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

[Remko]

Interesting. Oh, and funny as hell

[mALX]

Congrats on thread two !! I'll be back to read the chapter when I've had some coffee!


ARGH! It's Julian of Anvil !!!!!! She's everywhere !!!!

This post has been edited by mALX: Sep 8 2010, 01:35 PM

[SubRosa]

You have me wondering about Black Plateau for a while. Then when I saw Julian's letter, it all made sense. I suppose Gordon Freeman has already vanished? Ra'jirra better watch for headcrabs, rather than mudcrabs!

[treydog]

My doggie nose sniffs out a wild ride here. As well as (immodestly) spotting a reference or two to some people I know...

And Julian appears again. She is more ubiquitous than that Waldo fella....

Can't quote everything, so I will just pick one:

...looking very tired and like he misplaced a lot of blood somewhere.

Don't you hate it when that happens?

This post has been edited by treydog: Sep 8 2010, 10:52 PM

[Cardboard Box]

I've just had PMs with Haute Ecole Rider. He and I agree that I not only neglected to ask permission first, but I also deviated too far from who Julian is.

As such I have basically rewritten her out of the story.

[mALX]

I've just had PMs with Haute Ecole Rider. He and I agree that I not only neglected to ask permission first, but I also deviated too far from who Julian is.

As such I have basically rewritten her out of the story.

Oh, I thought you had permission - I was going to jump on Hauty while she was saying yes and have Owyn meet Julian and develop an unrequited attraction to her.

[Cardboard Box]

This part of the story was the most fun and challenging to write, since obviously there are concepts and objects Ra'jirra is going to experience first-hand that have no parallels in Tamriel, not to mention they don't know how to spell them anyway.

_____________________________

Chapter 1. Black Plateau

As I mentioned, I arrived five days later at Black Plateau in a bad mood. Normally the trip takes four days, but a pack of slavers had the nerve to set up shop close on to the route. Now we don't have proper roads to Black Plateau for the simple reason that it's one more thing to discourage the nosey from coming up. And while slavers tend not to be nosey, there's the little issues of there being laws against them, so their presence might attract folks more curious still. Also in the event of certain experiments getting loose the last thing you need is some idiot nearby who either sees them as potential profit or charges off spreading panic or worse.

So I wasted a day wiping slaver scum from my armament and the face of the earth before arriving at the outer gate. The only thing that would have made the day worse would have been meeting that damnable Zul gro-Radagash – thankfully I didn't.

But first let me explain how Black Plateau works, and why. Black Plateau is based in eastern Cyrodiil, very close to the Morrowind border. It's a complex of buildings devoted to three things: magickal research of a dangerous nature; containment of magickal research of a dangerous nature; and cleaning up as required after said magickal research of a dangerous nature.

The place is arranged in a set of rings. Inner Ring is where all the interesting stuff takes place – and the exciting stuff if you're unlucky. Middle Ring is where the battlemages keep problems and secrets in and nosey parkers out. And Outer Ring is where people do their eating, sleeping, healing and all the lovely paperwork. And that's all you need to know, except for one last thing: Stay out.

Inmates like Ancotar and Henantier hate it, but as far as I'm concerned uprooting them and their precious research is all for the common good. And Aleswell's.

To my surprise Bruce was waiting for me at the gate, that daft hat on his head, leaning against the wall in a deceptively casual stance that actually favoured his leg and left his weapon hand free.

"Now what's going on?" I ask him. "Must be important to get you up and about."

And he just looks at me, steady blue eye under white hair. "It is," says he, "Laren's opened an entirely new gate."

I handed over the reins to the ostler and gods, Bruce can move as fast on that stick as he hits hard with it – or so I've been told!

"So how're the kits?" asks he over her shoulder as I catch up to him entering Middle Ring.

"Doing well," says I, "The messenger got whacked by bandits on the Red Ring Road though. J'dargo was all for going after them."

And we both chuckle at that. "Tell you what," says he, "I'll write out a recommendation for the Legion. He can take that when he's of age to join."

"What about the Fighter's Guild?" Sure, Lord Snot Golem was one of them, but it's always a good idea to keep your kits' options open.

"You want him to follow in the steps of gro-Radagash?" and he stops and looks at me and I look at him and then I continue chasing after him. I won't stop J'dargo if he wants to join the guild. I'll just live long enough to be a nuisance to him in my dotage.

Bruce led me into the Inner Ring, and headed towards Building 3. Like all the buildings in the Inner Circle, it's an ugly barn-like structure designed for holding horrors in so they don't get loose, or at bay if they do get loose, or quick repairs when things go boom. Inside is one large hallway with windows and doors opening into four laboratory rooms each side. Bruce and I joined a group of guards and magi, who were peering through the window into Lab 7.

Inside the room was a big globe of flickering light, about six and a half feet across, that varied from an intense purplish blue to blue-white. There was no indication of any frame, which would have suggested which daedric prince it was associated with. I could hear a vague sound coming from it but the glass turned it into an unintelligible murmur.

"So what the hell am I looking at?" was my intelligent inquiry.

"Um," the intelligent response came from a frazzled-looking Dunmer everyone agreed was Tuls Laren, "This is meant to be a portal to a point outside the building."

"What the hell for?" asks I, "There's these things called doors, you know." This broke some of the tension, except on Tuls' part.

"Well excuse me! I am attempting to rediscover the secrets of the guild guides, who as you know were all wiped out when the daedra overran Morrowind, Arch-Mage, and my intention was to start small! Today a portal to the outside, tomorrow I could link legion outposts from High Rock to – to Gnisis!"

"All right, all right," says I with a wave of the hand, "I understand now. So if this is a portal, where does it go?"

Tuls just looks at me. "Some place called the Capital Wasteland," says he, "listen."

And he opens the door to the lab, and now I can faintly hear music, as from a long way off, but distorted. It stopped, and an equally distant, distorted and boisterous voice butted in. I still remember that diatribe.

"We interrupt our regularly scheduled program for – da-da-da-dah – some news! For those of you not in the know, to the northwest of Megaton is this vault, Vault 101. Now, believe it or not, this one's still got people livin' in it! And every few years, someone comes scrabblin' out! Well, wouldn't you know it, someone's come out of it again. And, I kid you not, he came to visit yours truly, right here in the studio! Now this cat, James is his name, had been in the hole for years. He needed to know what was what out here in the beautiful Capital Wasteland. So I, the great and powerful Three Dog, set my brother straight. I told him what was what. The winners – the losers – the movers... and the shakers.

"So if you see James out there, say hello. Be kind to our new brother. And show him that here on the outside, we always fight the good fight. Hey – and in case a light bulb started glowin' over your head, you can flick the switch and forget about it. You're not getting into that vault. Whoever lives in there sure as hell doesn't want what you're sellin'. And no, you can't knock down the door. It weighs like... thirteen tons.

"And now, a super-important public service announcement! We all know the dangers of radiation, but with the right precautions, you can prevent accidental death or even – yeugh! – ghoul-ification. Keep your eyes on those gy-gur counters kids. Tick-tick-tickety means 'run your boat outa there.' And pop some Rad-Away for good measure. If you do need to head into the heat, be smart. Give yourself a nice boost of Rad-X first. Remember, only you can prevent human flesh fires.

"Thanks for listening, chill-dren! This is Three Dog! – Owww! – and you're listening to Galaxy News Ray-dee-oh. We're Ray-dee-oh Free Wasteland and we're here – for you. And now, some music."

