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]

[Finally! Writer's block broken. I'd actually done the racing-through-quests thing here, and I couldn't figure out how to explain why Haines would want to shoot off so soon after injuring himself. Then inspiration struck out, before hitting for six...]

27 August 2277: Magicka, Mirelurks and Madness

I awoke to the sound of Haines doing things to his weapons on a bench across the basement. Seeing as I wasn't interested in moving just then I simply looked around.

Beside me bed was a wall-mounted 'safe', a sort of fortified cupboard. A peculiar cabinet adorned with glass bands wrapping about the sides and over the semi-circular top. Three metal cupboards, then in the corner some sort of stand. Then another of the 'fridge' cupboards, but this one painted with a picture of a bottle in red and gold. Next to Haines, a table supported one of the terminals and what looked like alchemical gear.

“You're up then,” says he, “Let's see what Moira has in store for us.”

One unpleasant breakfast later and we start walking south towards Megaton, through the ruins of a town Haines identified as Springvale. Further confirmation came from a red board outside what used to be a school. “I stay away from it,” says Haines, “raiders.”

We walk on down the crumbled road between blackened skeletons of buildings. “Something's eating you,” says I at last, “what?”

Haines just ignores me and walks towards some sort of sheltered bench and sits down.

“Before...” he begins slowly, “you told me I was some sort of... champion.”

“Probably,” says I.

“And you spoke of being tricked into coming here,” says he.

“Read my lips,” says I, then once he's looking I say: “Curious crows caress cows crunching cabbages.”

And his forehead furrows. “Say that again?”

So I do.

“Translation... magic, right?”

“Right. We didn't know until that raider bungled through. Zenithar for some reason wanted us to understand you people, and then there's the fact that that girl managed to escape her bonds and four armed men. If that doesn't mean Divine intervention I'll eat my helm.”

“But what does it mean?” Haines pulled off his helm and ran his fingers through what little hair he had, ruining his combover. “You make it sound like we're in some sort of battle for humanity's survival!”

“Could be,” says I. “I think there's people who want to wind the clock back to before the war. But you can't.” No more than I could save Emperor Uriel. Or Martin.

“I suppose you're right there,” says he, “but what about rebuilding?”

“That's learning from your mistakes,” says I, “not trying to undo history. I'm a bit of a scholar in my spare time – and I've been going through history books recently. One guy, Likao, wrote it best: All roads back to 'the golden age' lead through a slaughterhouse.”

And we digest that in silence.

“I'd like to finish off Moira's guide before I find father,” Haines says at last, “I want a success to show him.”

So that's it. Evidently he must have been a disappointment when he was younger.

“Can I be honest?” About time. “Guess how old I am.”

Huh? “When we met, I'd have pegged you at around late thirties,” says I at last.

“Nineteen.”

“Don't joke, Haines!”

“I wasn't,” says he grimly. “I'm nineteen now and I'll be twenty on the fifteenth of November. I lost my hair because I made a mistake in my hair dye formula.”

“Hair dye.”

“Hair dye,” Haines replied grimly. “And that was a year ago.”

We walk to Megaton. There's more to Haines and his dad than a hair dye gone wrong, I'm sure of it. But now when I look at Haines I see not an arrogant snot, but a genuinely lost young man trying to prove himself to his father.

Wellaway, that's what I'd help him to do!

As if I had a choice.

-o-o-o-o-

“You know, I think I've found a new way to prepare Radroach meat,” Moira was saying as we entered, musing over something hideous on a plate. “Still tastes like old feet, though.” Eugh. “Anyway, what's up with you?” She looked up and blinked.

“Ah, Moira,” Haines said breezily, “What's next for the Guide?”

“Okay!” And her eyes twinkled. “Now, I've written up your information about the mole rats, so that leaves information on mirelurks and how to handle being injured.”

“What is a mirelurk?” asks I, “I know we saw one glomp that rat head, but I didn't see all that much.”

“Hope it got tummy ache,” Moira muttered, then spoke up. “You want to do that? Knowing more about them can help people learn to avoid, or even outsmart them. They're vicious in a fight, or so I'm told, but there's more to them than attacking anything that approaches. Like, what do they do in their nests when they're alone? How're their societies set up? That kind of thing.”

And she puts this round thing on the counter with little whiskery bits sticking out.

“So I picked up this observer device to study them in their natural habitat. I need you to hide one in one of the spawning pods in their lairs.”

“Sounds fair,” says I, “got any place in mind?”

“I recommend the nest at the Anchorage War Memorial. I knew a trader who talked about the Mirelurks down there. Just go inside and find one of their spawning pods, probably down near the water. Put this observer inside, and get out quietly.”

“And not get seen,” is my intelligent surmise.

“Exactly! If they do, they'll attack, and if you kill any Mirelurks inside their nest, it could ruin the validity of the study!”

