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]

[Yes, this has been a long, long delay. I've been through a bad patch of writer's block, depression, upgrading and reinstalling all the things, and only last night did I figure out how to approach this chapter in a halfpie reasonable way.]

17 September 2277: From the Journals of Dr. Earnest Haines
I remember this conversation quite well, even after what happened in Vault 112, and despite Dad's insistence on getting to Rivet City yesterday I must write it down.

The blasted Khajiit refused to answer any of my questions until we were about an hour west of Big Town, and had dealt to the local insect life.

“Well?” I asked, “You kept saying you'd explain later. This feels like 'later' to me!”

Ra'jirra just looked around, then nodded. “All right,” he grunted, “my instructions were to open that portal in a safe location for a staging post, because the Imperial Council think we can help each other.”

The notion sounded absolutely ludicrous to my ears. “How?” I asked, “By taking over this country? This world? I'm not sure we're ready for – for – Stendarr worship yet!”

Yes, I had a little magical ability now, which still surprised me. I am still not convinced that this Stendarr actually exists, but repeated, ah, testing has proven that not only does the visualisation and invocation work, but that its efficacy increases with practice. (It is quite likely that this so-called magic is closer to the concept of a 'super-Science' as hinted at in the derivative works of H. P. Lovecraft's mythos.)

“That fellow in Rivet City may have garbled our history,” I added, “but he was right in that King George was riding roughshod over us, charging taxes that didn't benefit us at all, and understand this – that I will be damned if we're going to swear fealty to your emperor from another world!”

“You won't,” he replied after a little while, “because the Emperor's been dead for a dozen years. That's why we need your help, and we're willing to help you. Fair deal.”

That stopped me cold. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he started, “depending on who you talk to, we're either in Year 445 of the Third Era, which is the official date, or Year 12 of the Fourth Era, seeing as the Septim line died with Emperor Martin when... when he...”

His eyes went distant as though remembering something terrible. “Let's keep walking,” he muttered and turned westward.

“Turn a little south,” I said after fiddling with my Pip-Boy and the Vault-Tec overlay. “We can check Vault 106; Dad might have passed that way.”

“What? Oh, right,” Ra'jirra nodded and then shook himself. We walked in silence for a bit, then he began speaking.

“Third Era 433, that was when a wanker called Mankar Camoran and his pack of daedra worshipping scum,” this terminal cannot express the venom in his tone, “The Mythic Dawn, assassinated three of Emperor Uriel's sons and managed to chase down and off the Emperor himself, despite the best that one Zul gro-Radagash could do.

“From the sound of things, Ocato suspected that there was a spy for Mankar the Wanker in the royal staff and had Zul thrown in the jug on spurious charges, since there's no way that a respected member of the Fighters' Guild and the Arena would do anything deserving of that.” He turned to me and rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Anyway, every Emperor... had the blood of the Dragonborn in their veins, so the Amulet of Kings let... them wear it.” His struggle with tenses was interesting, as though he expected to hear of a long-lost branch of the Septim family making an appearance. “And that's important, because only with the Amulet c...could the new-crowned Emperor, and I'm not completely sure I remember right, use the power of the Red Diamond of Akatosh to light the Dragonfires at the Temple of the One, which was absolutely vital to protect us from Oblivion's little darlings.”

“Some sort of magical protection?” was my surmise. It sounded like some sort of genetic trait was needed to activate this Amulet of Kings or at least access its functionality.

“A barrier between Mundus and the planes of Oblivion,” he nodded, “Because the Princes of Oblivion... the nice ones are just indifferent. Mankar the Wanker was dancing to the tune of Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Destruction.”

“One of the nasty ones?”

“One corner of the House of Troubles. There's also Molag Bal, Prince of Rape, Malacath, Prince of... um, Curses and the Cursed I think... oh, and Sheogorath, Prince of Madness. Basically four bad buggers you don't want setting up shop in your reality, and here's some idiot Altmer handing one of them the keys. And where one goes, the others will want a piece...

“Anyway, with the Dragonfires out the Mythic Dawn started getting busy, starting with the opening of the first Oblivion Gates at Kvatch, sacking the place.” He stopped walking and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Makes sense, Kvatch is a fortress town atop a mesa, and you can see it for miles. When it was sacked...”