Tuls closed and locked the door on some bard singing about how he was a mighty mighty man or some similar tripe.

"I have made notes on this man's pronouncements," Tuls went on. "He repeats himself a lot. He also doesn't seem to be able to hear us, no matter how loudly we call. But look in the corner there."

So I look and I see a cockroach resting in pieces. It was hard to miss.

"Ahnissi's dugs," says I, "that bug's a foot long!"

"It came through the portal," says Tuls, "and it was hungry. Fortunately it wasn't immune to fire."

"Or sharp objects," a guard added.

"I want to see your notes on this portal," says I.

We went next door into Lab Eight, where a large mass of books and papers above the floor implied there was a table underneath somewhere.

"As you know, Arch-mage," starts Tuls, slowly at first but getting more animated, "the Empire is besieged on all sides. Daedra, if reports are true, are rampant in Morrowind and Skyrim. Brigands are flowing out of Valenwood, and –"

"Your portal will change all that how?" asks I.

"Arch-mage, my portal, when perfected, will allow troops to bridge great distances as though walking through a door! One step the Imperial barracks, the next the battlefield! No more vulnerable supply trains, forced marches, any of that rot –"

"Steady," I put a hand on Bruce's arm as he starts breathing hard through his nose and his hat starts trembling.

"– Fresh troops as and when needed! Now, from what we know of the gates of Mehrunes Dagon..."

"Explain to me later," says I, cutting Tuls off (and earning a grateful look from Bruce), "that's what should be, now about what is. What do we know of what's beyond the portal?"

"Nothing much," up pipes Henantier, to my surprise. Then again, he did create a gateway into his own dreams so of course he'd be teamed up with Laren. "We haven't sent scouts through yet since we don't know how stable the portal is."

"Also it was felt that scouting should not be done without first informing the Arch-mage," Bruce added, and I noticed the hurt looks from Laren and Henantier. Still, when Bruce decides, you don't undecide him.

"That giant insect suggests other giant creatures," he went on, "so we may enter into a world of giants."

"We don't know that," Laren says irritably, "if you would let me attempt to make visible what is beyond the portal..."

"But if it's unstable it could do anything!" Henantier cries.

"Don't you think I know my own damn portal? It's simply a matter of..."

Out comes my mace and I bang it a few times to restore order.

"This Three Dog person," says I, "What else does he speak of?"

"Well," Laren pulls out a set of papers, "we know he is involved with something called Galaxy News Ray-dee-oh, or Gee-en-ar for short. It could be either a place, or alike to The Common Tongue or Black Horse Courier. When he isn't crying the news, there is music, usually the same songs repeated over and over again."

"Night and day, it doesn't matter," chimes Henantier, "I think either he doesn't sleep or there's several bards taking the title Three Dog."

"Have you tried hailing him?"

Henantier nodded, then shook his head. "No answer. Either he's very disciplined or he can't hear us."

"So that's one group in this place," says I, "Who else is in there?"

"It's a dangerous place," Laren explains, "which is why we've holed up next door. We have references to 'raiders', slavers – are you all right, Arch-mage?"

"I ran into a pack of the scum on the way up," says I, "four hours ride away. I was trying to tell you on the way here Bru–" Whoops! Don't call him that in front of the men – "Brucellus, could you see about patrols or something? That's too close for my liking."

Bruce nods agreement. "I'll see to it." Which means some cadets are in for hard yakker and a bit of hands-on. A great deal of deviltry goes on underneath that hat.

That issue finally dealt to I nodded at Laren to continue.

"There are also warnings about ghouls, although they apparently are, and I quote, 'humans exposed to an ungodly amount of radiation'. Some are apparently reasonable enough, but there are feral ones little more than animals." He smiled thinly. "At least they're not undead."

I don't rise to the bait. This is what comes of publishing your memoirs. "What else?"

"Creatures called, er, 'yow gwy', but only to warn against feeding them. He also warns against mercenaries called 'Talon Company' and beings called 'super mutants'."

Henantier butts in. "Apparently if these mutants don't kill you, they take you away somewhere."

"And the only other group he favours is the, eh, 'Brotherhood of Steel'." Laren glares at Henantier.

"Fine," says I, "And where are they when they're at home?"

"No idea," the two chorus, then Laren continues. "All we know is that Vault 101 is northwest of Megaton, both of which we assume are outside an area called the... 'Dee-See Ruins.' There are also reports on trouble in places called 'Ten Penny Tower', 'Gray Ditch' and 'Ar-eh-foo'. But no directions!"

"Which is why we need to send a scouting party," Henantier adds.

"Not until we have more information and know we can get them back," Bruce states coldly.

"But how can we test the portal's stability without sending someone through?" Laren goes to stop Henantier, but the bit's in his teeth now. "We need to find this Three Dog or whoever these sages are and find out all he or they knows as soon as we can!"

WHACK! Did I mention Bruce's very good with that stick?

"We do nothing. Until we are certain that we can retrieve a party and that the area is secure." Bruce's eye was as deadly as his voice.

"How long has the portal been open?" asks I.

"A week," Laren says, "At first it was only about a foot across, but then it expanded without warning. The cockroach arrived three days ago."

"So living creatures can pass through it safely," adds Henantier.

"But was the bug always that size?" Bruce may have been a legionnaire, but he was also a battlemage, and like all good battlemagi he wasn't thick. And the possibility shut Laren and Henantier up.

I too dwelled on the implications – of six-foot-too-much Zul gro-Radagash striding through the portal and emerging just over a foot tall. It was a lovely thought.

"Just now," Bruce was saying, bringing me back to reality, "he was warning about radiation. Any idea what he's talking about?"

More head-shaking. "No idea," says Laren, "but it must be something related to fire. After all, he says 'heading into the heat' and 'human flesh fires'. I'm wondering if we've opened onto some previously unknown plane of Oblivion."

"All the more reason for caution." Bruce's face went blank, thinking back to the nightmare of Bruma.

"Good point." I sit up straighter. "I think what we should do is leave the trap alone, and wait for something more intelligent to arrive. That way we have the home advantage as opposed to popping through and straight onto something's sword-point. For one, we know our magic works here."

Bruce was nodding and looks at me approvingly. "I'll get a watch schedule drawn up," says he, "versed in illusion magicks." I look at him and he looks at me. "Paralyse, charm, or scare off," he explains.

He struggled erect and nodded at me. "With your leave Arch-mage, I'll get to it," he says, and I tell him to carry on and salute and he salutes and away he goes.

"Right then," says I turning to the two mer, "how were you going to make the far end visible?"

And away we went talking shop. Or rather, theoretical shop. And substitute 'talking' with 'arguing over the exact method to use with this magickal dingus'. I'll spare you the gory details. It was a thoroughly interesting concept and much of the theory tested my understanding of Mysticism.

We were involved in debating the relative merits of using some sort of physical object as an anchoring point as opposed to establishing a psijic link with an anchorite when there was a commotion outside.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 10 2010, 12:46 AM

[Remko]

Ok, I wonder how this will continue. I thik I am going to like this story a lot more than I liked FO3 *ahum.. right*
one nit that "bugs" me is that the Tamrielic people understand English.

[Cardboard Box]

Good point. This is something I'm going to need more handwavium to fix, or maybe marysuium. But it's going to become a visible conundrum in the next chapter, so I need to figure out an explanation smartish.

After all, you can't solve a mystery you don't know exists yet.

[Cardboard Box]

[Righty then. This chapter's taken some serious writing and rewriting as the characters' confusion deepens. Also: slightly Latinized cussing!]