“All right then,” says Haines, “Ra'jirra can go play with the mirelurks and I'll help you with the injury part.”

“What?” is my intelligent response.

“You know where the memorial is,” says he, “and there's a door over the far side, facing the Tepid Sewers. I... looked inside when hunting mole rats –”

Picked the lock, eh? I can tell these things. No doubt a skill his dad disapproves of.

“– and there were mirelurks in there, and I think spawning pods too. Just sneak in and out.”

“All right,” says I, and to be honest I realised that Haines and I needed time apart again. Also I wanted another look at the memorial.

I also had a loaded die in my sleeve, to go with the observer device now in my hand.

“Oh, and Ra'jirra?”

“Yes, Moira?”

“If the worst comes to the worst, come back here with some serious injuries, maybe a crippled limb or two, and I'll take notes and fix you up!”

And Haines and I stare at her, but she's cheerfully oblivious.

“I'll be waiting here with plenty of bandages for you. So don't worry, and just go get horribly injured. Oh, and be careful!”

And Haines and I stare at each other before I split.

-o-o-o-o-

Moira was like Carandial: bit between the teeth. At the same time there was no way I was going to let a mirelurk bash me up just so a loony shopkeeper could write a book. If Haines was right about that door, I wouldn't get hurt anyway.

“At least I'm not crawling underground today,” says I to myself crossing the bridge to the memorial. Up top, I stopped to peer at a ruined plaque, but couldn't figure it out. I'd just have to ask someone.

Over the eastern side, there was the door as described by Haines. And as I'd suspected, his key was in two parts – I could see the scratches on the locks. I dug into my pockets and extracted the Stealth Boy I'd filched from the Museum of Technology, strapped it on and fired it up. Then I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, opened the Eye of Night and entered.

Inside was a gloomy, damp tunnel that led past sandbag fortifications to a junction, but my eyes were on the monstrosity mooching further down. It looked like a walking mudcrab, complete with waggling mouthparts emerging from a hole in its shell where I assumed its face was.

I crept, looking for anything that might be a spawning pod. I'd eaten mudcrab roe before, but these might be different. I had a horrid vision of slitting open a giant egg and being swarmed by a horde of little nippers.

The mirelurk – must have been – wandered left. I scuttled right.

Beside a grisly pile of refuse sat a pile of what looked like eggs. I fished out the observation device by feel and carefully probed the things. They didn't burst, which made me relax, and they didn't seem loaded with miniature mirelurks. Evidently this would be a fine spawning pod for Moira's purposes. The sounds of approaching steps made me reconsider – this would definitely be a fine pod for Moira's purposes!

The pod was affixed to the ground by a squishy mass; I carefully prised two eggs apart, pressed the observation pod into position between them, then let go. The eggs hid the pod nicely.

I turned and froze. The mirelurk was standing dead centre of the tunnel, mouthparts waggling like mad. Carefully I stepped to the side – there was a light fitting still working, and I wasn't completely invisible. As fast as I dared, I shuffled sideways past the oblivious crab-thing close enough to touch its odoriferous shell. It stank of foul water and rotten meat.

The damned thing turned around as though watching me. I froze. It turned away. I resumed my crabwise flight, freezing again as it creaked in a suspicious fashion, or maybe it was just its now-raised claws. They looked like the beast had two Vvardenfell mudcrabs attached to its arms.

The creature turned and took two steps towards me as I made the corner, faced forward and fled.

I didn't breathe easy until I was outside in the blinding – idiot, close the Eye! – sun, on top of the memorial. Chugging the only drink I had – one of those Nuka-Colas – I looked around.

The Anchorage memorial was on a small, and apparently artificial, island on the northern bank of the river. A yellowish stone bridge had partially collapsed to the east, and beyond there was a faint suggestion of some immense building. Mind you, the builders of Washington seemed to like immense, but there was something about that shadow on the horizon that was different.

The river was flanked by roads, which made sense, and I wondered what it would have looked like when there were automobiles and boats thronging the place. Or maybe they only allowed... oh never mind. Like I said to Haines, what's done is done.

There was, closer to me, a hole in the mortared expanse where I sat; I went and peered in. Stairs and a door. Curiosity near killed the Khajiit, but not today. Instead I found a corpse with a note.

Which was nothing compared to what I found when I returned to Megaton that afternoon.

-o-o-o-o-

There was a throng outside Moira's again. The fact I wasn't the reason was disturbing.

Then Lucas Simms emerged from the crowd, saw me and started down the ramp over the clinic. What the hells?

“Ra'jirra,” says he once he approaches, “I don't think it's a good time to go see Moira.”

“Why?” says I, “what's Haines done?”

“He fell over the railing,” he says grimly. “Moira grabbed him and she's trying to patch him up now.”

“What!” That railing was over twenty feet above the ground! Simms was saying something but I didn't hear it. I was up the railing and barging through the crowd and hammering on the door.