“It would have demoralised everyone who saw it,” I surmised.

“More than that,” he agreed, “If it wasn't for the power of Akatosh, Martin Septim would have carked it before he could be found.”

It took me a while to understand what Ra'jirra was saying. “There was a fourth prince?”

“Ah... sort of... look, as far as I'm concerned Uriel was being smart and adopting one out to be raised in secret. Only the Grandmaster of his personal guard, the Blades, knew who he was, and when Zul fronted up with the Amulet of Kings, well, obviously it was time to go fetch the lad. Unfortunately between then and arriving at Kvatch, Mankar's wankers invited the daedra to play.”

“And this Akatosh protected him?” I was getting a little confused. “What is Akatosh?”

“One of the Nine Divines, like your friend Stendarr, also known as the Dragon God of Time.” Space-time, more like, if this being was involved in barring visitors from these Oblivion planes. Perhaps they were like the theories some people had of alternate universes, or so-called 'parallel worlds' or 'higher dimensions'. I suspect if this is the case, then any experimentation or attempts to replicate the portal Ra'jirra had opened with just gestures and words should be undertaken in strictest containment – and well away from anywhere populated or essential!

“So Kvatch was cleansed of daedra, and Martin was rescued,” Ra'jirra went on, “but Mankar pulled a fast one and stole the amulet during that time. Martin was whisked to safety, and Zul was sent running around all over Cyrodiil doing quests and one thing or another, I don't know what, but he killed the last unicorn in the land during it.”

His face was angry. “I liked that unicorn,” he added, “we didn't see eye to eye but we had good times travelling together.”

Unicorn? Well, his world had obviously undergone a radically divergent evolutionary path, so perhaps horses with horns were inevitable.

“Obviously I wasn't paying attention because J'Dargo was born, and then one of those bloody gates popped open virtually on our doorstep, and...”
He trailed off again, obviously remembering something he'd rather forget.

“Anyway, after about a year or so I'm summoned to the Imperial Palace and told to wear my formal rags, and, well, you could have knocked me over with a sprig of fennel when in comes this young man in full royal robes and the Amulet of Kings on his breast, and it's our new Emperor Martin!

“Unfortunately almost right away the Mythic Dorks pulled their last gambit and ripped Oblivion gates open all over the city. Sodded up the coronation ceremonies too.

“So I'm charging outside with magicka at the ready, and I can see the red lightning and hear the screams, and we're charging into the Temple District hells for leather and...”

And he stumbled, caught up in his memories.

“Old Dagon himself was there,” he said at last, kneading his ankle for any sprain or serious injury, “a hundred feet tall, crushing mortal and daedra alike underfoot, but I got distracted by some ziv-il-eye (spelling?) which was about to attack a mother and children, and then, the Temple exploded.

“And there was Akatosh himself, bellowing defiance at Mehrunes Dagon, and everyone just stopped dead and watched them! I didn't know Emperor Martin had sacrificed himself then, all I could see was Dagon and the Dragon in combat...”

He trailed off, shaking his head. “But that meant Martin was dead now?” I asked.

Ra'jirra shook himself back to the present. “Yeah. Ocato's been ruling as Chancellor, but some people are starting to ask why bother with an Empire when there's no Emperor. Society's falling apart, and we need to preserve law and order.”

I am no political scientist, but I could see a flaw in his thinking. Ra'jirra was used to the idea of living in a dynastic Empire, but there were other ways of organising society, such as the fine American institution of democracy. After twelve years, perhaps the time was right to suggest such a superior political system?

“So I've seen radios that allow you to talk to people miles away, as though you're in the same place. I've seen vehicles that would make the Dwemer cry with envy – sure, they don't go any more, but it's the general idea. And these weapons, to protect the Empire's citizens. That's what you –” he waved an arm at the wasteland about us – “can offer us.”

“And in return?” I couldn't see what Ra'jirra's people could offer us.

“Food,” he replied. “Water's half the problem here. I haven't seen that many farms around, and the ones I did see aren't arable any more – or safe to work at.”