Chapter 2. Entrance

There was a loud sort of popping noise and a scream, and someone yelling, "Stop her!"

Someone else, probably the her in question, yelled, "Fut you!"

I grabbed a staff leaning by the door, popped the latch and stuck my head and staff out.

Backpedalling toward me was a woman in what could nicely be described as rags – rags attempting to be armour. She was dirty, I noticed, swore like a soldier, had mousy brown hair done in two sweeps like wings, and appeared to be holding something in her hands I couldn't see. Whatever it was made her arms jerk and that sharp popping sound. Beyond her, someone crumpled on the floor. In the air, acrid smoke and blood.

I guess the green glow gave the game away, as she turned to me, swinging around something that looked like a small metal crossbow without the arms. She didn't duck fast enough to avoid the magick though.

She toppled face down – thank the Nine, whoever owned it had plumped for paralysis magick on his staff too! – followed shortly thereafter by myself. I had only four seconds to pin her down for the guards that would be coming – wherever the hells they were. By the time I got my knee in her back, she was already trying to buck me off and screeching like a raped scamp. I aimed at the first part of her I could get a clean shot at, so she got paralysed in the bum. Where was something to bind her with?

I tried to determine how much charge was in the old staff and couldn't. No time to fish out a soul gem. Where the hell were the damn guardsmen?

The staff hit me in the forehead as she shook me off, screeching, "I'll have you for a futtin' rug!" and scrabbling for her weapon, whatever it was.

My shot just passed her shoulder and she flinched, which gave me enough time to knock her to the floor for the second time. There were guards now, pulling me away; I saw a fist rise and fall, her shrieking broke off then resumed. Four burly guards hauled the umbrella seller upright, still spewing invective and threats until she saw me.

"What the fut are you?" was her intelligent enquiry, as it was about now that she realised that –

"I'm Ra'jirra," says I, "and you're not in the Capital Wasteland any more."

Her head snapped around, looking at the guards, the walls, at me. "You futters with the futtin' Brotherhood?"

"No. We're with the Mage's Guild and the Imperial Legion. And until you can speak with a civil tongue, you can wait in the cells to cool off. We've got a few questions for you."

"Fut you," and she spits, "torture me all you like, 'cos I'll never tell you merd!"

"Oh, you'll tell us all..." and I stop and look at her closely.

"What? You don't like my face? You think I'm some kinda futtin' freak? Huh? Seen yourself in a futtin' mirror lately?" and on and on and more and more disturbing until it hit me.

Her mouth movements didn't match up with her words.

But while she was demonstrating this mystery nicely, she was getting monotonous, so I cut short our little chat and get her sent off.

"Did you notice," says I in the ensuing quiet, "during her little speech, what her mouth was doing?"

"No," says Bruce and Laren together.

"You'll see it," says I, "something's translating her words – all of them, unfortunately."

And Laren's eyes go wide. "Nine preserve us," he whispers.

"I don't know about preserving but something's being done to us."

"I'll have a word with the resident priests, then," says Bruce. Good man.

Our unexpected guest was reportedly a bit upset to be stripped, searched and decked in sackcloth, but that goes without saying. Nobody looks good in sackcloth except Dibella. Her belongings were brought back to Laren and I in Lab Eight and we pored through them.

"This meat looks like it came from a big ant," says Tuls, waving a chunk of something chitinous. "Must've been about six foot long!"

"The metalwork on this weapon," says I, "Incredible. Such delicacy! Almost dwemer." And I pick up one of the objects it uses instead of bolts. It looked like a thumb-length metal tube with another metal piece on the end, tapered to a point. Tapped it. "This isn't solid. Wonder what's inside?"

"Here," Tuls says, and hands me another of the tubes. This one's obviously hollow, discoloured, blackened and odoriferous inside with the point missing. "It came out of the weapon after she used it. I think some new alchemy is at work here."

"How is young Pierre anyway?" Pierre Beugalle had been hit by the weapon when the noise had enticed him away from his geomancy work to take a look.

"Dead," says Tuls, "That weapon of hers makes small holes going in and big ones coming out. Not good when the hole's in your head – or your heart."

And we share a moment of silence. Whoever this woman is, she's a murderer now. All right, Pierre was only messing with geomancy, but losing a fellow guildmate is always hard. Especially since I'd have to write a letter of condolence to his parents.

"Well," says I, "The Legion would probably love such weapons then. They could turn the tide in Skyrim and Morrowind, then Valenwood..."

There were other things. There was a contraption that seemed to focus about a thin, sharp-looking needle. A small box of little tablets, mostly crumbled to powder. The box had what appeared to be swathes of neat, small writing on it, but we struggled to figure out what it said.

"This box," Henantier murmured, "It's like some sort of paper, but incredibly thick... I've never seen anything like it." He poked at an edge. "Or maybe it's several layers glued together."

"Is that a list of ingredients?" says I, pointing at what looks like a list with what could be amounts. "This language could be like daedric – ever noticed how you can translate that directly into Aldmeris? Or is it more like Akaviri squiggles or that 'N'gasta khaki' book?"

"Let me take a look," Henantier fumbles for writing tools.

There was a knock at the door, and in comes a tall thin priest and Aragaer: bosmer, battlemage, and pretty good alchemist. "This is Holmar Long-Drink," says he, "He thinks he has a clue about our translator."

"Arch-mage," Holmar greets me sonorously, "Give praise to Julianos of the Nine, for the blessings of understanding tongues unknown, and, from what I understand, uncouth." And he stares at me through eyes so sunken I think someone was behind him looking through holes in his head.

"But why would Julianos wish us to understand the speech of another realm, but not their writing?" I was honestly puzzled. What I knew of history involved the Empire bringing not only peace and stability to Tamriel, but a common language. Yet my own eyes had seen evidence that this woman didn't speak it.

"Be there an emperor, or none, the Nine are the true rulers of the Empire and Tamriel," oh gods preserve us he was sermonising! "Arch-mage or peasant, the true and loyal subject obeys his rulers, suffers their discipline, accepts their gifts, takes their tests... without question."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone move away from the window. I shot a glance but they'd already gone; but the distraction stopped me from clocking the snot.

Henantier crowed. "Arch-mage! I think you're right!" and waved a sheet he'd scribbled the strange letters on, along with daedric and Aldmeris ones. "See the big letters on the top of the box? If you substitute roht-ayem-doht for these three symbols – then an xayah – then into Aldmeris – you get 'Rad-X'! – just like that Three Dog speaks of!"

"Thus the Nine bestow their gifts upon all their children," Holmar said in a self-satisfied tone. "Praise be to Julianos!"

"But some of us are a little slow to notice," says I darkly. "Why didn't anyone think to ask why they could understand this Three Dog before now?"

"Hoi!" Aragaer was hovering over the meat the woman had been toting. "There is some sort of poison here."

"Poison? What do you mean?"

And Aragaer frowns! "I don't know. It's not a property of the meat, it's as though..." He frowns at me. "That wild woman, she came out of that portal, didn't she?"

"The door is locked and barred now," says I, "Nothing else's coming through that portal without our knowledge."

"Speaking of the portal," Tuls says, "It's oscillating badly. Ever since she came through."

"Go on," says I.

"Well... It's wobbling and shaking," and he demonstrates with his hands. "It may not last much longer."

I straighten up and rub my eyes. "We're all tired," says I, "We need to get some sleep."

