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]

[@SubRosa: The game was actually even simpler. You got to bat until you hit the rat, instead of either missing or the rat hitting you. So there was a fair bit of dodging.

This next part really took time to work out. Inevitably the guildies would find him, but for now Ra'jirra's off to Rivet City with a lilt in his step and a jubilant scream in his craw.]

1 September 2277: A Taste of Home

Haines was drooling on the keyboard, dead to the world, when I finally awoke, went down to his basement workshop and checked on him. His Pip-Boy was still morbidly obese, but the file transfer was complete, if I read the text aright. As well as an option to access the archive file, there were several 'blog' entries dated back what I guessed was almost a year – before Haines had supposedly come out of that Vault.

Out of altruism, I picked up Haines and laid him on the bed next to the ladder. Out of curiosity, I figured out the right key presses to open up the earliest entry.

It's taken me long enough to get here, but at last I'm out of Big Town. This house is in unbelievable shape, like the original owners just left. Only thing is the raiders in the school. I gotta be careful not to let them see me. Maybe I should board the kitchen door back up.

I'm Ginger, and this is my house.

N)ext entry L)atest entry E)xit

Wherever Big Town was. Evidently Ginger was happy to see the back of the place. If I read the date right, Ginger had come here in 2276 – a year before Haines did. I pressed N and moved on:

Can't find a job in Megaton. There's an old mungo there who runs the plant, but I don't know enough about fixing things to help him. And he spends all day in that place with the machines. That's no fun. I never have fun anymore. I thought leaving Big Town would mean I'd find a place that's more fun.

I'm Ginger and this sucks.

Couldn't argue with that. I wondered what a 'mungo' was, then shrugged and moved to the N)ext entry.

I found two books today! One was red with a man on the cover and funny little pictures instead of writing. I can't figure it out, maybe someone in Megaton can. Mungos are weird.

I also found a little book called Grognak with a picture of a big mungo on the front waving a big axe at a green thing. It was all pictures like a story. I wish I was brave and strong like he was.

Why am I still saying mungo? I'm a mungo now.

I'm Ginger and I hate it.

I wondered if 'mungo' was what residents of Big Town called outsiders. It didn't sound complimentary.

Been down to Grayditch today. Scored another laser pistol, so when I get the chance I can fix my other one.
They have another radio station there, GNR. That guy's fun to listen to, not like the man on Enclave radio. I wish I could get GNR back home.

Thought of going to the Super Duper Mart but there were raiders in front. I heard guns and screaming. Looks like the folks who ran the place got overrun. I'd have helped but I don't have the ammo to spare. Or anything else.

I'm Ginger and I'm lonely.

“I'm Ra'jirra,” said I softly to the long-gone Ginger, “and I'm lonely too.”

And I felt it bear down again. I wanted green grass and living trees and S'jirra's famous potato bread and S'jirra's arms around me...

I shook myself. Doing the gods' work came first, then getting home, then I could have a nervous breakdown. Judging from the sudden jump in dates, the next entry was Ginger's last.

Went scrounging down south the other night. Landed some mole rats and dogs. I've found some neat books too.

Coming back I saw raiders hanging around my house. I hope they don't see me. I try to keep quiet and let nobody see me leaving. I had to wait for hours before they got bored and left.

I'm Ginger and I'm scared.

I wondered what had happened. Had Ginger collected his or her things and fled elsewhere? Or had the raiders finally finished the poor wretch off? What was so bad about Big Town that they shunned mungos?

Haines' entries were radically different – almost all of them were angry. Anger that was directed at his father, at Vault 101's Overseer, at me, and at Moira for sending him into danger all the damn time.

Speaking of danger, Ernie stirred and groaned, instinctively pressing on his back. I E)xited and pressed the red button that turned the thing off, then turned to him as innocently as I could. Somehow I doubted he would accept my reading his diary.

