straight to Virgo II. Unfortunately it also led to the source of super mutant noises. Haines tried a side door and the two of us crept into an upstairs room full of machines.

I peered out the windows, which were made of glass somehow formed around metal mesh. It was amazing how the Earth folk managed to create such huge flat panes of glass. Haines meanwhile was fussing with another terminal until the turrets beyond spun into life.

“That'll fix 'em,” Haines said happily over the gunfire, just before two loud bangs stopped play.

“That was too easy!” grated a voice.

Haines used yet another rude word and carefully reloaded.

I kicked open the door and beheld the ungainly structure that was the Virgo II. Hard to believe men landed on the moon in that. “Hey fetcher!” I yelled at a startled super mutant before hitting him with Spark and running.

Gunfire parted my mane as I ducked back into the orrery room, followed by two bangs, then a third, which did for mutant number the first. Then mutant the second charged in, limping slightly but still grasping its rifle – but Haines was waiting for it. The first shot made it flinch, the second made it howl and clutch at its face as blood spewed from an eye socket, then I ducked in and smashed its gun hand with my mace. The beast howled again and backhanded me, but the delay was enough for Haines to run forward and jam a hunting rifle in its ear. When that thing went off, it probably sent the mutant's eardrum clean out the other side.

“You all right?” Haines asked.

“Am I lying down?”

“Yes...?”

“Well, in that case I'm all right, since those stars I'm seeing are from the orrery.”

“It's a planetarium!”

* * *

“I thought it went quite well,” I said into the stony silence.

After unplugging the relay unit from the machine that, according to Haines, had not only brought two men to the surface of the moon, but delivered them home again, there had been a refreshing scuttle to the crumbling Washington Monument, like most buildings a crumbling stone facade on a steel framework. Then an exciting 'elevator' ride to the top followed by the anticlimactic replacement procedure, followed by an afternoon slog underground back to scenic GNR Plaza and a very excited Three Dog.

Sure, Three Dog had quizzed Ernie on 'just what it's like down in one of those Vaults', and the result was a magnificently boring spiel of almost carefree childhood followed by a routine of work – which ended bitterly with his father's vanishing act.

“Dad,” said he carefully, “If you can hear me... please get in touch. You, uh, we need to talk Dad. Urgently.”

“Seconded,” Three Dog said solemnly. “Folks, if you see James out there, give us a shout. GNR is gonna reunite father and son... with your help.”

Haines just looks at him. Three Dog promised to tell where his father went – but first this interview. Three Dog might act slap-happy but that hid one manipulative swine.

“Arch-Mage Ra'jirra,” Three Dog turned to me, “I know you've explained this already, but I just don't get it. You seriously got here by... magic?”

“Oh God,” Haines buries his face in his hand.

“Certainly did,” says I, “And here's a demonstration,” and I stand up and haul Mister Bones out of the Aurbis.

“Holy –” Three Dog gaped at Mister Bones who glared back with a what-the-hells-are-you-gaping-at pose. I pointed at the microphone and Three Dog regained his voice.

“Ch- children – oh man – you, are... you're not, g-gonna, believe this. Ra'jirra just... stood up, and made this skeleton – which is standing on its own – appear outa nothin'! Folks... I am in awe. I thought Paladin Lyons was pullin' my leg or had a bang on the noggin when she told me Ra'jirra here fired some kinda magic beam into a super mutant... nope.”

Haines was smiling thinly, enjoying Three Dog's discomfort. I took pity on him and sent Mister Bones away.

“Now you see it... now y' don't.” Three Dog stared at me as I pulled up the pew again. “Ra'jirra, just what the hell are you doing here?”

I took a breath. “I'm here because of an experimental transport spell, which went very wrong. Instead of opening outside the laboratory, it opened up in a building west of here.” No need to speak of gods and fates. Part of being Arch-Mage is knowing when to spill the beans and when to keep them in the jar.

“A raider came through and, well, raised havoc. We captured her, but she escaped, killing one of our more promising mages as she did so and stealing Mage's Guild property. I was chasing her, and the portal... failed before I could go home.”

“Whoa.” Three Dog was well out of his league here, I could tell. “Just for the record, what sort of stuff are we talkin' here?”