“Simms, go away!” Moira's voice was strained and irritable. “I'm busy!”

The door was locked, but I had learned a thing or two in my time, especially from a chap in Cheydinhal. I channelled my anger into the lock and was pleased to hear it pop open. And I fling the door wide and there's Moira with a limping and somewhat resigned-looking Haines behind her.

“What the hells is going on?” is my quite understandable enquiry.

Neither of them replied, but Moira looked a little guilty for some reason.

“Nothing,” says she, “Haines and I were discussing handling injuries, especially crippling ones.”

“So she led me outside and pointed out where some drunk had fallen off the edge and broken his leg,” Haines butts in irritably. “I'm looking down, when, well, I must have... slipped and...” he shrugs, “over I went.”

And I just look at him. “You're taking it very well,” says I.

“Like I told Moira,” says he grimly, “Pain's an abstract. You have to stay focussed on the definable things, like survival.”

“Really? I tend to be like other people. Pain hurts me. Speaking of healing, how's your healing spell coming along?”

“Ah. I hadn't tried that.” He set his face into a mask of concentration and a dubious little silver shine shuffled up his arm.

Moira watched Haines demonstrate his lack of progress, fished out another pair of stimpacks and advanced on him. “How's that?” she asked after skewering his leg at knee and ankle.

“Foul ball,” says he for some reason, “but I can feel them meeting halfway. In fact,” and he stands up and walks around without limping all, “I'd say everything's knit back together just fine.”

“Great,” says she, “and for being a good sport, take this environment suit. It'll help with medical treatment as well as protecting against radiation.” And she hands him a bulky yellowish mass of wrinkly fabric with a built-in helm.

“Very good,” says Haines looking doubtfully at several strips of silvery stuff stuck to one elbow, “anyway, Ra'jirra, how did you find the mirelurks?”

“I went to the Anchorage Memorial and there they were.” I wait for Haines to finish rolling his eyes. “Oh – I found this note. Would you believe people were trying to farm them?”

“Really?” Moira perked right up – bit between the teeth, or did I already say that? “So, are they intelligent? Did they revolt or something? Do they have a leader? Some sort of king? Or priests? Or some sort of scaly community centre?”

“Scaly...” Moira's bouncing on her feet. Unbelievable. “More like a crab's shell. That's what they look like to me – like giant mudcrabs.”

“Scylla serrata horrendus,” intones Haines.

“What?” is my intelligent response.

“You're probably right about their ancestors being crabs,” says he, “I'd name them scylla serrata horrendus.”

“That is so intelligent sounding!” Moira's eyes sparkled while Haines suppressed a groan. “I'll just get you to spell that for the book, and then I'll write it up with all the data I'm getting from the module. Great work, Ra'jirra!”

“Did you turn yourself invisible?” Haines asked with a faint smirk.

“I like Stealth Boys,” says I. And I do.

“Well, if you like them, you'll love what's next on the list!” And she fishes out another piece of machinery, this one a squarish box with all sorts of cords and things hanging off it.

“Old technology again?” Haines' enthusiasm sounded forced. “Sounds interesting.”

“It does, doesn't it?” Moira didn't notice, waggling her prize. “I mostly just deal with it after it's junked. But a trader gave me this RobCo processor widget. He said it's worth a fortune!”

And I look at this boxy chunk of machine guts and remember a heavily guarded helm. It wasn't what the thing was but what it did.

“According to him, if it's connected to the mainframe in the RobCo factory, you could have access to all the robots you'd ever want! Now that would be a great example of how to harness technology, wouldn't it?”

“Just plug it in and go? We can do that, can't we Ra'jirra?”

“I suppose,” says I still peering at the thing, “Haines can stop me sticking it in upside down.”

“Yeah, you should just be able to plug it into the mainframe at the RobCo production facility,” and my feeble jest went over her head and splat on the wall. “It'll give you access to the robots and terminals. And be sure to keep an eye peeled for any other examples of how to make old technology work for you out there!”

“Of course,” Haines said too cheerfully as he took the thing, “In fact, we'll set off right away.”

I didn't have time for an intelligent response before Haines was hustling me out of the shop, out of town, and didn't stop babbling about robots and such until we were attacked by mole rats a hundred feet south of Megaton.

“Haines,” I asked as politely as you can when butchering soggy-looking giant rats, “just what the hells is going on? You just broke your damn leg in an accident and now you're hauling me off to mess with robots!”

“It wasn't an accident,” Haines said quietly over his rat.

“Come again?” was my intelligent response.

“It wasn't an accident, she pushed me.”

And I stand there catching flies. Well, as it turned out, a fly – one of those immense bloatflies that always look like they're drowning.

“Can we get on?” Haines asked after it was swatted, “I'd like to get the hell away from that mad criso.”

After about two seconds' consideration I decided not to teach Moira any magic. She was dangerous enough without it.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Feb 4 2011, 08:18 AM