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]

[And we continue. Now I have to get the lads to Rivet City in two pieces - one each.]
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Library pt II

There are things you don't expect to happen in a library and having weapons stuck up your nose by blokes in heavy armour is one of them.

“Hold it right there...” one armoured dork started off, then got a decent look at me. Furry face and Ayleid plate on a Talon backing obviously wasn't your typical sight. “Hey, wait a minute, aren't you that mutie –”

“I am not a mutant, s'wit!” spat I. S'wit is a very fine Dunmeri epithet, especially made for spitting. Doubly so if you have teeth like mine.

“Sorry,” and he lowers his gun, his off-sider following suit.

“Doctor Haines?” This came from a woman in a sort of cross between a robe and a jacket, reddish with chunky trim. It actually looked quite fetching – those Earth tailors again. “I am Scribe Yearling, of the Brotherhood of Steel. Order of the Word. What do you want here?”

“We're searching for records from the library,” says Haines, “as part of a research project.”

And Yearling just looks at us. “It seems that we have similar goals in mind. It's rare to meet someone who has proper priorities... although I doubt you will find your father here.” And she continues to look at Haines. “No matter how emotional you get.”

And Haines just goes all red. Of course their offsiders at Galaxy News Radio would pass the news around about his little tizzy.

“Now then,” she goes on, “Let me explain what I'm supposed to be doing here.” And then she pauses and winces at the distant sounds of gunfire and crashing from further inside. If Tar-Meena were there, she'd be on the warpath immediately.

“My task here is to collect the written works of those who came before in order to supplement the Brotherhood Archives at the Citadel. Although most of the pre-war books have been destroyed, there are a few that have survived. But finding a book in these ruins is...”

“You'd like us to turn in any that we find,” is my intelligent response.

“Precisely,” says she, “The collected knowledge of a lost age is worth far more than any weapon. So, return here with any books that you find in good condition.” And she flinches as a loud bang shakes everything. “However, you might like to wait until we fix our little problem here.”

“Problem?”

“We're short-handed at the moment, and there's a pack of raiders bailed up in the back. It's the usual – booby traps, mines, close quarters and those psychos know the place better than we do.”

“Well, far be it from us to interfere,” says Haines, “and we will be sure to pass along any legible books we find. Oh, by the way,” and his eyes slide to the one working terminal at what must have been the main library desk, “is that the access to the library's archives?”

“The front desk computer has access to the card catalogues, but it appears that it's lost the connection to the main archives out the back. Here's the password,” and she rattles off a string of letters and numbers.

“Well, it appears we have to lend a hand,” says Haines pompously, “Well then, Ra'jirra, shall we reconnect the archives?”

“Do I have a choice?” groans I.

“Good luck,” grins Yearling.

Once, I guess, the library was full of books, and people reading them, light and colour. Now it was dull, burnt and blackened. And, increasingly, bullet-pocked.

In a two-level chamber big enough to swallow the Mystic Archives whole, three lumbering Brotherhood soldiers were more or less pinned down by twice as many raiders, who made up for a lack of armour with nimbleness. So we looked at each other and agreed to let them have their fun while we snuck around the edge of the fight, looking for another way in.

It wasn't hard to find. What was left of the plate above the door read '..HIV...S S...F ON...' which our great brains decided was destroyed for 'Archives Staff Only'. As we needed access to the archives, and there were no staff available, we let ourselves in.

Right behind the door was a stair leading upwards. For some reason I was expecting them to plunge into the basement, don't ask me why.

Anyway, up the stairs we crept, then Haines stopped and stared at the floor. There were a number of large balls in front of a doorway opening onto a hall, and just beyond the doorway more balls surrounded some sort of square cushion and a wooden club.

“Baseball practice?” murmurs Haines suspiciously.

“What's baseball when it's at home?” murmurs I back.

Haines just pointed out a lifted part of the floor – which, suspiciously enough, sat right across the doorway and couldn't be stepped or jumped across. I mimed poking it with a stick. Haines nodded, but instead of using a stick, he plopped a frag mine on top of it.

Sure enough, when the thing hit the floor something clunked, and the next thing I knew balls were flying past the doorway!

“Wouldn't want to be hit by those,” Haines murmurs to me, “I used to play as a kid, and I speak from experience with the old beanball.” And he mimes getting hit in the head, which I understood at once. I'd played a similar sort of game in my youth, except we didn't have fancy bats or balls. We used branches and dead rats. And you know all about it when you get a dead rat in the mush.

The rain of balls stopped, and we listen to voices approaching down the hall.

“I tolya we should've left the futtin' thing alone!”

“So? Can't you hear those clankers out there? We check it out and blow their futtin' tin heads off. This is our turf. We're the motherfuttin' Bad News Bears!”