______________________

Extract from guards' log, night shift, 16 First Seed 5E7

Prisoner (Female, Breton? Imperial?) placed into cell 7 after search following apprehension for intrusion and murder of Pierre Bereguine. Escort observed that prisoner had been violently uncooperative during transfer until same observed the moons rising during outside portion of transfer. Sighting made prisoner hysterical, requiring the use of subduing force.

Prisoner in cell 7 regained consciousness about 2 bells. Immediately attempted exit via bodily forcing the door. Prisoner was determined but not physically capable of the task. Expressed extremely strong sentiments at both this, and at her situation not being a dream.

Prisoner addressed guards directly, demanding release. On refusal, attempted to offer sexual favours in exchange. Refusal was taken poorly.

At this point the Argonian thief in cell 8 (adjacent to guard post, across from cell 7) was woken. Spoke directly to prisoner, saying, "For the love of the Nine, smoothskin, shut up". Prisoner was apparently taken aback not so much by being addressed, but by the addressee, stumbling away from the door and muttering to the effect of "lizard people" and asking what was going on – profanely.

Prisoner stayed on the floor, shaking violently, until roughly 4 bells. Prisoner then crawled onto pallet and stayed there until morning.

______________________

"Now then," Bruce says to the woman in front of him the following morning.

"Fut you," the woman spits back at him. Mind you, I'd be irritable if I was shackled to a chair as well.

"You're guilty of murder," says Bruce quietly, "so that leaves two options. One's the headsman's block, the other's imprisonment. If you don't cooperate with us, you'll get one. If you do, you'll get the other. So – who're you?"

Apparently, once you stripped out the profanity and threats of retaliation, she was called Dead-bolt. Bruce let her start the second chorus before he put that stick into play. I'm surprised her head didn't fly off.

"Here's the rules of the game," says he, still with that frightening calm, "I'm going to ask questions, and you are going to answer them. The more questions you answer, the more chance your head stays on your shoulders and you get to be freed after your jail time. Deal?"

And he looks at her and she looks at him and then she looks around. Obviously what she's seeing is firstly a formidable man in armour and a broad-brimmed hat right in front of her; flanking either side are more equally formidable men in armour and big swords; and of course me, Tuls, and Henantier.

"Well, 'Dead-bolt'?"

And she relaxes and shrugs. "Fine," says she, "I'll talk, but when I'm outa here, you –"

Which is pretty much how the questioning went. Bruce asks questions. Dead-bolt spaces out useful information with a lot of bragging and profanity. Bruce picks up his stick and Dead-bolt either gets to the point or shuts up.

The portal's other end, according to her, was inside a building she called a "sewer way station". Claimed she was scouting for a suitable hideout for her gang near Gray Ditch prior to going in, and basically killing those who resisted right off and killing those who don't much later. I made a note to ensure her prison sentence was nice and long – or the axe was nice and blunt.

"Now then, regarding the weapon used to murder Pierre Bereguine," Bruce continues and Dead-bolt sulks, since Bruce is very, very good at being so calm and unshakeable it's scary. Don't play cards for money with him. "For the record, will you please identify this weapon."

"What? You've never seen a futting gun before? Yeah, that's my gun, what about it?"

"And what variety of 'gun' is this? After all, there are many types of sword, or bow, or shield..."

"It's a f-f-f..." she pulls up sharpish, guess Bruce gave her a look – "a ten-mill piss-till. Hey, there's worse. The chink ones are merd and thirty-two's forget 'em. But my gang's got wry-fools, and you think this one's bad? Wry-fools really fut you up."

And Bruce just looks at her. "I'd take you seriously if you weren't so defiant," says he, "I've fought and bested worse than you."

"Whatever," she obviously hadn't heard of the Battle of Bruma.

"So how did you find the portal?"

"I just did, okay? Lookin' for supplies."

"And where exactly is this... sewer way station... when it's at home?"

"You wanna know where your futting portal is? Trade you. Just tell me what the fut that is." And she looks at me.

Bruce looks at me as well then turns back to her. "He's a khajiit, I'm an imperial, your escort is, from left to right, altmer, breton, breton and redguard, your friend in the other cell is an argonian, the scribe who's taking all this down is bosmer, and you're going to tell us how and where you found the portal."

Now that Bruce had finished the pleasantries and was getting down to brass tacks I tapped Laren and Henantier, murmured "We'll leave 'em to it, there's work to do," and left.

It was a nice day, if crisp, but mountain air tends to be that way. As we walked towards Inner Ring I began to hum, then sing. "There was a land, there was a beautiful land, called Fuh..."

"Arch-mage?" Laren and Henantier had stopped and were looking at me strangely.

"And in this land – oh, sorry, it's just a nice day, and there was this bard came through a month ago. Seems he had a new song someone wrote after wrongful accusation of obscenity. Just popped into my head again."

"A new song?" Henantier brightened. "Must be good if you're trying to murder it."

"Not good," says I, "but the kits overheard every single word, and they enjoy singing the chorus when they think their parents can't hear."

"Ah." Henantier thought for a bit, worked out who was in the land of Fuh and said "Ah," understandingly.

"Never mind that," Laren said irritably, "How long's that –" he jabbed a thumb back towards the cells – "going to take?"

"Bruce is going to get a recording to us once it's finished," says I, "and the young lass is taken back to her cell. Let's be honest, she's off to the block soonest. She's an absolute savage, and I'll be Molag Bal's catamite before I'll let her roam the same country my family's in."

We returned to Building Three. What Laren hadn't mentioned about the portal was that as well as wobbling and shaking, you could see through it into a dingy, dark little room. Broken shelves were arrayed against the far wall; there was one door close to the portal, and another on the opposing wall further away, with light leaking around it. The closest wall had another broken metal shelf unit and a large boxy thing with a big hatch in the centre. My hands itched to see what was inside it, but Henantier was more interested in the stylised lettering on its front. "Eat... o... tronic," he read. "What's a tronic?"

None of us knew so we went into Lab Eight and picked up where we left off.

"It's no good," Henantier says in disgust an hour later. "That list you thought were ingredients? Utter gibberish. This one here at the top says 'something iodide', and there's more like that. What's an iodide when it's at home?"

"Must be a fungus or something, like a cairn or summer bolete," says I, "What else is on that packet?"

"Instructions, I think. Dosages. And on the front is... uh... 'Absorbs radiation so you don't have to.' And what looks like an address for the maker."

"Don't take it hard," says I, "You've done well to translate that much."

"We should send in a scouting party," insists Laren from behind a wad of scrawls.

"Agreed," says I to him, "but until Bruce approves it, and you figure out a way to make that thing stable, we'll just have to –"

Bells began ringing wildly outside.




This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 17 2010, 06:29 AM

[mALX]

ARGH! Tamriel meets the Wasteland !!!!!

[Cardboard Box]

[Another chapter. Actually, half of what was originally intended, but I came up with an ideal breakpoint; I'd actually written this when playing a previous version of Haines, so I just finished the fight off. But in any case, Ra'jirra's bad week is about to get as worse as it can short of Zul gro-Radagash coming to save him.]

_____________________________

Chapter 3. 20 August 2277

From Earnest Haines' Log Entries, as copied by Arch-mage Ra'jirra once he managed to learn enough of the English alphabet and get time alone with Haines' terminal

Moira is the absolute limit. Certainly she is rather callous with regard to the safety of her "research associates"!! First I get repeatedly shot and exploded at collecting a damnable landmine for her, now she wants me to deliberately afflict myself with radiation sickness! Just how gung-ho would she be, I ask, if it was HER health and genetic material at risk?

