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]

[Another cow of a chapter, but it had to be done.]

3 September 2277: Echoes of the Past

By the time we made it down from the top deck of Rivet City to the bridge, we had a plan. Admittedly the plan was “go into the camp and kill everything big and green” but never mind.

Haines amplified the plan a bit. “We go into the camp,” explains he, “kill every damn mutant we see, and get some practice in for cleaning out Jefferson Memorial.”

He was still a bit vinegarish obviously.

“And if they're lookouts for a bigger mob,” says I later as we loitered with intent at the base of some statue of a man in a circle, “That's a few less to worry about.”

Haines didn't answer, just unlimbered his laser pistol and hooked a trio of grenades on his belt. Then he pointed to beneath the fortifications, where a raised platform had been made, and we began our daring rescue.

The camp was a straightforward arrangement with only one entrance: a remnant of road spiced with barricades, and fenced with hunks of steel girder and piles of fallen building. A breeze ruffled the few bits of plant still more or less alive. A thin line of smoke swayed behind the fencing.

“Help me!” A woman's voice, close to tears. Had she heard us? We froze and listened; nothing silenced her. And I look at Haines and mouth bait with questioning eyebrows.

Haines just shrugs and creeps along the rubble.

Peering at the camp entrance. Barricades and brush. No sign of life. Now we saw that as well as the entrance, the raised platform's sides had enough holes to let defenders broadside anyone dumb enough to attack. The barricades were end-on to it so they weren't any use as cover.

“Someone please!” I could see a huddled shape – the victim – but nothing else. I smelt ambush.

“Cover me,” Haines breathed in my ear.

“What?” is my intelligent response.

“I have a hand free,” explains he, “for balance.” Oh.

So he bravely raced up the road while I bravely covered him with the hunting rifle.

A thousand years later, he reaches the entrance, waves the all-clear and I run to meet him. He points leftward and we rush the corner.

The super mutants' camp was not a nice place. It would have been even worse if the n'wahs had actually been there.

There were, as well as truly disgusting proof that super mutants have bowels, crude bags made of wire mesh that were full of body parts in various stages of decomposition and mutilation. The hapless Redguard woman they'd caught was probably destined for said jakes by way of their larder.

She was kneeling on that platform, shaking; from the looks of things she'd turned her ankle; and the bruising on her arms suggested she'd tried to protect herself from their love-taps. The wire cutting into her wrists didn't help her looks either.

“Let's get this off before they come back,” says I gruffly, finding one end.

She just nodded and bit her lip even more bloody as I prised the wire out of her flesh. Then she gasped as I sought Stendarr's favour and channelled healing through her.

“Right then,” says I once I get my breath back, “You get to Rivet City there and see a healer. Why'd the hells did you travel alone anyway?”

“I didn't,” explains she, “but we got split up in a firefight once over the bridge.” Oh yeah, those super mutants. “One of those fetchers had a chaingun.”

“I thought you'd be killed,” says Haines pulling out a stimpack and carefully grasping her ankle.

“So did I – aaach!” Haines' bedside manner was best experienced unconscious. “Farg! Ah – the biggest fetcher said something about more of us. Then he asked if I'd like that. Wouldn't take no for an answer.”

“I guessed that,” says I, “so where'd they go?”

“In that building there.” She points to the Jefferson Memorial. Oh, wonderful. “The big one was talking about 'green stuff', whatever that means.”

And I look at Haines and he looks at me and on a scale of one to ten neither of us knows what she's talking about.

“Well, no point waiting for them to come back,” Haines says at last, “can you walk?”

Apparently she can. A little tender in places, but she can stand and walk and do the things that set people apart from the more stupid creatures.

“Right then,” says I, “You head for Rivet City, and we'll keep those monsters off your back.”

We saw her backside for dust as she limped out of the camp before us, then turned left towards the safety of Rivet City. We, on the other hand, turned right, braced ourselves, and then trudged towards the pipe-strangled building and the hulking shapes roaming there.

This fight was more brutal, a straightforward brawl. My summonses helped distract the moronic humanoids, although the third time I summoned Mister Bones I swear he gave me a dirty look before having at them again.

Afterwards we licked our wounds as we rifled the mutants for what little loot they carried. Ernie raised his fist high, and I actually saw the silver benison against the afternoon daylight.

“You're improving,” says I.

“As if I have a choice,” says he. “Interesting feeling isn't it?”