Subsequently one of them got some very bad news of his own when our mine blew his legs off. His partner screamed with surprise and rage at that, and... Well, really, you'd think, seeing they were in a library, they'd check out some books on combat strategies. Charging directly into two sets of gunfire with knife in hand isn't very effective.

I blame Grognak the Barbarian myself. Bad influence.

Apart from a set of privies there was nothing else of interest aside from the “pitching machine” on this level. Haines pointed to it. “Brings back memories of baseball practice,” says he, “bat in hand and waiting for the coach to rev it up and send a ball my way.”

The contraption had a little holder for balls and fed them between two wheels that could spit a ball out at up to fifty miles per hour, apparently. Haines claimed that some pitchers could throw a ball even faster. I just nodded and wondered what would happen if you fed a dead rat through it.

“I was crap at baseball,” Haines then added and kicked it over. “Let's go.”

The rest of our quest for archives was relatively dull. At one point there were turrets, and a Brotherhood soldier who'd got cut off and obviously didn't listen to GNR. Therefore we had to act in self-defence.

The barricades and such became less elaborate and more desperate as we pushed onward. I got the impression that Scribe Yearling and Company had only recently arrived, and with the only exit effectively blocked, the Bad News Bears were preparing for a last stand.

And there was something else. Surely the better equipped and armoured Brotherhood of Steel was able to simply rumble through and bowl the opposition? Yet they seemed to have fought to a standstill already.

I mentioned this to Haines as he bent over a working terminal, but all he did was raise a hand and continue alternately typing gibberish symbols and potential passwords. Eventually he sighed in triumph as he found it and got in.

“Turret controls,” mutters he, then deactivated them; the chirps from the next room over ceased. “Few less dangers now. We must be close.”

We were. More voices emerged from a room off a collapsed hallway.

“I say we take down as many of those futters we can, we break for it and hit the Alexandria Arms 'cross the road there, we get those guys on our side an'–” And about this time Mister Panicky stopped because someone punched him in the mouth.

“We ain't goin' nowhere, an' specially not the futtin' 'Lexandria!” This man wasn't so much panicky as angry. “Firs' off, tha's Butcher turf, an' Butcher don' like us, an' we don' have anythin' to bargain wit'. Secon', know who you're talkin' to?”

There was a mumble.

“Damn straight. You're talkin' to the Bear. An' the Bear don' run, he fight an' he win! An' we were here firs', an' those clankers an' tha' criso with 'em're gonna learn. Futtin' wit' the Bear means bad news. Why the fut you think we're called the Bad News Bears, dumbass?”

Now a harpy's voice cut in. “You want me to roast yellow-boy here?”

'Yellow-boy' apparently made a frightened noise, because Bear and the harpy both laughed. “Naw,” Bear says, “I got a better idea. Get up, meat!” And there's the sound of a man being hauled to his feet with extra smacks about the chops. “Take this, guard the entrance. Yo' got the turret on your side, so you're safe. Unless you don' shif' yo boat, 'cos then I'll fut you up mysel'! Got it?”

Evidently he had. Haines fished out another mine and carefully placed it in the doorway, then we retired to a shady corner, unlike the frightened 'Yellow-boy'. He was so scared of Bear, he didn't notice the tell-tale light until it was too late for his left foot. I pointed my rifle, Haines drew his pistol, and in three shots the hapless raider was dead as mutton.

Notice was served. From the angry noises down the hallway Bear and his doxy weren't happy. “C'mon cullyholes!” roared he, “This's Bear turf, an' on my turf the Bear Mess wit' you!”

Oh what magnificent speechifying. On the other hand, neither he nor his lady friend were coming to greet us, so we crept towards them. Haines sensibly bent to place yet another landmine in the doorway to Bear's den.

A belch of fire exploded the mine almost as soon as it hit the ground.

So there I am hauling Haines, now sporting burns, a shattered arm, and an equally shattered faceplate, back down the hallway. A hard-faced woman stalks out the door beyond us, and I haul up the first spell I can think of: my custom shock spell I call Discharge.

The sparks not only brought us some time, but somehow set the weapon she was using off. I dumped Haines in a corner and went for my mace while practicing off-hand casting again. Whatever her weapon was, it seemed to be a blackened hose attached to a container on her back, but she needed both hands to work it. Which meant that she couldn't deflect the blow I landed, dislocating her left elbow.

My return swing landed right at the point where the spine meets the skull, snapping it.

Then the Bear landed a few shots of his own. Just flesh wounds, but painful enough that I dropped my mace for the umpteenth time. Dropping my mace is a bad habit I'm trying to wean myself from.

