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]

[Been a while, I know, but really this is a chapter in and of itself. Some Google-fu produced an interesting strategy...]

4 September 2277: Picking Up the Trail

It was night when I emerged from the mutilated Memorial, and when Haines finally emerged the predawn light was peering nervously over the horizon.

Not to put too fine a point on it, he looked terrible. Another half-empty bottle dangled from one hand as he came up onto the walkway beside me and looked westward to where Rivet City was aglow.

“We are born in the Vault,” he recited in a hollow tone, “and we die in the Vault. Sent to compost, our bodies...”

Rote faded to swilling, then the bottle smashed to the ground. Dawn was a probing stick, the city a dead rat.

“We need to go to Vault-Tec headquarters,” he said in the same hollow voice. “No point thrashing about blind.”

And I have a think and he's right. Moira and her book will have to wait, but me, I can see one or two reasons myself for folks taking the plunge and making Rivet City what it is.

For one, it's incredibly well fortified, with a natural moat all around it – and no other way in except for that drawbridge. Mentally I doffed my hat to whoever was sturdy enough to first make entry. It also had machinery and electricity. To all intents and purposes, it was a perfect fortress, waiting for occupants.

At the same time, so was the Jefferson, since there was only one entrance, and that was easily fortified. I remembered a barricade of sandbags around a corner from the door. Not that they'd managed to keep the mutants out. On the other hand, with Rivet City you could haul up the drawbridge and shoot at hostiles without danger; at the Jefferson you had to open the front door, which might be a problem.

I looked at Haines' face. Like a dead rat, it was flaccid, expressionless, but innards and gas waited to burst out if poked too hard.

“Right then,” says I, “we go to Vault-Tec.”

The slog to Vernon Square was not pleasant. Going across Vernon wasn't pleasant either, except for the repeat performance of Talons vs. Super Mutants, the latter winning by a huge margin. This was followed by Dr. Haines & Arch-Mage Ra'jirra vs. Super Mutants, the former winning by a somewhat smaller margin.

Ernie needed a fair few stimpacks afterwards along with some soap to wash his mouth out.

The Vault-Tec building was instantly recognisable by the fact it had its name on it; that it had greenies roaming in front of it; and also all sorts of dishes and gizmos and spindly things on top and hanging off the sides.

And if you made it inside without figuring out where you were, there was a Vault door hanging from the ceiling. Admittedly after two hundred years without maintenance said door and ceiling were sagging alarmingly but never mind. The building was occupied.

“My programming now requires me to kill you,” a strange-sounding woman said in a totally wrong reassuring tone. On the other hand, since the speaker was a luminous brain in a bowl, on top of a metal barrel, shooting laser beams from tentacles, it was the right sort of tone.

The 'you' in question was a rather upset super mutant down a stairwell. There are all sorts of places you do not want to be assaulted by a robot brain tentacle monster in, and at the bottom of a blocked stairway is one of them.

Once the mutant stopped fighting and started, from the sound of things, drowning in his own blood, the robot brain thing turned on us, explaining, “I'm sorry, but no trespassers or communists are allowed in this area,” or words and shots to that effect. Since we weren't communists, whatever they were, this apparently made us trespassers.

“I've got an idea,” says I to Haines, “try and distract it while I crack its brain open.”

Ernie just gives me a look like I'm crazy, but I'm not dumb. I know my way around atronach powers.

The first magic I smacked it's brain-bowl with was Firestarter, tried and true – also rather hot. The second was a frost spell – rather cold. A combination that field smiths and tinkers use to good effect. They call it 'tempering'.

In Vault-Tec's headquarters, it also had a good effect. There was a dull crack as a pair of bullet-pocks joined hands – and the machine turns on me, dribbling fluid.

“Warning!” It sounded rather upset. “Cranial containment system is compromised! RobCo recommends against operation of robo-brains in extreme temperatures...”

Ernie's a smart lad. He swaps his laser for a rifle from our collection and starts shooting. The 'robo-brain' turns back to him as the current threat – and then glass goes flying everywhere as he finds a weak spot.