And I just grunt as we follow the patchwork walkway to its far end.

The pipes and scaffolding weren't hopelessly thrown together. I also noticed signs that the memorial wasn't original either. The amount of workmanship involved said that back in the day, Project Purity enjoyed a lot of engineering and scientific support.

Underneath the pipework was what looked like a footpath; I began to wonder why they'd chosen this building for their work. Looking back at the broken bow of what should have been more Rivet City, I wondered: why not there instead?

Well, they hadn't, so here we were ducking underground.

As we feared, there were more mutants. The building's halls looked like they'd once been shining marble and granite before the war, and the mutants, and all the gear that had been dragged in for Project Purity. Once polished floors now bore scrapes where heavy equipment had been hauled through en route to one of a pair of doors. Cables slumped from the ceiling like spider-webs.

The doors opened onto what must have been the memorial proper, now dripping with moisture from the immense pool of water in its middle. A tall tube rose from the surface, full of water, and a platform ran around the periphery before rising to some sort of central chamber around the tube.

Then three more greenies jumped us and we had to hang fire on gawking for a bit.

“This must have been the control room,” Haines remarked as we explored the raised chamber. Certainly there were more machines and gizmos and who knows what. I peered into the murky water in the tube. A stone face gazed back at me. They'd built their machinery around Jefferson's statue.

Clattering poked my ears and I turned to see Haines scooping up a collection of little square objects. “Holotapes,” he explained, “and they're fresh. Dad was here, but...”

But we hadn't seen him yet.

There was a third door, and a metal sub-basement like the tunnels beneath the city. And another mutant, who hadn't heard us. Haines popped the pin on a grenade, then did something I couldn't believe.

He stuck it down the back of the monster's pants!

“Hey!” The monster grabbed at it's backside, spinning around until it saw us. “You die! N–”

Fortunately for us the beast's body acted as a shield. For a moment it stood there as spine, blood and bowel sprayed behind it and ran down its legs, a stupid look on its face, before trying to charge us. A bit difficult when your guts are falling out your suddenly enlarged arsehole.

A large door was locked, so we headed to the stairs. A room on the left held another mutant, slamming things about and growling with frustration. “Where?” it kept moaning, “Must be here! Where!?”

After easing its mind out its ears, we looked about. Among what Haines identified as medical gear, he found another holotape, this one older than the others. This went into Haines' pockets before we started the unpleasant task of cleaning out vermin from the lower level.

There was a room with an unmade bed in it, and that was where we stopped for a breather. There was also still no sign of Haines Senior, apart from some recently emptied tins of 'Gas-n-Go' brand pork and beans as well as several packets of Fancy Lads snack cakes. Ghastly things, those cakes. I swear given a chance Earth folk would happily live on nothing but fat, salt, sugar and sawdust.

“He's gone,” Haines says at last, then extracts one of the holotapes. “Let's see what's on these,” he adds, sticking it into one side of his Pip-Boy.

“Well, there's no more mystery behind Catherine's health problems.” His father sounded tired, but happy. “The news of her pregnancy has lifted the spirits of everyone here, and given us a renewed interest in making the purifier work. We now have a future generation to provide for. The latest tests show that our methods are horribly inefficient, but I think we're on the right track.”

If your methods are 'horribly' inefficient, that usually means it's a good idea to look at course correction. I was about to say that but Haines shot me a look.

“–insists on spending all day in the lab. I've never seen her more driven. She's determined to resolve the power problems before the baby is born. I've tried to reason with her, but it's no use.”

The recording ended with a little bleep. Without speaking Haines swapped it for the next tape in the series. It was mainly concerned with the increasing attacks from the mutants, and growing tension between the Brotherhood who were getting toey about no joy regarding drinking water.

“I am at a loss. My beloved wife is gone. In her place is my son, Earnest, small and helpless.” His father's voice this third recording was tarnished and blunted with grief and alcohol. Haines himself stared up towards the medical room for a moment, before whispering.

“I was... born... here.”

“–meant to Catherine, this is no place for an infant. Especially an infant without his mother.” The recording ended with the clink of glass. Haines mechanically sorted through the tapes. Popped the next one on.

