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]

I know, it's been way too long. This chapter's been fighting me until tonight, and I swear Magic, as Opposed to Magic is taking over my writing. Anyway:

Germantown's police station – it's Earth for guardhouse basically – was fronted by a small encampment behind wire mesh fence reinforced by sandbags. The building itself looked reasonably intact, but the clutter outside could and did conceal any opposition.

“Hold,” says I, and cast Watchfulness. Sure enough, two large blobs, about mutant size, were mooching around.

From the looks of things – once our attention was no longer claimed by our would-be greeters – the area outside was supposed to be some sort of relief camp, sort of a less ad-hoc version of what the survivors of Kvatch ran up. Unfortunately nobody realised just how bad things were until it was too late. Then I guess the raiders and mutants moved in.

We ended up having to go around the back and argue with the door guard about popping in via the top floor, and almost immediately heard a most interesting confab between a pair of the big lunks.

“...Got two here still.”

“The female is locked up. We'll take her back with us.” Lunk Two sounded had a slightly deeper voice. Still sounded like a constipated dremora though. “The tiny male's too small. He won't be coming back with us, will he?” There was a slapping sound and both laughed. That was happiness and joy. Evidently Red and some other kid were still alive. Double our heroism in the eyes of Big Town.

“We almost got all of those little people from Big Town. What then?” asks Lunk One.

“Find more. Somewhere else!” From the sound of a big green head getting smacked it was clear Lunk Two was getting a little tired of having to explain that.

“What about green stuff?” Lunk One sounded a little wistful. “I haven't found any. Ever. Maybe it's a lie. Maybe we're wasting our time. We could be out killing...”

“We got plenty of green stuff!” Lunk Two adds another blow for emphasis. “Big guy says catch them and take them home. Make them one of us. Then we go and kill them all!”

That thought seemed to cheer up the two mutants immensely.

After adding our two drakes' worth of objections to the discussion, we explored the remnants of the guardhouse. On Earth as it is in Tamriel, the Germantown guardsmen were charged with keeping the peace in many and varied areas, including the apparently thorny issue of where you could leave your vehicle.

Their take on such issues led me to found the Institute of Technological Philosophy, which is founded on the principle that while technology is nice and has much to offer, the last thing we need are victims like Jenny Wilkins. I'm going to gas on for a bit on why I felt the need to found such an organisation, so if all you want is 'Arch-Mage Beats Up Monsters', skim until you run into the sentence 'We found Red in an old holding cell'.

Haines and I obviously found some old terminals that were still working, and there were a few records still available. Including this one, which even years later makes my blood boil:

Owner: Wilkins, Jenny
Offense(s):
4 Parking Tickets <Unpaid>
Note(s):
During tow, perp entered into a screaming match with the driver claiming presence of an infant in the vehicle. Upon further inspection after the tow, her baby was indeed in the back seat. We've since moved the child into the lost and found and are holding it until Ms. Wilkins pays impound fines and retrieves her automobile.

For those who can't read guard, Jenny Wilkins' car was towed, presumably on the fourth time she'd left it for far too long. Cars are mighty big, about twenty feet long by eight or so. Imagine whole flotillas of those rolling around the streets of the Imperial City or Bravil and you'll figure out why parking periods were rigidly enforced.

But they towed the car without checking if Wilkins was telling the truth! They effectively kidnapped her baby, treating the poor child as though it was nothing but a sack of potatoes!

If this had happened in Tamriel, the guardsmen would have given Wilkins the benefit of the doubt, checked the thing, spotted (or heard, or, from my own experiences, smelled) the babe, and attempted to reunite it with its mother. Those Earth idiots didn't even try until half past too late.

It was there in Germantown that I formulated the first question of Technological Philosophy: Does technology make you stupid? Which we haven't answered yet, since it's been pointed out that too much is unknown. Such as the competence and mindset of the guardsman who authorised the tow, the attitudes of Earth people to those in authority and vice versa, and so on and on. But we're getting there. After all, Earth might hold the key to preserving the Empire against its foes. But we must not become reliant on technological solutions, nor walk into the same traps the Earth people did.

Anyway, we found Red in an old holding cell on the ground floor, pretty shaken but apparently not badly injured, since the young Redguardish woman was peering through the bars at us. “Quick!” hisses she, “Unlock the door!”

That was Haine's time to shine, rattling the frankly battered keys on a nearby terminal that the mutants had apparently been working the locks with. With a chorus of clangs the locks all popped and out she jumps, exclaiming, “You're rescuing Shorty and me? Thanks!”

“Shorty?” asks I, “There's others alive?”

“Just Shorty,” sighs she, “I think the others are dead...” and she looks at the bloody bags the mutants use for pomanders, “or worse.”

“No prisoner left behind,” growls I, looking at Haines, “Where's Shorty?”

