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]

Well, it took long enough for my muse to return. Here's another round of the Ra'jirra and Ernie show.

5-7 September 2277: Good Intentions

“I hate you,” Ernie sulked at me as we wended our way past, and at one point through, the super mutants of the Mall en route to the National Archives.

“What?” asks I, “That nice old man wants to preserve the important documents of this world. And that means finding the Declaration of Independence before some greenie uses it for tinder.”

“That fool claimed it was transported by plane! They didn't have aircraft back then! What else could he be wrong about?”

“Keep your damn voice down,” urges I, “my danger-sense is tingling.”

Fortunately the danger in question was far enough away that we were able to reach the entrance without being molested.

The National Archives was elevated above the common buildings by a great set of steps, the circled stars and serried bars still drooping between the almost Ayleid-style columns. The Earth folk took their founding documents seriously.

Inside the air smelt of fresh burning. I look hard at Haines and he looks at me and we ready our weapons in case the Bad News Bears are back.

Behind a crumbled wall bearing a wrecked portrait, there was a door, light and a little smoke emerging. Above, metal letters spelled ROTUNDA FOR THE CHARTERS OF FREEDOM. This place was feeling more and more like a temple by the minute.

The rotunda itself only strengthened my belief. It was almost exactly the same proportions as the Temple of the One! However, it was also larger, and now had fires burning in barrels, over which someone had been cooking something hairy on a stick, before abandoning lunch and diving for cover behind some sandbags before seeing us.

“You cullyholes!” she yelled angrily, “You made enough noise coming in here to wake the dead, for God's sakes! Just be ready, the Muties are coming!”

And we just look at each other, then back the way we came because things went bump in – well they went bump anyway, night or not. Super mutant sized bumps at that.

And Haines goes and grabs some mines, and I grab a nice spot behind some ancient sandbags, and I cover him as he scurries about laying those non-bouncing borbas outside the doors and in, before racing to join the mystery lady and I as the mutants appear.

“Don't shoot the first wave!” yells I.

“What?” is the smoothskins' intelligent response.

“They'll hit the mines and slow everyone up!”

Apparently they understood, as the forerunners not only stepped on mines, they ended up acting as bleeding, moaning impediments to the other dozen monsters that tried to get in.

It was a slaughter for about two minutes before the beasts finally managed to push their way over – thankfully they didn't think to use their fallen as shields – and about ten minutes later we were shaking our heads to clear our ears of the sound of gunfire. The air in the great round chamber reeked of blood and gunshot, the stench curling in the few shafts of light poking their way through the roof.

“You must be Doc Haines and that Ra'jirra guy,” the woman said once we all could hear ourselves think again, “You're pretty decent in a firefight.”

“We've had practice,” says I modestly.

“So, what brings you to this neck o' the woods? Getting into the relic hunting business too?”

“Well...” Haines hems a bit, “I suppose the Declaration of Independence is a relic these days, isn't it, miss...?”

“Name's Sydney,” replies she, “And I knew good ol' Abraham Washington sent you on the same damn suicide mission as me. Thing is...”

“You want our help,” is my intelligent surmise.

“Wrong. You'll need my help.”

“Excuse me?” is Haines' diplomatic response.

“I know the layout of this place, all the plans. Without me, you'll be going in circles, since the really important stuff is underground, and it's a warren in there.” And she smirks at us. “Then we get the Declaration, book it to Rivet City and split the reward. Whaddya say?”

“Sounds fair to me,” advises I to Haines, “she's obviously a good scout, and an extra sword-arm won't hurt.”

“I suppose you're right,” grumbles he, then, “All right, let's team up. Lead on, MacDuff!”

“Smart move!” laughs she, “just for that I'll show you a shortcut.”

“I thought her name was Sydney,” is my uncomprehending response.

“I was quoting Shake-spear,” is his condescending explanation.

Sydney actually laughed at that, as she squatted over a terminal sitting between two bookcases, tapping away. “And the finish of days of hacking is...” mutters she.