YES, I know scientists of history have experimented on themselves for want of useful results or subjects. But this is not a controlled environment – there is not even a control GROUP, unless you count Moira herself! Heaven only know what sort of "tests" or "cure" Moira has in store for me. The only reason I endure her pseudo-Science nonsense is in order to improve my chances of surviving, and moreover find my father AND get answers from him.

The opportunity to be looked up to as the man who did the field research that may save lives is also not to be sneezed at. Empirical? Yes. For instance, my research into landmines has revealed that the devices use a proximity sensor in addition to pressure triggers. Also, application of intense heat, such as that generated by the AEP-7 laser pistol, or significant percussive force from small arms, is adequate for neutralization of same. No doubt a device for disarming mines at a distance would be an interesting Scientific challenge, and profitable.

But back to the events of the day. Leaving Megaton after speaking with that dreadful woman, I decided I was NOT interested in pursuing HER "research", but instead it seemed wise to investigate the closest section of the DC ruins and test that Simms person's hypothesis of that area being a "war zone".

Science? In spirit. Hypotheses are made to be tested by experiment. That is how Science advances.

Therefore I turned west, and headed towards a utility structure on high ground. Apart from a couple of bloatflies and a protectron which I sniped for its ammunition, I encountered no meaningful opposition whatsoever.

Approaching an entrance on the northeast side, I was almost bowled over by a raider backing out of there, clutching some sort of large stick. She turned to face me, lowered the stick as if she was aiming it, and before I could bring my AEP-7 to bear, an arrow, of all things, popped out of her head!

It should be obvious to even the most ignorant observer that an arrow through the brain is lethal. However, her killer was so unusual that a detailed description is in order.

Imagine a large cat, probably evolved from one of the big cats, i.e. the mountain lion (if fur coloration is any guide), capable of bipedal locomotion, with plantigrade as opposed to a cat's digitigrade legs. Said being is encased almost entirely in armour which is of a strange pale gold alloy. Exceptions are leather trousers, red leather gloves, and a shield showing a white horse against a dull green background. Its helmet leaves much of its muzzle exposed, and sports two arcs resembling either horns, or wings, depending on how you interpret the patterns on them. I could also see a tail moving with what appeared to be strong emotion.

The being is armed with a bow of blackened material, as well as a large finned club of a bronze-gold alloy that does not match that of the armour resting on the left hip.

This was the being that had followed her, and now aimed at me. Since the creature was apparently upset, capable of using tools, and prepared to kill me, I did the only sensible thing. I holstered my weapon and spread my hands.

"You're not with this fetcher are you?" he growled. (I use the masculine term as his voice was masculine; he was later quite forceful in confirmation of gender.)

"No," I said, and he just grunted and let the string of his bow slacken.

"I'll just take that staff," he said then, and took his gaze off me long enough to retrieve the stick the raider had been carrying. "Now I'll be going."

He turned back to the building, which I have since identified as a way-station for the DC sewage system. It was this time I observed a variable blue-white glow through the doorway.

Intending to investigate, I followed the cat-man inside, whereupon he swore and turned on me. "Stand your ground, nosey," he said, "Don't try to follow me."

I didn't answer immediately as I was taken with the source of the increasingly erratic glow: a large violently oscillating spheroid roughly two metres in diameter, depicting inside it what appeared to be a stone room, a door, and several humanoids peering through said door. One was clutching its arm as though wounded.

"Arch-mage! Hurry!" one shouted, and the cat-man turned and gasped.

Apparently the portal, which I was later informed it was, was degrading at an accelerating pace. The cat-man did not hesitate to run into the portal. On contact, the portal appeared to deform, then burst like a soap bubble with a brief burst of radioactivity. The cat-man was unable to stop and smacked into the wall.

* * *

There are things you don't do in armour and running into walls is one of them. It took me a bit to pick myself up and around, then I saw Mister Curious attempting a subtle exit.

So I sent a fireball in front of his nose. That tends to stop people.

Anyway, this guy gapes at the scorch mark left behind, gapes at me, and does he say sorry for marooning me here?

Like hells! He just asks, "How on earth did you do that?"

"What? This?" I ask sarcastically, and flick another past him. Do I need to tell you I was a bit pissed off?

And his eyes go all wide and glittery behind the transparent face shield he's wearing. "The gloves," he says to himself, "Some sort of projection system maybe..." and continues wittering as I realise they don't know magic here.

"Oh, there's a projection system all right," says I, "it's called 'knowing how to perform magic'. Which I'm now going to have to do a lot of until my fellow magi can reopen that damn portal so I can go home, thanks to you!"

Mister Curious just glared at me and threw up the face shield so hard his helm flew off, revealing pallid skin, two bulging, almost froglike eyes, and a head of grey hair that had mostly slid down onto his face.

"How dare you use that word!" he shouted! "There is no such thing as magic!" You should have heard him spit it, like an insult! "Do I look like a fool to you? I am no idiot raider, sir – I am a man of Science!"

And he jabs at the wall behind me. "That portal or whatever it was, obeyed all physical laws, like all things do, and is therefore a product of Science! Your gloves launch fireballs, therefore they have the Technology to do so, and Technology is the product of Science! You yourself," – good gods, he was frothing! – "have an evolutionary history from the pre-war cats, it is fairly obvious, and that can be explained by Science! Science! SCIENCE!"

And I get the impression this guy's got a few scamps in his attic. Mind you, he looked a bit like Sheogorath, but worse dressed.

And I take a deep breath, pull off my gauntlets, and throw another fireball into the corner. "I can also cast spells," and I stuck my tongue out at him, "to throw frost, lightning, trap soul energy, shield myself, sense life around me, and a few other things." I then added, "With or without gauntlets." And I pause and add, "I see Julianos' blessing works here as well."

He just stares at me in the darkness of the decrepit room, then we both start as something fairly large claws at the bottom of the interior door.

"Psychic powers then, must be," he mutters to himself while looking about for his helm.

Watching the door rattle, I suspected close quarter work was nigh; I readied my dear old dwemer mace, faithful companion throughout my time in the Mage's Guild. The door's latch finally gave way – and I sometimes still have nightmares about what scuttled into the room.

My first impression was it was a mudcrab gone wrong – two huge claws lunging at my legs – a crushing pain in my right ankle – and then a wickedly barbed tail stabbed into my left elbow!

I was being attacked by a gigantic version of a deadly creature I'd mercifully only seen in bestiaries from Elsweyr – a creature that in normal size could kill a grown man in an instant – a scorpion over six feet long!

My left arm hurt like hell, the stallion felt as heavy as stone – the tail barb was poisonous – oh Stendarr god of mercy thank you it's not deadly – I hated to think what would happen if it stabbed me in the face. I swung my mace at that tail but the creature pulled it out of range of my swing, ready for another strike.

There was a strangely echoing slapping sound, and part of the tail flashed and disintegrated. The monster lurched as another slap-flash appeared close to the barb.

Looking to my left, I saw the human braced, aiming a boxy square sort of piss-till at the thing. Slap. A thin beam of hot orange-yellow light connected it to the monster's tail, between two segments. Flash. This time a spray of pallid gore spewed out – he'd hit a weak spot, evidently. The creature turned to face its new attacker, which would have been nice except that its claw was still clamped on my foot!

"Fetcher!" I screamed, and did the only thing I could. I planted my left foot on its head, dropped my mace and grabbed its tail! "Kill the stinking thing!" I yelled at the man, straining to keep the monster from stabbing me while I threw myself off-balance and pulled it over onto its side, crashing into a bench and sending detritus flying.