“I think they took him downstairs just before you arrived. Something about a bite to eat before leaving.”

“Well,” muses I, then off comes the pack and I pull out a pistol and some ammo. “Take that and... no wait. Park yourself behind this terminal where it's dark, and if anything pops in, wait until you see the whites of their eyes. We'll go find Shorty.”

Haines actually waited until we left Red cowering under the desk and were partway down the stairwell, before asking, “Why are we wasting our time? There might be more coming, and this Shorty is probably dead!”

And I just look at him. “We don't know that,” growls I, “and two rescued people are better than one.”

And he thinks and finally says “Oh” as he gets it.

Aside from a few radroaches, which were quietly dispatched with fireballs, we had a straightforward creep towards the sound of raised voices coming from a reeking kitchen.
“You freak! You're going to eat me, aren't you?” The lad had some fairly obvious balls.

“Grrr! Hungry!” was the inevitable response, including the sounds of things being hit with a cleaver.

“There's plenty of body parts laying around, why don't you eat those instead?” I could hear an undercurrent of fear in his bravado.

“Not fresh! Not warm! Taste old,” was the expected and pretty petulant response. Haines looks around and raises one finger. I cast Watchfulness and agreed. Just the one mutant down here.

“I hope you choke on my bones!” Shorty was losing his cool.

Now we could see the bulk of a mutant, standing partly in a doorway with its shoulder to us, taunting the kneeling form of what must have been Shorty. There seemed to be something wrong with its leg, which might have explained why it was down here on kitchen duties. Naturally, the two of us were only to happy to assist the beast's decline.

We were so focussed on the mutant, we didn't notice the kitchen radroach until the creature came over and tried chewing on Ernie's kneecaps. Stealth went out the window at that point in a blast of gunfire on both sides. Did you know that a decent frost spell to the head can freeze to the skull, increasing the damage done by bullets?

Anyway, after we scattered snap-frozen mutant brain all over the place, we had our first look at Shorty. A small fellow who made me think of pictures of Akaviri men, save the surprised look on his mug.

“Thanks! Who – uh, what –” (looking at me, naturally) “– are you – no wait never mind, I don't care right now. Let's go get Red and get out of here!” blurts he.

“Sounds like a plan,” grins I, and out of the station we four get!

-o-o-o-o-

About mid-afternoon we returned victorious to an understandably short-lived celebration.

“Apparently a bunch of mutants were searching up north,” Red explains, “When they find out what's happened, they're likely to take it out on us.”

Hardly surprising to me. Big Town was a reasonably fortified place, but its pathetic little ditch and board bridge weren't a proper gate and moat. They simply didn't have the weaponry, the skills, or the morale, even now, to fight off a group of angry and determined foes.

“Perhaps we can think of something,” Haines strokes his chin, “What do you think... Ra'jirra? Arch-Mage? Hey!”

I wasn't listening. I was walking around the Big Town compound, trying to make a decision. A decision I could only make once, and once it was done that was that.

The layout of the compound was a sort of fat H-shape, with one side having the entrance, and the other an old playground, reached between two houses. Gaps between the buildings were blocked by rubble and stacked old cars. It struck me that it was a most defensible setup.

“Hey! Ra'jirra!” Haines' voice was an annoying buzz in my ear, but I ignored it and pulled out a scroll tied with three ribbons, and held it in my hand, dithering.

“Damn it, Ra'jirra! What the hell are you doing?”

So I look at him, realising that I'd already decided, say “This” and start reciting.

Scrolls are a funny sort of enchantment. Basically, you embed a spell into the paper via a set of runes (usually Daedric), special inks I'm not at liberty to disclose the composition of, and a fair whack of magicka. At the same time, you prime the thing to go off when a key phrase is uttered by the holder. Most scrolls use simple, short phrases for use in life-threatening situations.

This one was more complex. It actually had a sequence of phrases and invocations to the Divines in general and Akatosh in particular, all firing a series of esoteric spells in a specific order.

I will admit that I read the final instruction, 'Release scroll and stand well back!' aloud before twigging.

The scroll in any case was replaced by a swelling ball of blue-white... energy, is the only word that seems apt... that expanded to about seven feet across, before fading into a view of stone walls, wall sconces, and defenders of the Empire.

“Come on through,” calls I, “we've got some folk here need defending.”

And Ernie gapes at me as though I've lost my mind, then at the Decanus as she rolls through. “Decanus Magda Snow-Bear,” she introduces herself, then the drake drops for me.

“Gallus Mag?” says I before I can stop myself, “I remember you spitting me out of the Bloated Float!” Sad to say I didn't remember much else. However, being dragged out of a nice warm tavern by a large Nord woman, who's doing so by gripping your ear in her teeth, is fairly memorable.

It's even more memorable when your ear comes off and you next see it in that pickle jar she kept behind the bar.

