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]

[Hello folks and world. And in that order. After a massive and profound bout of writer's block, I've managed to get the Ra'jirra and Ernie show almost to the door of Vault 92. So here's some views along the way.]

10 September 2277: The Road to Vault 92

Arkansas ARKANSAS ArkaNsaS my name is ARKANsas ArkANSas ArkansaS

Every wall, every cement beam of the ruin was scrawled on as far as a lonely, deranged old man with a sniper rifle could reach. He'd used ashes, pencils, mud, and quite possibly his own blood, piss and turds. Sheogorath was his only company, poor sod.

Well, there were plenty of landmines until recently but they don't count.

According to Haines, who filled me in between ordinary adventures on the way (you know, mutant bugs, raiders, stuff like that) he'd been sent to this town by Moira, barely two days or so before our first meeting, to secure one of those borbas for her research. "She cooed over it like it was a baby," said he at one point, "thank God she didn't name it George."

I didn't get the reference.

Originally called Fairfield, the sheer number of mines that old Arkansas had laid pretty much gave the settlement its new name. There were a number of houses that looked surprisingly intact. As we walked along the main street, We passed one house that still had the name Gibson visible on the battered mailbox.

Ernie and I performed a comparison experiment on landmines. It seemed that while my Flare wasn't enough to ignite a mine, my Firestarter was able to blow them up in one go. The problem was that Firestarter needs more magicka than Flare, so it took longer to, ah, 'reload'. As such, in terms of speed, Ernie's laser pistol was superior. This is why you shouldn't look down your nose at ordinary, non-magical weapons, unless I'm sticking them in your face.

Still had some close calls as we satisfied our curiosity about the ex-residents.

The Gibson patriarch, I worked out, was an architect, thanks to a mostly intact book of house designs along with a model house in the front room. A desk in back suggested he worked from home too. They had a fairly rambunctious son, or maybe a sickly one, since his room not only had plenty of sporty-looking toys, but also a pair of crutches and some sort of brace.

I stood in what must have been the parents' bedroom looking at the skeletons on the bed, where they seemed to have died in their sleep. I had a nasty feeling poison had been involved.

And their son... wasn't there. I had a horrid vision of a small boy crawling out of the house, no doubt already dying, looking for help for his mum and dad...

The Gillians apparently went to die with their friends, the Bensons.

I doubt little Miss Zane ever got her mechanical horse, the Giddy-Up Buttercup. She had a poster of it on her wall still.

They survived the war itself. They must have. They attempted to fortify the town, barricade the road, hells, they might even have laid some of those mines to protect themselves while waiting for help to arrive.

Certainly Arkansas wasn't there at the time. From what we've learned, life expectancy in the Capital Wasteland was about thirty – if you were lucky. He just came along, didn't get killed, and decided to stay here and make this town of the dead a fortress, moated with mines.

"If you ask me," Haines stated, "He wanted to go back there. If he was from that state at all..."

We were looking at what appeared to be song lyrics amongst the old man's endlessly repeated name.

Sweet HOMe ARKANSAS wheRE the sKy's alWaYs BLuE sWeEt hOMe ARKANSAS I'm coMINg HomE to yoU

That wasn't the only name that preyed on Arkansas' mind though. Two others, 'Eulogy' and 'Jones', featured, along with some nasty statements I won't repeat here. Arkansas hated these jokers and kept claiming that they wouldn't get him.

"Those corpses we found," says I, "the fresh ones. Think they might be Eulogy and Jones?"

"Might be," Haines shrugs, "but now I want to get out of here. We need to keep going north if we're to reach Vault 92. I've seen an industrial building that way, so let's go there first."

It was a power station, according to the remaining paint on the walls. Huge bold letters, ten feet high: MDPL-13. Almost as high as the hairs on the back of my neck.

"We're being watched," says I quietly.

"I second that," says Haines doing something to his Pip-Boy, "Actually, these mines are kind of heavy..."

So we slipped into what turned out to be an office after plopping mines about the exit. If we were being watched, and the watchers decided to follow us in, we'd hear about it. More importantly, we'd know if the things still all worked.

Apart from ghouls and radiation, there wasn't much else. After Ernie worked his magic on the security system – the ghouls were unappreciative – we decided to stop playing and get on to Vault 92.

"There!" was our watchers' greeting. This was subsequently followed by variations on "Aargh!" Landmines tend to make you say things like that.

After we'd cleared up various wrong assumptions and patched up our gear with the late Talons' donations, we had a look at an ancillary building. Lots of dials and lights and fiddly-diddly bits. And a work table where someone had been working on some sort of weapon.

"Interesting," says Haines looking at the drawing, "it's called a 'Railway Rifle', because it fires these railway spikes." And he holds up a few big chunks of metal, about six inches long and half an inch thick, wrapped in a bit of wire. Not the sort of thing you'd want lodged in yourself. "You could pin your foes to the wall with that thing."

I didn't understand how it all worked, but the idea was it built up pressure enough to send one of those spikes flying through the air and hopefully into someone's joints. Gods know those rusty spikes wouldn't do much against decent armour.