Whoever he was, he was quick on the uptake. While I kept the tail at bay, he fired his gun into the thing's belly until it stopped struggling.

"Right then," says I into the relative quiet, "now that's over, what's your name?"

"My name?" He blinks at me in confusion through the dead creature's legs. "Oh – Haines. Doctor Earnest Haines."

"Ra'jirra, Arch-mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild. Now, Doctor–"

"Please, call me Earnest."

"All right then, Earnest, will you please make this damn thing let go of me?"

It took Earnest, a pair of hammers, all the leverage my right arm could still give and quite a bit of swearing to make the damn thing's claw loosen enough that I could extract my ominously numb foot. I cast a healing spell and breathed a curse of relief as feeling came back in a flood of needles. My shield arm also lightened a bit, but was still on strike.

"I thought radroaches and bloatflies were bad enough," Earnest grumbled, "but scorpions?"

I just sat there and examined my boot. The Ayleid metal was severely dented and would need some tender loving hammering to fix it. I shrugged and unleashed another spell of healing, wiggled my toes, flexed the bloated sausages on my left hand painfully. I'd just have to bear it until the poison burned itself out. Some Arch-mage. Can't even cast an antidote spell on himself.


"So, uh, Ra-uh-jirra..." I looked up at Earnest, who apparently came to a decision, straightened up, put a silly smile on his face and spoke formally. "Welcome to planet Earth!"

[Cardboard Box]

[Crossovers are hard to write, especially when the main characters fail to get on with each other. The big challenge is describing the discovery of the commonplace from the 'alien' point of view. So in this chapter Ra'jirra learns a bit more about how James' little boy... got that way. Fun fact: that beard of his is compensatory after, um, unexpected test results.]

Chapter 4. The Impotence of Being Earnest

I just stare at him. This grinning idiot may have been responsible for marooning me here – or not, but the delay involved with his following me may have tipped the balance. Also, his tirade about "Science" and his beard suggested that he'd definitely been hobnobbing with Sheogorath at some stage. On the other hand, at least he hadn't fled when the giant scorpion had charged in. In fact, he'd been quick enough to react when I'd tipped the beast over.

"So, er," he continues with that stupid smile on his mug, "What planet are you from? Mars? Vee-nus? Yer-anus?"

If my ears weren't already flattened by my helm they'd have done so; as it was they tried to flatten even flatter. "Are you insulting me?"

"No, no!" exclaims he, "I'm honestly curious! According to my history readings, and I sincerely doubt I am mistaken, many people before the war claimed to have seen or been aboard the vessels of beings from other planets, mostly Mars but some from Venus, or even as far as Sir-ee-us or Alpha Sen-tor-ee."

"Nirn," says I. Most folks would say 'Tamriel', but Tamriel is just part of the world, along with the Summurset Isles and Akavir. And if you did say 'Tamriel', maybe you should go back to Sundas school and pay attention this time.

"Well, that doesn't mean anything to me," he muses, "but then again, why should you know what English names mean what? Like that song, 'Potayto, potahto, let's call the whole thing off...'" and he rubs his chin and looks off into the middle distance.

"Earnest. Haines. Try being useful for a change and help me get this damn thing off." And I point to my right boot. Only an idiot tries to hammer a metal boot back into shape while he's wearing it, and I wanted to check my ankle.

"Useful? For a change? Oh, of course, er, right..." Haines blinked and seemed to remember that I was there, pulled off his pack and rummaged inside it. "Your left arm was stung... here we are."

And he advances with one of those contraptions with the needle and a businesslike expression. "Remove your glove please."

"Why?" is my quite reasonable and intelligent enquiry to a madman wanting to stick something pointy into me when asked to assist in boot removal.

"So I can find a vein and set this stim-pack to work!" says he, waving the thing.

"You stick that into yourself?" I was really hankering for a potion around this time. Any potion. Even one made with bog beacon which always makes me want to spew – and has.

"Well of course you do! Intravenous delivery to the affected parts! I may not be a doctor, but I assure you I have learned a thing or two from..." he shook his head, "anyway, take off your glove and the injection should neutralise the poison and stimulate tissue repair, thus resulting in restored function to your left arm." He tapped the needle. "Brace yourself – if my personal experience is any guide, and I have no reason to doubt my senses, these things tend to be blunt."

I just looked at him as I yanked off my gauntlet and held on to it; thwacking this smoothskin wouldn't help me get home but it would make me feel better and maybe get him to pull his head in. The fool took his time checking for a vein before sticking that damned needle in.

It was blunt, by the way, and if anyone attempts to give me an injection ever again they will be very, very, very, very, very sorry.

To be fair, however, whatever muck that thing squirted into me worked. A wave of metal-flavoured cold washed away the heat, pain and heaviness.

I flexed my hand again. It didn't hurt. I flexed my elbow. Not only did it not hurt either, but it actually bent. As Haines watched, I carefully and painfully pulled off my right boot, revealing the expected fragrance and some truly frightening colouration. Despite the healing spells the bruising on my ankle was still severe and tender.

"Fascinating," oh, right, Haines. "But can you walk on it?"

"Don't know," says I and cast another spell, willing the energy into my leg. "Once I get the worst of the damage out I should be fine."

"Well hurry up then," says he and hands me a hammer and another tool I would later learn was called a wrench. "There might be more of them." And jerks his head at the outside door in an unexpected fit of common sense. Dead-bolt had been scouting for a group, and for all I knew they were already out looking for their companion. So I hurry up with tappin' and whackin' and...

"Haines, where is that music coming from?"

"There must be a ray-dee-oh in the next room," says he and he gets up and goes to have a look while I sit on the floor attempting some crude smith-work. The tune was enthusiastic, but the more I listened to the lyrics the more disturbed I became, even over Haines' sporadic piss-till fire and cursing of rad-roaches. The singer was all about a womaniser – no, I realised, a murderer – was this place the realm of Sheogorath?

With my boot no longer attempting to cut off blood flow I decided now was a good time to try standing up. Which obviously still hurt. I thought of getting some padding from Dead-bolt, limped to the door, looked at the dog snacking on her, changed my mind, shut the door..

The tune finished off in gibberish – hey turn this record over you ain't heard nothin' yet! – and the voice of Three Dog followed hard on, proclaiming news.

"I've got some great news from outa the town of Megaton," he crows, "Turns out the live atomic bomb in town's centre has finally been deep-sixed for good! Town sheriff, one Lucas Simms, commissioned the one, the only, Lone Wanderer, Ernie Haines from Vault 101 to disarm the nasty nuke. And the kid delivered."

"Don't call me 'kid'!" yells Haines from well beyond the door, and Three Dog's voice stopped abruptly as something crashed to the floor. I carefully made my way in.

Further inside the building made me think of drawings I've seen of Dwemer ruins. Machines of unknown purpose stood in the lower level, linked with what I vaguely recalled were plates attached to looped chains, forming a moving surface. The stuffed toys arranged on the – what were they called, conveying belts? – were disturbing. I myself was on an elevated metal walkway, which ran to an elevated level where Haines was glowering over the contents of a wooden box.

"So they call you the Lone Wanderer then?" says I, causing him to jump and nearly brain himself on shelving.

"I am Doctor Earnest Haines," says he once the curses died down, "thank you very much, regardless of what that Three Dog idiot says!"

"From Vault 101," says I, "like James?"