The finish of days of hacking was that a chunk of the floor, dead centre of the chamber, clunked loudly and rose majestically about six inches, then stopped with another clunk.

“This cargo lift will take us straight to the Secure Wing,” says she proudly, “All aboard! It'll start going down in thirty seconds!”

Why the Earth people thought a secret lift in the middle of a public rotunda was a good idea I'll never know. It was something out of one of those drake dreadfuls.

“So, what can we expect?” Haines asks as we make our majestic if rather boring progress downwards.

“Be careful of gas,” says Sydney, looking at Haines' laser pistol, “there's a lot of leaks. And robots. I've seen protectrons and Mister Handys, but there may be some sentry-bots as well.” She thinks for a bit. “Oh yeah, there's turrets too.”

I saw a lot of shock magics looming in my immediate future.

Eventually the shaft slid up over our heads as we descended into a cavernous chamber with a single door out, and a voice blaring from a pair of horns above it.

“Men,” said a voice that sounded very much like Wadsworth, “today I address you with a message of utmost urgency. Our defences have been breached, and soon we'll engage the enemy!”

If that wasn't drake dreadful dialogue, I don't know what is.

“Remember, the will of the people is the only legitimate foundation of any government, and to protect its free expression should be our first object.”

I could see a couple of holes in his reasoning. Most people aren't thinking high and mighty thoughts about serving the Empire between waking and having their first piss of the day; they're mostly wondering what they need to do to earn their daily crust. Some jobs involve all that serving the Empire stuff but not all of it.

“As your leader, Button Gwinnett, distinguished representative of Georgia, I promise you: I have not yet begun to fight!”

And we all look at each other. “Notice is served,” mutters Haines, and off we go.

Sydney was right. The place was a nightmarish maze of tunnels and turrets, many hidden by roiling dust clouds and gas leaks. Oh, and robots. If they hadn't worked out by now that there were intruders here, the succession of gas explosions and shattered robots would have clued them in.

And Sydney was as good as her word, pointing us in the right direction to go at every junction, until we finally arrived at a door labelled STRONGROOM.

“The enemy is at the gates!” the unseen Mister Gwinnett confirmed we were at the right place, “Now is the time for the greatest of rallying cries! Wish not so much to live long as to live well!”

Which was hardly the greatest of rallying cries, but the door was unlocked and in we went, where Button Gwinnett awaited us.

He was a protectron in a wig.

“You've breached our defenses, evaded our best soldiers and you've raided my home,” oh what a preceptive machine. “But I have not yet begun to fight! I cannot allow you to steal our freedom! The Declaration must remain here! It is our symbol of hope, the one thing that cries out 'We are a free nation'!”

Whoever wrote his lines was a fair old windbag in life.

“You must be Button Gwinnett,” Haines cries before I can say anything intelligent, “Second signer of the Declaration!”

“Then my reputation precedes me,” says the machine proudly, “Good. That should make you well aware that I am not to be trifled with and that my loyalty to the States is legendary.”

Have you ever seen a protectron try to fold its arms?

“I know your fighting prowess far exceeds my own, but I will still duel you to the death if I must! What will it be then? Rapiers? Pistols at dawn? Out with it!”

I didn't know about pistols, but looming in the shadows behind the Button Gwinnett robot were two large and menacing turrets, neither of which was brandishing a rapier either. I had no interest in seeing what they could do in a fight.

“Can you shut this thing down?” asks I quietly to Haines.

“No idea,” Haines grumbles back quietly.

“Maybe if we work within its programming?” Sydney interjects.

And we look at her and then back at Button and Haines smiles slightly.

“Tell me, master Gwinnett,” simpers he at the robot, “The British seek to capture the Declaration of Independence, do they not?”

“That they do,” moans the mechanical man, “I hear the thumping of their cannonade getting closer by the minute. Soon, our walls will be breached and the last bastion of the U.S.A. may fall!”