“Emergency! Help! Maintenance required!” and the machine goes into a right tizzy, arms flying everywhere until up steps I and down comes my mace. Brains and goo everywhere. Stinky too.

“I've heard of these,” says Ernie extracting some power cells from the guts of the thing, “Robobrains. Used monkey brains to make 'em more flexible than regular robots. Then again after two hundred years without maintenance...”

I looked at the grey mess in the bowl. The only thing 'flexible' I'd seen about it was its tentacles and its mouth. All the while it had been shooting at us like every other robot we found as we grovelled our way through the shattered offices and crumpled cafeterias of Vault-Tec. I soon found a cunning plan against them though – it seems that their workings don't like shock magics, and the resulting paralysis meant more time for us to get out of the firing line and get in some licks of our own. Rather like fighting Dwemer animunculi with frost.

Yes, I know, I should have worked this out back at RobCo, but back then we'd turned them on unexpectedly, so experiments weren't high on my agenda, alright?

As we climbed upwards, the security became tighter. Soon we were peering through a grate at a huge mass of machinery, apparently still working if the lights and heat were anything to go by. “The Vault-Tec mainframe,” says Haines, eyes gleaming, “We need to get access.”

A nearby terminal explained that this would be tricky. Apparently as well as requiring authorisation from two others, there was a 'Masterbrain' running the security systems. This turned out to be another robobrain with a slightly different paint job.

Anyway, a zillion robots later, we finally managed to turn the security off – mostly by smashing it – and Ernie went to town on the mainframe's console while I sat and sweated. I'll say this for Vault-Tec, they had a much more impressive – and hot – setup than RobCo did.

Also impressive was Ernie's scream of rage once he'd done things to get the locations of all the vaults!

“Deleted! Deleted for fargnaxing security reasons! Why the hell did they...” and on and on in quite an un-Scientific fashion. Apparently the mainframe had every other Vault in the area, but not Vault 112.

“Hey Ernie,” says I in a long-awaited lull, “If you had a sorcerer-scientist on your books, would you want to risk these communist blokes finding him first?”

Ah, blessed silence as Zenithar smacked him one about the chops.

“Of course,” says he softly. “Well then – what we do now is –”

“Clean our plates,” interrupts I. “We go back to Rivet City and finish our business there, then we get our dues from Moira, then we head out West. Sound fair?”

Ernie doesn't answer, he just gives the console a little more poking and prodding. “You may be right...” mumbles he, “...hello?”

“What've you found?”

“Another list of evaluated sites... damn, no coordinates. I wonder...”

And away he goes tickling the keys. I say nothing and we go halves on some Fancy Lads. He eats the cakes and I eat the more nutritious box, ha ha.

“Sfmiff Cafeef Gafaff!” comes out of his mouth along with crumbs, “It's come up a few times in staff mail – and there's a reference to Evergreen Mills too!”

“The place your father mentioned?”

“Must be. According to this, they wanted to install Vault 112's entry in back of it, but they weren't allowed due to lawyers. Reckoned hundreds of frightened people running past all that wood-cutting machinery was a danger.”

And world-destroying war wasn't? I actually know the sort of man who'd think that: Short as a Bosmer, twice as wide, balding, totally inadequate moustache, full of himself, frightened of litigation and resentful of anyone who isn't. I should know. He's on the Imperial Council – not as court jester, alas.

“And Smith Casey Garage,” he goes on, “apparently was their second choice for an entrance. Worth a look at the very least.”

“Whatever,” says I. “Let's head back to Rivet City.”

“Why?” was Ernie's intelligent response.

“We still need to clean Moira's little task off our plates, remember? We're closer to finishing that, so let's see if we can find Pinkerton, get his story, then we can drop it all off at Moira's on the way.”

I didn't tell him that Ifelt he was still too emotional over hearing his mother's voice and that no doubt there would be a few more chances to get all that out of his system. Nothing like a good bloodbath to bring you back to the here and now.

Ernie's an intelligent lad, so we went back to Rivet City, booked into the hotel there and slept like the dead. He was dog-tired, I was cat-tired. Not even the drunken brawl outside woke us.