And he stops rubbing his bonce and stares at me. "How do you know – no. No time. It's getting late, we can't stay here, you can tell me about it on the way home. Those raiders. You can walk then?"

I stomp around in a circle to prove it and nearly trip over another box. Except this one's fancier with knobs on one side. "What's this?"

"The ray-dee-oh," says he, "I, um, turned it off... a little too hard. Well. Let's go."

There was another door out, and mercifully no dogs. And I finally got my first real look at the Capital Wasteland.

Before me stretched the ruins of an enormous city. The shells of buildings towered higher than anything in the Imperial City – and I was to learn that intact they had towered higher still. There was a river, and still more of the immense buildings. You could have dropped the entire Imperial City in here and had room for at least three more!

The sheer extent of the devastation is impossible to describe; it was as though Mehrunes Dagon had gone on a skooma bender and done the high-kick dance in spiked boots clean through it.

The setting sun (judging from Haines' comment about it getting late) meant that I was looking east; the ruins draped in hues of fire. The ground was a despairing brown, dry and hard, with only a few stubborn grasses attempting to survive. Haines turned north and I did too; there were less buildings that way, directly in front of us, a fence of metal mesh before what remained of a road.

"I'm not wasting ammo on dogs," Haines muttered as he shifted his helm and turned south, "And we're too far away. Let's find shelter in another building."

The fence had been twisted down in places, but I followed Haines through a gate onto the road. It was easily a hundred feet across, and littering it were the hulks of objects I couldn't identify.

"What the hells are these?" asks I rapping my knuckles on one. It was metal.

And what does Haines do? He yelps and races off and then yells at me! "Are you mad? Those things can explode!"

And what do I do? I race off to join him! "Well how would I know?" snarls I, "I've never seen them before!"

"You don't have vehicles?" And he stares at me. "No, probably not, not if you can create portals in space and time. Who'd need portals then? But in museums perhaps..." and he gets that miles-off look again.

"We have horses, boats and carts," says I, "that portal was a fluke."

And I watch as my words make their way from his cloth ears to wherever his mind is and bring it back.

"No motorised vehicles?" I shook my head. "Atomic power?" Shake. "Electricity?" Shake. "Steam engines?" I decided Dwemer ruins and machines didn't count, since it's tricky taking apart a steam engine that's trying to take you apart, and shook my head again.

"Getting back to my query," and I jab a thumb at the object, "are those things 'mo-', er, 'mo-tor-ised vehicles' then?" carefully pronouncing the words.

"Well of course they are! Auto-mobiles, to be precise. Designed to carry passengers and cargo in comfort at speeds up to, and exceeding, fifty miles per hour." He looks at me smug. "Rather quicker than horses and boats, yes?"

Well! That was impressive. I looked at the road as it turned south and tried to imagine dozens of these vehicles racing along, but Haines was off again.

"Just be careful," says he, "I've seen hits on these things ignite remaining atomic materials and cause them to explode. After all," he goes on, "while you're here the least I can do is ensure your survival by teaching from my own experience."

"And how much experience do you have?" asks I.

"Four days," says he with no irony. "Now, can you see any unobstructed doorways?"

No, I couldn't, so we continued south, into a deep trench and beneath a bridge.

* * *

"So, why'd you leave the Vault?" I asked several hours later.

Haines didn't answer at first but munched on the partially cooked chunk of meat recently cut from something descended from a cow. Except that this thing had two equally unfriendly heads, no hair, and a hideously bloated udder. 'Bra-min', Haines told me someone else in Megaton told him it was.

We were ensconced on top of another bridge further south, where one man had set up his home and had also been appreciative of our help with the impromptu hunt.

"I didn't have a choice," says he bitterly, "my father, for reasons I intend to discover, left the Vault without permission. And for some reason, the Overseer seemed to think that I knew why and where he'd gone. Obviously, I didn't, and I ended up having to follow him... out here." He glared out at the night. "Chasing him for answers."

"What about your mother?"

"She died giving birth to me." His voice was flat. "Or so my father told me."

We sat in silence chewing half-cooked beef – at least it tasted like beef. Then, "Do you have families?"

There are questions and there are dumb questions and this, to me, was definitely in the dumb category.

"Of course," says I, "my parents are still farming and, well... let me show you." And I pull the amulet out and opened it.

Haines did something to the bracer on his left arm and slightly greenish light washed over both of us and the amulet's contents: a beautiful miniature of me and my family outside the Faregyl Inn, on a beautiful spring day three years gone. There's a larger version in my quarters at the Arcane University.

"That's me and my wife," says I pointing, "the young master there's J'dargo and those are the twins..."

Something swelled in my throat and interfered with my breathing.

"All I have are memories of father," Haines said quietly. "And..." he frowned at his bracer. "And what he did to my Pip-Boy."

"Huh?" is my eloquent response.

"This," and Haines tapped the bracer, "it's a Pip-Boy 3000. I received it on my tenth birthday. I was so proud... because now I'd get to work and be... well, a man. Hell, I was trained to be a Pip-Boy programmer, but dad was better at it. I mean, watch."

And he pushes a button here and twiddles dials there and on the glass panel a map flashed up. "It's the whole Capital Wasteland," says he, "Dad must've down-loaded it to my Pip-Boy for me. But here... listen to this." More twiddling and button-pushing and a voice came from the device; a man's voice, tense and anxious.

"I've... I don't really know how to tell you this... I hope you'll understand but I know you might be angry. I've thought about it for a long time, but in the end... it was best for you not to know. So many things could've gone wrong,and there's really no telling how the Overseer will react when he finds out. It's best he can blame everything on me. Obviously you already know that I'm gone. It was something I needed to do.

"You're an adult now. You're ready to be on your own. Maybe some day things will change and we can see each other again. I can't tell you why I left or where I'm going." The voice became more urgent, pleading. "I don't want you to follow me. God knows life in the Vault isn't perfect, but at least you'll be safe. Just knowing that will be enough to keep me going."

"Don't mean to rush you doc," interrupted what was either a nervous Redguard with a nasal voice, or a Bosmer with a baritone, "but I'd feel better if we got this over with."

"Okay! Go ahead!" Haines' father responded, then, "Goodbye... I love you..."

The Pip-Boy stopped with a soft blip. Silence fell and I looked at Earnest. Earnest was looking at nothing with a stony expression.

"Jonas is dead." His expression didn't alter. "The Overseer's goons killed him."

Silence fell again.

"Father was working on something," – hello, it's 'father' again! – "the Overseer didn't like. I remember hearing arguments about the worth of his work. 'These experiments are a waste of time'," and he spits. "Stupid fool! Technology is not Science – it is the child of Science!"

"Keep your damn voice down," the local says, "You want the raiders callin'?"

Haines blinks and shuts up and peers over the edge through the 'scope' on his 'piss-till'.

"I'll go see what they're doing," says I.

"It's clouded over," Haines says, "You can't see anything."

"I'm a Khajiit," says I, "we can see in the dark."

And I get up and walk away and invoke my ability.

The trench the road ran through turned west, and I thought of what could have happened if one of those auto-mobiles failed to make the turn at fifty miles per hour. Perhaps that was why the road was sunk into a trench. However, the trench came to an end, and peering around a ruined building I could see figures moving around improvised barricades. Raiders.

I didn't give a damn. I just wanted some privacy. Because, even in the reassuringly familiar false colours of night-eye, the alien world I was in was pushing down very, very hard.