“God, my back...” he grunted and attempted to force his spine into shape by willpower alone. “What time is it?”

I climbed up out of his basement workshop and peered through the blackened windowpanes. “About noon,” calls I down to him.

“Anything in the fridge up there?” asks he, “Don't think I could face Moira on an empty stomach.”

While he groaned his way up the little ladder connecting the basement to the kitchen, I assembled a couple of Nuka-Colas, some chunks of what turned out to be dog meat, and sliced something that looked almost like a lumpy fruit in two. Not the breakfast of champions, but it beat raw radroach six ways from Sundas.

With this repast in our bellies, we took some loot and the Pip-Boy off to Megaton. While Haines shifted the archives to Moira's terminal, I set about liberating Moira of rather a lot of caps.

“Scribe Yearling said she's sending someone to talk to you about these archives,” says I after dickering away the “flamer”. Ugly thing, that sprays your foes and surrounds with burning fuel – and has you lugging a big tank of potential explosion on your back. Give me a good honest fire spell any day.

“I'm not surprised,” says she, arranging the bulky piece of junk on a nearby shelf and chocking some hunks of wood under it to stop the damn thing sliding off. “An entire library's archives. You know how valuable that is, right?”

“I know Tar-Meena would kill for a copy in her archives.” Well, nowadays more like my archives; I am the Arch-Mage after all. “After all, the Brotherhood have a copy, and they'll want to have a spare on hand.”

“Oh my goodness,” and she goes all miles away, “when I'm done with this book, I'll have to work on copying all of that information. It could take a while, you know.”

“When you're done? We're not finished yet?”

“Obviously,” Haines snorted from his seat at the terminal, “The last part of this chapter is about researching local history, right?”

“Yes, Rivet City's in particular. It's the most successful survivor settlement around, but no one here really knows how it started.”

“Rivet City?” Haines looked up. “I remember Simms telling me about it, right before telling me not to even try going there.”

“Well, we've been there plenty of times and come out alive,” says I, “this shouldn't be any different, and besides there'll be friendlies at the end of the road.”

Haines fiddles with his Pip-Boy. “More like the river,” says he, “Simms was kind enough to set its location. Actually, it's almost... yes... right across from the Arlington Library and further along.” And he shrugs. “Shouldn't be too hard to learn their story.”

But Moira's shaking her head. “Don't be so sure. You'd be surprised how confused people get, even about important things.” There was a bitter tone in her voice. “F'rinstance, the main reason Megaton's thrived is because this crater's naturally defensible, and we're far enough out of the DC Ruins that the super muties don't come close. But we're also close enough to scavenge anything we need. See what I mean?”

“And yet here's Rivet City, right in the middle of that mess, going strong,” says I. “The question is, how and why?”

“That's why it's important to know how a place like that succeeded,” Moira nods, “So I need you to go there and do some researching!”

“Well, if that's the case, we'd best get ready to go,” says Haines, unplugging his Pip-Boy and standing up.

Then Simms came in.

“Heard you were in town again,” says he to me, “This came for you.”

And I'm staring stupidly at the tightly rolled scroll in his hand.

It had the seal of the Mage's Guild on it.

“How...?” whispers I and I touch it. It's real. I pick it up. It remains real.

“I was patrolling past your house yesterday and I heard voices,” explains he, “one was that robot but the other was excited. So I looked in, and there's the robot, and this... this...”

“Like a hole in space?” Haines suggests.

“Yeah... yeah, like a glowing... hole about an inch and a half across, maybe... six and a half feet off the ground?”

Sod. Short of some sort of shrinking magic I wasn't going home yet.

“Anyway, I had a talk to the guy on the other side. Said his name was Hen-and-tier...?”

“Henantier!” shouts I, “Praise the Nine, they've found me!”

“Yeah, they've been trying for a while, he said, and apparently it didn't go all that well at first. But I got them to leave you this message,” and he points to it.

And there I am tearing off the seal and devouring the good honest Aldmeris words.