What I could see through the door was that a makeshift barricade of tables, machines and other debris had been set up inside the room, forcing anyone entering to run a gauntlet around one side in order to get within striking distance. Then I dived out of the way as another set of shots attempted to put more holes in me. I've been hit by spells, arrows, axes, clubs, swords, bloody great hammers, and more sets of teeth and claws than I can count, and frankly bullet wounds are the worst.

So there I am calling on Stendarr again and grasping for my rifle when an idea comes to me.

The ghost appeared in the doorway, causing Bear to ask, quite understandably, “What the fut?” before discovering that bullets aren't much chop against the undead. I then grasped for the image of a scamp in my mind, and with an effort pulled the little beast into the world. The little daedra scampered after the ghost as I got my breath back, readied my rifle and followed the loudest yells.

Bear was an upside-down triangle of meat wrapped up in bits of metal, with a pair of ham-hocks clamped about what looked like a fat rifle with a round box hanging off it. It didn't half make an almighty bang when it went off, and I noticed that instead of one hole in the wall, it left several.

“Fut!” screamed he as the ghost remained not only unaffected, but smacked him again with a frost spell. Earth people seem to like that word. He said it again when the scamp finally got a clear shot in and warmed him up again a little too fast.

Then I lined up the shot and cracked his helm just as the ghost finally dissipated. He looked at me, went to raise his gun, and I popped another one right in his left eyeball.

I was actually aiming for his right.

The scamp stopped attacking, stretched, yawned and scratched itself, which was a fairly obvious hint that the Bear was dead. Speaking of dead, I hurried back out to check on Haines.

“So nice of you to visit,” Haines says to me irritably, “And how are our new friends?”

“Sick,” says I laconically, “they've all come down with a bad case of dead.”

“They have my well wishes,” lies he, “they owe me about six bloody stimpacks and a bottle of Buffout.”

And he flexes his arm and winces in pain, but I'll tell you what, those stimpacks are amazing. If it wasn't for needing to be injected they could give potions a run for their money.

Anyhow, off we went to see what was in the Bear's den, Haines giving the woman a kick as he passed. Rifling through cabinets and drawers netted us some ammunition and bottle-caps, and the weapons were always going to be added to our burdens, but it was the lone working terminal that was the true prize.

“Jackpot!” Haines exclaims, “It's the main archive computer! Now,” and he rattles away, “Okay... archives... hmm... ah!” and he looks at me all triumphant. “The connection to the front desk is restored. So let's head back there and get them downloaded!”

“Why not do it here?” is my common-sense response.

“No place to plug in my Pip-Boy,” explains he. Oh.

Thanks to an excess of exploration and a fragile bit of flooring, we ended up having to fight our way through the children's section. The raiders had been using the place as a dormitory. At one point Haines picked up a well-thumbed but legible volume and showed me the cover. A set of feisty children wielding baseball gear. The title was The Bad News Bears. Cute.

“You're back,” Scribe Yearling responded upon seeing us, “and I notice the shooting's stopped. I take it from your expression you were successful?”

Haines found a pry-bar and removed the smug look off his mush.

“Of course,” says he, and sits down at the front desk terminal. “Observe.”

And away he rattles that keyboard, and Yearling watches over his shoulder as the screen fills with – “The archives!” gasps she, “You found them!”

“That we did,” Haines replies as he extracts a little cable out of one side of his Pip-Boy and plugs it into a hole in front of the terminal, “I'll just take a copy for myself and Moira Brown.”

“Moira Brown?” one of the Brotherhood soldiers pipes up, “the Mad Scientist of Megaton?”

Evidently she had a bit of a reputation.

“I take it this Moira Brown sent you on this research project of yours,” Yearling observes. She apparently hadn't heard of Moira or her reputation.

“Yes,” Haines says, looking at the screen which is now showing an ever-growing string of dots, “She and I are researching a survival guide.”

“Oh, I found a book. Apparently the old tenants named themselves after these guys.” I hand her the storybook.

“The Bad News Bears,” she murmurs, “Well... we do take orphans in sometimes. This would be a good story to tell them. Follow me,” and she walks over to a lockbox and pulls out a long string with caps on it. “There,” says she, “one hundred caps payment as promised.”

I just hoped caps with holes in them were valid currency, and was about to say so when we heard a loud beep from Haines' position. And he looked back at us, said, “Never seen that before,” and held up his Pip-Boy. The screen showed an unhappy and bilious Vault-Boy with a bulging stomach. The legend read PIP-BOY MEMORY NEARLY FULL! Remove files to free up space and improve performance.

“All done,” says he, “Now let's go home and get some reading in, shall we?”

“I will send an envoy to Moira to discuss an arrangement with her,” Yearling adds as we head out the door.

“And I'll make another copy on my home terminal for my private use,” Haines mutters to me as we turn right and prepare to slink upriver to the Super-Duper Mart and Springvale.