“Did I?” To my relief it seemed the Legion had given the lass a sense of humour. “I bounced plenty of drunks out of there like that.” And she looks my head over. “You must have been well behaved too, you still have 'em both.”

“Will someone please explain what the hell is going on?” asks Haines with understandable restraint.

“The Decanus here used to be a bouncer down the waterfront,” says I poker-faced.

“Charmed,” lies Haines.

“And she, along with her contuberii, are going to convince the super mutants that messing with Big Town is a suicidal notion,” adds I smugly.

“How?” Haines still wasn't convinced.

“What's the makeup of your lot?” I ask Mag.

“Half archers, half infantry,” reports she, “And pretty much trained for expeditionary work. These children need defending huh?”

And so I run down our impending super mutant problem for her.

“And we're not kids,” Flash declares, “we're grown up! We're mungos now.”

“And we're professionals,” Mag shoots back, then turns to the portal and summons her troops through. “And bring ladders!”

“Ladders?” is my intelligent response.

“These houses look sturdy enough,” explains she, “They'll provide an elevated field of fire for the archers. If the beasts get to the gate, then they'll have swords to deal with as well.”

Oh.

“What about us?” one of the Big Town residents asks, “We've got guns!”

“Yeah!” adds a lad I recognise from our first arrival, “And that big one that lady brought us!”

“She got here in one piece? Great,” says I.

The legionnaires under Mag's command arrived with their ladders, and not to my surprise one goes up on the house closest to the portal, and then Mag heads to the gate and gets the other set up to the north of it. Also not to my surprise, once all four archers are upstairs one sings out.

“Incoming northwest! Count six... look like ogres.”

“Are they green?” asks I.

“Yeah!”

“There's our super mutants,” growls I, “Time to slam the doors.”

And away Mag goes shouting orders and lining her ground forces around the bridge.

I'm sure for the citizens of Big Town it was most educational. Super mutants don't seem to be able to climb, or change their plans, so the silly sods just kept plodding into the rain of arrows the Legion archers sent their way. The first two of the stubborn sods pretty much turned into pincushions when they went down.

The other just shot at the archers with typical lack of precision. Legion armour isn't exactly bulletproof, and mutant hide's mighty tough, but what a professionally launched arrow lacks in force it makes up for in aim. Also joints and eyes are natural weakpoints, so the greenies were having to protect their heads, which meant they couldn't see to shoot straight, and ended up limping to the bridge.

And that's where a bunch of angry folk with guns were waiting to pick them off.

The last two were noticeably bigger and tougher than their buddies, and these guys actually made it over the bridge. That's when the footsoldiers of the Legion pretty much hacked them off at the knees. Ugly number five was effectively disembowelled at the gate, and ugly number six just stormed over the top of him, waving a huge hammer and screaming in rage. Just in time to get three swords, one war axe, a spectacularly large Nordic battleaxe, a dose of shock magic and the last of the minigun ammo in his guts. At least twice.

Super mutants might be strong, but they still need things like an intact body and a full supply of blood in order to survive, so down he goes in a mighty wet thud. Not that anyone was complaining. The sun was setting and the dragon flew above us.

Afterwards, Haines and Flash both approached me, skirting the Legionnaires who were setting up tents in the faint light of the portal.

“Ra'jirra,” Haines begins, “we cannot help noticing that, er, these soldiers seem to be...”

“Are they gonna leave us?” Flash jumps in.

“No,” says I, “they'll stay here for a fortnight, then another contuberia will rotate in.”

“But...” Flash looks worried. “We don't have enough to share with your...”

“Fear not,” says I, “more than likely they'll share food and medicines with you. Would that be right, Decanus?”

“That's right,” Mag nodded, watching two of her legionnaires swearing a heavy barrel from the portal to where the others were being arrayed. “We're aware of the dearth of food and clean water as you reported, so we'll lay in a supply before fortifying this place.”

“Fortifying?” Flash blinks. “You mean, you're gonna stay and keep us safe?”

“Fortifying?” Haines yelps. “You mean you're taking over here?”

“What?” is Flash's understandable response to that.

“They have to,” is mine. “That portal isn't closing any time soon. The instructions that came with it were clear: find a defensible spot to open the portal, and I'll be honest, Big Town here is just that. Once the compound here is done up as a motte, I'll bet every drake I have that the Legion will annexe all the houses around it for a bailey. Am I right?”

“Don't bother betting,” Mag grins.

“So what that means is that you and the citizens of Big Town are now under the protection of the Empire. Keep your eyes and minds open and you'll learn a few useful trades that might help bring in the caps and goods too.

“I'm gonna be blunt. Whoever's in charge of Little Lamplight exiled you here to die. Well, bugger that. This is your home, and we'll help you make it thrive.”

And Haines just looks at me, promising a heated discussion tomorrow, probably.