He had a point! Dad's work at Project Purity might keep people from dying of thirst and radiation poisoning, but not from starvation. I hadn't seen any signs of old garden stores, and any produce in supermarkets would have long rotted away, or have been rendered sterile by preservation methods. “So that's the trade is it? 'Guns for butter'?”

“Yeah, something like that,” he nodded, “and viable seeds, saplings from pine and other good wood-producing trees, then later we bring in some herd animals, maybe a few farmers to teach the basics, and next thing you know, you'll be eating real steaks for dinner.” (Some time ago, at his querying, I had explained some of the ingredients listed on a Salisbury Steak packet. He's refused to eat them ever since.)

“Anyway, once word gets out about Big Town being the place to go for decent food and water, you can bet anything they'll become the focal point for every swine who thinks might makes right.”

“Hence the troops,” now I understood, “that actually makes sense. Still... to raise crops we need water, and cows and sheep need grass, so... we need to find Dad!”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Ra'jirra nodded. “So how far to Vault 106?”

As it happened we finally found the entrance barely an hour later. The door was open though, and the place looked abandoned.

At one point, the flickering lights seemed to turn bluish, making the walls seem clean and well-maintained. I turned to mention this to Ra'jirra, but found him a way back, staring in horror with his tail stiff and bristling.

“Haines!” He gasped, “It's a trap! See the grate? The groove in the ceiling?”

“What grate?” The ceiling had plenty of pipes and cables, but no groove. “What groove?”

The lights returned to normal, leaving Ra'jirra confused. “Haines... for a moment... we were in an Ayleid ruin, I thought...”

“Must have been a trick of the light,” I responded.

As we got deeper, Ra'jirra asked me at one point, “Does the air in here taste blue to you?”

“Blue?” I remember replying, “What do you mean, blue?”

“Well,” and he waved a hand, “It's the closest I can come to describing it.”

I didn't fully understand until we entered the main atrium, and now I could smell something in the air, a fragrance that made me think of the perfume old lady Taylor used to wear. I turned to mention this to Ra'jirra, but he didn't seem to hear me, looking around in horror, then he screamed, pulled out that mace he totes all the time and tried to attack me! “Daedric bastard!” he yelled in rage, “we'll see who's the naw-thing [sic] now!”

I did the only thing I could: I backpedalled quickly while trying to reason with him! “I'm not daedric,” I kept repeating, “It's me! Earnest Haines! What's got into you?”

When Dad attacked him from behind with an old pool cue, it still took me some time to understand what the hell was going on. I fired a warning shot with my AEP-7, but it was blue.

And Dad turned into someone else in a filthy Vault jumpsuit, bearded and seemingly insane. Ra'jirra faltered, and my next shot was not only fatal, but its normal red hue.

“What?” Ra'jirra turned around again, blinking. “But... there was... it was a...”

“Hallucination,” I was feeling a little scattered myself. “The air in here's contaminated with some sort of hallucinogenic gas!”

“Gas?”

“Yes, gas!” I slapped him across the muzzle and that seemed to clear his wits. “There's something in the air that's making us see things that aren't there! We have to be careful if we're to find any sign of Dad.”

“Shouldn't we get out of here then before I start seeing dremoras again?”

We should have, but I had the (probably drug-induced) notion that Dad might still have been down there, tripping out of his mind. We trekked through the Vault's rooms and, if I may be literary, the doors of perception before finally admitting defeat and fleeing.

All we found was disturbing evidence that provided a second data point to support my current hypothesis regarding the purpose of specific Vaults, particularly those designated by even numbers.

“So far,” I explained to Ra'jirra once we had escaped into the cleaner air of the surface, “We've been in two Vaults, both collapsed due to experimentation that went out of control, both with even numbers in their designations! I was in Vault 101, which was perfectly fine, and it was an odd number. Now, if even numbers mean experimentation, then Vault 112...”

He got the gist judging by his expression.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” I asked, to make sure no effects of the gas lingered.

“Three,” which was correct, “how many am I holding up?” He made something like a reversed peace sign, in that his palm faced himself instead of away.

“Two,” which was also correct, since my mind was quite stabilised again, “So our heads are all clear, but no more delay! We must head west and find Vault 112 as soon as we can!”