“A mage's staff,” says I, “enchanted to destroy weapons. Not that that's important. What's important is that if anyone runs into any other mages, tell 'em I'm based in Megaton.” And then inspiration strikes. “And tell 'em to stay tuned to Three Dog and GNR Radio.”

Haines is looking at me like I just crawled out of the privy, but stuff him.

“Damn straight!” Three Dog gives me a thumbs-up and leans into the mike. “So children, if you see any other freaky dude waving wands or swords or whatever, they're probably lookin' for Ra'jirra here. Send 'em to Megaton. Better still, stay tuned, keep up with the news, and tell 'em where Doctor Haines and...”

“Arch-Mage...”

“Arch-Mage Ra'jirra have got to. They might catch up to 'em coming back... or be in time to lend a hand.”

* * *

But that was hours ago, and we were now in Haines' house, sitting on his couch, he with a Nuka-Cola and I with a bottle of red wine. I'm not proud of it, I felt that a little relaxant was needed. And to fill the chilly silence I got up and flicked on the radio.

“...about America. All they care about is fulfilling their own selfish desires,” said a patrician voice, “Let's take a tally of these agitators, shall we?”


“That damn thing only receives Enclave radio,” Haines said irritably.

“...the Raiders. Those anarchistic ruffians who roam the wastes, preying on any and all, stealing, murdering. Beasts.”

And both Haines and I agree with the speaker.

“The so-called 'Brotherhood of Steel.' Don't be fooled by their pseudo-knightly nonsense or supposed connections to the United States Army! These power-armoured boy scouts are nothing more than common criminals with access to some antiquated technology. Criminals who have had the audacity to claim this country's most important military installation, the Pentagon, as their own personal clubhouse!”

And we look at each other.

John Henry Eden (as the speaker turned out to be) went on about the slavers at a place called Paradise Falls, before dropping a brick on us.

“But there is another issue. We have received information, albeit unconfirmed, that we have a foreign dignitary in our midst. I am of course referring to Ra'jirra, the Arch-Mage.”

And we look at each other again. Evidently this bloke's radio picked up more than one signal.

“This man can rest assured that the Enclave are ready and willing to do what we can to ensure his safety, and are willing to enter into talks with Cyril-dill to ensure mutual understanding and goodwill,” and other insincere prattle followed before a brass band launched into a military tune – prior to Haines leaping up and switching the radio off.

“I hope you're not taking that seriously,” says he.

“Not after what Three Dog said,” says I. Three Dog had been quite blunt; his precious Good Fight was apparently against the Enclave and what they represented. My parents came east from the New California Republic... I heard the Enclave wanted to just wipe everyone out... Now they're set up here with their brahmin and they're feeding us the bull.

“What about your friends?”

That was what worried me. I'd been dumped here without knowledge of the political landscape. Now my experiences of political landscapes are brown and lumpy, but this was another order of magnitude. And no doubt Laren and friends were trying to poke holes to find me... well, I'd done my bit. The only problem was...

“What if they find your father?”

“Father.” Haines' face was a picture. “We'll have to cross that bridge when we reach it.”

“And when's that? Tomorrow?”

“I don't know.” Haines frowned. “I'll be honest with you: I need to know more about what life is like out here. Besides...”

What's he being evasive for? We knew where he went. A place called Rivet City. Haines knows where it is, it's marked on that Pip-Boy, so what's the hold-up?

“The hold-up?” Oh damn! Spoke aloud. “The hold-up is: I don't know enough yet. I'd like to make sure my work with Moira's done before devoting myself to finding father.”

“Spoken like a true mage,” says I in as neutral a tone as I can manage.

Haines just looks at me. “I can't put anything past you can I?”

“Nope.”

And he sighs. “You're right. I mean... Dad's probably okay, safe in whatever Rivet City is. And someone's bound to tell him about... if he wasn't listening... maybe I should just... let him come to me.”

There was more to it, but I was feeling tired, not just from the wine, but from being up for the better part of two days. The two of us made our excuses and Haines showed me the trapdoor in the kitchen to a basement where there was some scientific gear and most importantly a bed.

I'd watched his face as he pleaded 'on air', as they say. He was nervous, but not just from being heard by an unseen crowd.

I pondered why a son should fear his father so as I drifted off to sleep.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Jan 13 2011, 08:05 AM