Arch-Mage Ra'jirra,

If this man Simms is right, we have found your refuge in that other world. We have been searching for you for the past week, once we finally worked out how to make the portal more stable.

Unfortunately, thanks to various men and creatures we have encountered, our searching fell off until safer alternatives were found.

As this portal seems stable, and we doubt that any more dangers can fit through it, we will keep this open and watched.

When you receive this note, let us know at once. Your family misses you.

H.

You couldn't see my tail for dust as I barrelled out of there, down the clinic and back up the other side and into my house. (I'm unsure when I started thinking of it as my house.)

“Good afternoon sir,” Wadsworth greeted me, “Are you in need of lunch?”

I ignored him, staring up at the glow-edged orb. As Simms had said, it was only an inch and a half across.

“Hello Black Plateau!” calls I.

There was no reply.

“Hello there!” shouts I again, “It's me! Ra'jirra! For the gods' sake!”

There was still no reply.

I looked about for something to stand on, which was about the time Haines, Moira and Simms arrived. Moira fetched a chair from outside, which creaked alarmingly as I stood and weaved on it, trying to see if anyone was there.

The room was empty, apart from a few bottles and some food scraps. I felt my spirits sink. Evidently those idiots had decided that with the portal so small, they didn't need constant guard on it.

At least now. As well as food waste there were what looked like poorly cleaned bloodstains, claw and scorch marks, and unmistakable bullet holes. They had been looking for me, but what had they found instead?

“Nobody's there,” says I unhappily.

“Send them a note?” suggests Haines. “I'd like to see what happens if you insert something...”

“Doctor Haines,” says I after about a million years, “I could kiss you.”

Ernie clearly hoped I wouldn't.

And so I gallop at speed up to my bedroom and feverishly search for something to write with. One of Haines' books had a blank page at the back, which I tore out and wrote on with a blunt pencil that was laying around:

Henantier:

I'm alive and got your message. Tell Long-Drink I have met this world's champion, I think I'm supposed to help the poor spurius not get killed. While I'm here, I need:

I absently chewed on the pencil as I thought.

Two gross steel arrows

I'd feel better with a nice quiet arrow-shot. Also, I doubted I'd run into undead around here, so I didn't need silver.

Alchemy gear

The unusual meats and such deserved study. If possible, I might be able to distil water and make potions as well.

Soul gems (all types, 3 each – YES black as well)

Creatures had souls. What types of soul also had to be recorded for posterity.

There's two Robes of Concealment in the wardrobe in my university quarters. Those might come in handy.

Try to keep this location and expand the portal. This is a friendly town. I'm going to a place called Rivet City. I should be back in

“Ernie,” calls I downstairs, “how long should our research in Rivet City take?”

Haines shrugged. “Oh... three to four days, including getting there and back, I should think.”

about four days. If you need to know more about this place, speak to Moira or Simms.

Ra'jiira

I rolled the page up into as tight a scroll as I could and headed downstairs. Haines was still eyeballing the portal, and a small crowd had gathered, all weaving their heads as they looked through it. I had to elbow and shove my way through to get to where Haines was standing on the chair and Simms was forcing a boundary. Guns are very good at stopping people getting too close to things.

“'Scuse,” says I to Haines and he looks at me and hops off, nearly landing on someone's toes.

As I lifted the scroll over the top of the portal, I had a thought. What if the paper unrolled itself halfway through? Would part of it return here, or would the whole thing simply... or would it collapse...

“I need a piece of string,” says I lowering my hand.

Moira elbows my knee and holds up a piece, and so my message was bound and I prepared again to drop it through.

“Here I go,” breathed I, and let the scroll fall.

It didn't hit the floor.

I did, however, legs weak with relief. “They'll hopefully find it in the morning,” says I, “might was well get going, eh Haines?”

Before I scream, I didn't add.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: May 17 2011, 11:50 PM