-o-o-o-o-

Another rotten night's sleep heralded further slog northward. A major road swept a little east and a lot north, and we soon came to a turnoff with a notice, still vaguely legible. Greener Pastures Waste Disposal. More recently someone had scratched into the wood Raydeashun KEEP OUT!

"Someone didn't," Haines remarked, pointing at obvious bootprints. Either it was a scavenger we were following, or someone in trouble. But we followed them anyway.

The Earth concept of waste disposal was pretty simple: take a big hole and gardy-loo until it was full up. Food scraps, broken machinery, ruined clothes, toxic muck or just plain unwanted – into the big hole. Then they'd dump dirt on top and sell it as cheap land – until the trash started to rot away and cause subsidence, or emit toxic miasmas, or mutate local wildlife into ravening monsters, or other interesting effects.

Greener Pastures was a perfect example. The earth was pockmarked with evil-looking pools of vile fluids emitting nose-raping fumes, in the middle of which a large 'truck' – think a self-powered wagon, but able to carry more – lay on its side, broken in two. Just to underline the danger, plenty of signs warned of the danger of radiation, and advised who to call if any did get out.

"Let's check the office," was Haines' suggestion. I thought it a good idea.

Inside were desks, cracks in the floor which reeked of corruption and, yep, radioactivity, and a safe. While Haines did his magic with that, I went over to a small figurine and looked at it. Picture a big-headed doll of a blonde lad in a blue suit with yellow trim, balancing on one hand. The head jiggles gently when you touch it. The base of the figurine reads VAULT-TEC along the side, and if you turn it upside-down the base reads: AGILITY: Never be afraid to dodge the sensitive issues.

Dodging the issues. I could understand Ernie being angry at his father for shooting through without any explanation; he felt Dad had dodged an issue he was sensitive about. Later research would show that the resident politicians had repeatedly evaded confronting issues that turned into the Resource Wars. And there was one chap we'd meet who took issue-dodging to an art – anything to further his idiot crusade.

But I digress. There wasn't much to find in the office, but there was a shelter further along the trail of bootprints, made out of an old cargo container that somehow kept the interior radiation-free. Someone, apparently, had been living in the middle of this death zone.

As we rested and let our Rad-Away 'drips' do their thing, I wondered what sort of man would live here. Or maybe it was a temporary... no, the camp bed bolted to one wall had been carefully installed. This was meant to be a permanent residence.

My meditations were interrupted by something bumping against the outside, followed by a scraping like huge claws. The container was metal, so we knew all about it. Haines makes a frantic gesture at me and I immediately understand and dispel Starlight.

Whatever was outside made a sort of chuff and then its friend arrived. Or maybe its enemy. Had quite the discussion, then there was a groan that sounded painful. And so we sit there in the darkness until I see their life signs fade into the distance. Whatever they were the shapes of their life signs made me think of a cross between a daedroth and a hunger, both nasty daedra in a fight, and long may they stay away from me.

-o-o-o-o-

The next morning we finally left Oblivion on Earth and kept going north, veering westward to avoid some of the biggest, meanest and most decayed-looking bears I'd ever seen. Whatever radiation might have done to beasts that, in their normal state, could shove a dremora through a stone wall, or outrun a courier's horse, neither of us was all that interested in finding out.

Yes, I know, but there were plenty of opportunities later on, and some researchers actually survived.

As we went westward, Haines frowns and starts fiddling with his Pip-Boy. "What?" asks he, twiddling away, "That's odd..."

"What is?" is my intelligent inquiry.

"This," and out of his Pip-Boy emerges this strange gabbling sound – clearly something's language, but apparently Julianos didn't think it worth translating. High-pitched and flat, and oddly soulless. Now that I think of it, as I relate this tale, it reminds me of the chatter of goblins.

Now Haines is sweeping his arm about, one ear cocked, and I realise he's listening to the loudness. So while he's ear-farming that, I'm eye-farming the countryside for potential interruptions. "This way," says he at last and we're off almost due west.

We almost missed our destination because of a pack of dogs which were out for food and didn't really care that dinner shot back.

"That's... really odd," says Haines looking at the mostly circular contraption partly obscured by dead dogs. From the trail behind it, the thing must have been flying, as it apparently smashed through the upper level of what was a two-story house.

Also pretty smashed was a glassy bubble on what probably was the prow, and another glassy bubble on the head of the rider. A rider that looked like an angry sun-dried bell pepper.

"My god!" Haines exclaims, beholding the nasty thing, "An alien! A real live dead space alien!" And he starts dancing about like when my boy got his first toy sword!

"This is amazing!" cries he, "I mean, there's stories and such, but to meet a real live dead space alien–! Oh, I wish Dad could see..."

And it's about this time that he winds down a bit, and sees me looking at him.

"'Real live dead'?" is my enquiry.

And he just does this impersonation of a freshly caught fish.

"Well," says he at last, "you have to understand that, ah, encountering evidence of alien life was not what I was expecting."

"Of course."

"So discovery of an unequivocally extraterrestrial vehicle, and with occupant to boot, is an event bound to cause some excitement."

"Of course."

"And so naturally, ah, one might lapse into a bout of, um, exuberance."

"If he's coming with us, you carry him, right?"



This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: May 22 2012, 08:59 AM