“It's time to go.” Haine's father sounded grim, worn down. In the background, the muffled drums of distant gunfire. “The project was in trouble before, both internally and externally. Progress has come to a halt, both because our re-calculations have gotten us nowhere, and because the mutant attacks occur several times a day. I regret that it has come to this. I know that if I leave, our work may come to an end.” A sigh. “Madison has never been on the best of terms with the Brotherhood; aside from Scribe Rothchild, she'll tolerate none of them. If she's the one dealing with them, who knows what will happen.” Now a distant, familiar wail. “It breaks my heart to go, but I must put the needs of little Ernie before my own.”

Now not-so-little Ernie was sitting on the bed, looking wetly at nothing. “He gave this up for me,” he whispered to the rusty, damp air, “He gave this up for me.”

“What else does he have to say?” I felt the little metal square in my own pocket. I didn't dare give it to him yet. Not if it was from who I thought it was.

The next holotape was one of the newer-looking ones. The voice this time was older, wearier.

“Well. Here we are again. Project Purity and me. It's been close to twenty years since my last entry. Since I left all of this behind to make a life for my son. We've spent that time in Vault 101, tucked away from the rest of the world. It wasn't perfect, but it was safe, and that's all I could have hoped for. Now, my son is a grown man. Handsome, intelligent, confident. Just like his old man.” There was a sound, half-snort, half... sob?

“And as hard as it was to admit it,” definitely a sob, “he doesn't need his daddy anymore.”

“Do so.” Superior Khajiit hearing you know.

I'd picked up another bottle of scotch – the taste was growing on me – and I found two glasses. I poured one for Ernie, who definitely needed it, and another to keep him company. It didn't touch Ernie's sides going down.

The next tape had his old man sounding like he was trying to believe in himself.

“So here I am, back where it all began. Project Purity. God, we wanted to change the world. We really thought the 'waters of life' could be a reality. And that's why this is a momentous occasion. Because even after nineteen years, I still believe it. Project Purity can and will be operational. This is just the beginning.”

“Is that why you left me?” Haines' eyes were weeping but his choler was high. “Decided you'd come back to your stupid project?”

“Shaddap and play the next one,” says I, “there's more rope to hang himself with, and hopefully a clue where to send the lynch mob.”

“Yeah yeah,” says he, and click and clack and right at the end his father groans, and his voice grows anguished and hard. “Project Purity is bigger than me. It always was. And without Catherine... Cathy... God, I can't let this die. Not again. Not like this!”

“Even in Vault 101, my work on Project Purity never really stopped,” he explained in the next tape. Apparently he'd gone a-roaming at night, exploring where he shouldn't, and eventually broke into the Overseer's office, and found out about a man...

“I knew of Braun's work, of course. He was a celebrity in his day, Vault-Tec's "Sorcerer Scientist," leaving his peers in awe of his technological wizardry. But it was in Vault 101, that night in the Overseer's office... I first learned of Braun's involvement in Vault-Tec's Societal Preservation Program, and his work on something called the G.E.C.K. The Garden of Eden Creation Kit.”

“Sorceror scientist, eh?” muses I, “I'd like to have a word with him I think.”

Haines just looks at me. “Well, we find Braun and no doubt Dad will be there.”

'There' was Vault 112, out west somewhere, our only reference point something called 'Evergreen Mills'. Whatever that was. “Someone will know!” cries Ernie, and is about to race off to Rivet City and ask before I stop him.

“I found another one.” I hold up the tape. This one wasn't numbered. His father had scrawled Happier Times on it instead.

When the woman's voice emerged from the Pip-Boy Haines froze.

“...that batch of tests was inconclusive, but Madison and I are convinced it's a problem with the secondary filtration system. We’re going to re-calibrate the equipment and try again tomorrow, so that–” there was a short pause – “James, please, I’m trying to work. Now’s not the time...”

Judging from the tone of her voice it soon would be.

“So that's the next step. Assuming we get the results we need, we'll move on to– James! Stop! I need to finish these notes... Where was I? We'll move on to diagnosing the issues with the radiation dampeners. That should... Ow! James!” Soft male murmuring. “Now? We really shouldn't...”

I knew what that tone of laugh meant. So I turn to Ernie but his expression muzzles me.

He looked down and started the recording again; I saw moisture appear on the Pip-Boy's screen. As quietly as I could I got up and gave him some privacy.

There was a dog once, and his master was a real vicious man. One time after a relaxing evening beating, the s'wit turfed the poor animal out into what was then a typical autumn thunderstorm.

That's what the sound reminded me of.