“Ah, but perhaps we can trick the... Redcoats?”

“Interesting,” muses the push-button Gwinnett. “I had a plan for just this sort of situation. Perhaps this will prove that you're here as an ally rather than an enemy.”

And there's a short pause while the robot thinks, or something.

“I have it!” cries it, “We create a forgery of the Declaration and send it off to Great Britain! It might be just the delay we need to get the document out of here safely. I'd love to be at court when King George finds out he wasted all his resources gaining a forgery!”

We could have done with Mankar cursed Camoran getting a forgery of the Amulet of Kings, couldn't we?

“We have to be cautious though, the British scholars would recognize a poor duplicate almost immediately. If you were to bring me some iron gall ink, I could produce a mirror perfect duplication.”

“Ink?” repeats Haines, and then he's off with his pack and pulling it apart in a race to the bottom, where anything you need five seconds ago always seems to end up. Shortly thereafter he extracts an inkwell, of all things. “How about this?”

“Saints alive!” and the machine somehow expressed amazement, tenderly picking up the inkwell and turning to the desk. There was something utterly surreal about watching a product of high technology using a quill pen to painstakingly reproduce a document centuries old.

“I think it was from some sort of theatre,” Sydney said to me, “they probably had a bunch of these playing at being the Founding Fathers or something.”

“Here you are,” Button turned back to Haines, proudly offering a piece of paper, “a perfect copy. That should give ol' George something to think about. Now,” and it looked inquisitive, “What are the next orders from the Congress?”

And we look at each other.

“Well, our job here is done,” remarks Sydney.

“Let's go then,” says I.

“Right,” and Haines turns to the robot, “Keep the Declaration safe, Gwinnett. Don't let anyone take it.”

“It will be done,” cries the Gwinnett, “The only way to get the Declaration now would be to pry it from my cold, dead fingers.” Cold dead fingers with built-in energy weapons. “It's been an honor meeting you, I can see you are indeed a patriot among men. Now go, you'll have no further trouble from my men. Godspeed.”

We godsped.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that what I'd seen in the Archives was a microcosm of what had gone wrong with Earth. They'd become fixated on a perfect past, a mythic dawn if you will, and even as they looked steadily backwards they continued to march blind into the future's sword range.

I've met similar idiots on the Imperial Council, and I've no time for them. There's no heir to the Dragonborn's throne we know of, we can't bring Emperor Martin back from the dead, and we can't simply plop a crown on Ocato's bonce and make everything better.

The best way to deal with the future is face forward, eyes open, shield and sword and spell ready.

Especially when the immediate future involves bowling more damn big greenies as you cross a shattered landscape to Rivet City!

“What day is it?” grumbled I as the three of us wended our way through the ship's guts to the museum. The sun and my stomach both agreed it was lunchtime.

“September the seventh,” grunted Haines as we opened the hatch to the dingy curio exhibition Abraham Washington called a museum.

“You're back?” The old man emerges from a side room he was probably using as a bedchamber. “I can't wait to add the Declaration to the Society's collection!”

“Well, then, wait no longer,” declares Haines smugly, “The three of us have managed to get past all the defences and retrieve...”

And he presents the stupid document with a flourish.

“Oh my lord,” Abe breathes, stroking the thing respectfully, “I never expect... I mean, I am utterly shocked! You three have earned your places in the annals of American History, yes indeed. You will be remembered for this great day!”

And he puts the forged Declaration on a table and struggles to remove a picture frame from one wall. Being a good sport and respectful of my elders I go help him with placing the document in its new home.

I don't think it mattered that we'd basically tricked him. The document's historical importance was far greater than the material it was written on. Sydney would later retrieve the Bill of Rights, and to me that was a more important document. I took a copy back with me, and scholars are still debating its usefulness to us even now.

We could hold those discussions in the Arena. That way we could make some money from wagers.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Jan 2 2012, 09:35 AM