Carefully, I forced myself to imagine a clean sheet of paper, fresh cut, creamy white. This is important, Warlock. It can well be the difference between our foes losing their heads or you losing yours, damnit. Too right, Traven, and I need your wisdom now, more than ever.

I then imagined a quill, loaded with ink, writing clear letters on that page.

A portal was opened to another place called the Capital Wasteland.

One of Haines' passing comments fell into place. There has been a devastating war here.

Julianos has decreed we can understand their language, and they ours.

I have fallen in with

I hesitated. Part of the meditation technique was to transcend emotive responses and think clearly.

Earnest Haines, an exile from Vault 101. He is very earnest (ha ha)

The technique didn't transcend jokes.

about finding his father, who left unexpectedly and told his son not to follow. He is also very intense about Science and learning.

He does not know where his father went.

Revelation fell into place with a loud clunk that shook me to the core.

[mALX]

I was having trouble with the crossover, but you redeemed yourself with this chapter! Bravo! - because that has to be the hardest type fanfic to write, combining two completely different worlds and keeping it straight between characters !! EXCELLENT JOB !!!!

[Cardboard Box]

Thanks. I suspected that the previous chapter was too dry and overly... well, grey is the word I'm looking for. I'm certain that it could have been handled much better, but I've no idea how. I had the same problem with Quake mapping: by the time I'd got the thing to a releasable state I was absolutely exhausted and just thought, "f--- it, just get it out and be done."

The Nine are rather a deus ex machina (Gr. 'cop-out'), I will admit, along with whatever they're working with. Don't tell Ernie, he'll freak.

[mALX]

Thanks. I suspected that the previous chapter was too dry and overly... well, grey is the word I'm looking for. I'm certain that it could have been handled much better, but I've no idea how. I had the same problem with Quake mapping: by the time I'd got the thing to a releasable state I was absolutely exhausted and just thought, "f--- it, just get it out and be done."

The Nine are rather a deus ex machina (Gr. 'cop-out'), I will admit, along with whatever they're working with. Don't tell Ernie, he'll freak.

Well you made up for it in this chapter. You cleared the distinction between the two character's backgrounds with precision that erased the ambiguity I felt (as a reader) when Ra'Jirra first arrived in the Wasteland. His personality and your writing style (which really makes your story a favorite to me) seemed to disappear when he first arrived in the Wasteland.

I love both games - you have a precedent setting idea here, it won't be easy to pull off - but you did it so well with this chapter. Your unique writing style was back, Ra'Jirra's personality shone through again. You pulled me back in with an interest to see where you will head with this.

I loved that you got Moira in this too - she has to be one of the stronger characters in FO3 - love her or hate her - you know you've met her, lol.

This post has been edited by mALX: Sep 17 2010, 03:41 AM

[Cardboard Box]

I loved that you got Moira in this too - she has to be one of the stronger characters in FO3 - love her or hate her - you know you've met her, lol.

In the next chapter Ra'jirra will firstly be freaked out by Ernie, then meet Megaton and Moira.

Also in the previous chapter I considered Ra'jirra to be under quite a bit of stress. He had to GTFO before the portal exploded or whatever; retrieve the staff from Deadbolt; get some blundering idiot out of his way, and finally giant friggin' scorpions - on top of all the other mysteries. Cracking wise was not one of his priorities [Getting me stomped on by TWO SPECTRAL FARGNAXING WARRIORS didn't help either you useless cunno - R.]

[mALX]

I loved that you got Moira in this too - she has to be one of the stronger characters in FO3 - love her or hate her - you know you've met her, lol.

In the next chapter Ra'jirra will firstly be freaked out by Ernie, then meet Megaton and Moira.

Also in the previous chapter I considered Ra'jirra to be under quite a bit of stress. He had to GTFO before the portal exploded or whatever; retrieve the staff from Deadbolt; get some blundering idiot out of his way, and finally giant friggin' scorpions - on top of all the other mysteries. Cracking wise was not one of his priorities [Getting me stomped on by TWO SPECTRAL FARGNAXING WARRIORS didn't help either you useless cunno - R.]

Lol! When I first read it I was like..."Huh?" I went back and re-read it several times to see if I was actually reading it right. Then suddenly I said, "Holy [censored] !!! He's in FO3 !!!!!

[Cardboard Box]

[This chapter is going to have to be split. So in this thrilling chapter: a terrible title pun; more pseudo-latin swearing; more damn exposition; a vignette from Ra'jirra's childhood; and footnotes.]

_______

21 August 2277: Background Radiation

“Wakey wakey,” said a voice, and I awoke the following morning to discover the Capital Wasteland wasn't a dream. There are things that are bloody painful to do in full armour and sleeping on decaying bridges without a bedroll is one of them.

So I peered up at Haines' face, which suggested he felt like I did. Good. The dead city around us used shadows from the east for crutches as it braced itself for another day.

“So, what's the plan?” asks I. My meditation last night had helped me accept the fact that I'd been chosen by the Nine for something. That they had chosen me and not Zul the Snot Golem also helped me accept it!

“You're asking me?” Haines looks puzzled. “Oh! Of course, my superior knowledge and your desire to survive. Well!”

I decided not to tell him about the Nine's plans. Yet.

“Of course,” says I, “not to mention I'll be wrung for information when I do get rescued, and I'm sure a smart lad like yourself can show me wonders.”

Got 'im! Haines beams and puffs himself up like a rooster. Exposure to and practise in stroking the ego of Zul gro-Merdaful[1] was evidently paying off.

“According to my map, that building directly to the south,” and he points past the turn in the road to another building standing some way off in glorious isolation, “is marked as penetrable. It is my goal to arrive at and, well, investigate the structure.”

“All right then,” says I, “but just a thought, let's walk on the east side of the road here so those bandits – I mean, raiders don't spot us.”

And Haines nods. “Good thinking Ra'jirra,” says he, “Ammunition doesn't grow on trees after all, so even if they do we're out of range. Well – let's get up and going. I need to get glowy for Moira.”

“Moira?” We both turn to the scavenger, who never did tell us his name and was staring at Haines incredulously. “Moira Brown? The mad scientist of Megaton?”

“Well, I'd hardly call her a scientist,” Haines says stiffly, “But I'm researching a book for her. It may well end up saving lives.”

And the guy just shakes his head and snorts. “Listen buster, I've been to Megaton, I've met that girl. Take my advice and stick to trading from now on. One of these days she's going to blow herself up, I swear. Don't let her blow you up, okay?”

Well! “I think I can prevent that from happening, I am Doctor Earnest Haines after all,” says Haines huffily. The effect was immediate.

“The Ernie Haines? The guy who disarmed the Megaton A-bomb?” And he rushes forward and shakes Haines' hand! “That was futtin'[2] amazing! You know how long it's been ticking there? I mean... wow. The guy who saved Megaton. And I shook your hand! Hey – thanks dude. That's...”

“Oh please!” says Haines, trying very hard to be modest – and failing. “I was just fixing pipes, and while I was fixing things, I thought, why not fix that bomb? So...” if ever a man was arrogantly humble, Haines was.

“Nothin' my cloony.[3] If there's anythin' you need, gimme a visit. And tell Moira ol' Donny says hi, okay?”

It took a fair bit more gushy stuff and handshaking before Haines and I could start picking our way south from Donny's bridge, with him guarding our backs.

“Haines,” says I thoughtfully, “you mentioned a war.”

“Eh?” Haines looked at me thoughtfully. “I did? Well, yes, there was a war. Two hundred years ago as a matter of fact.”

I tried to comprehend the idea and failed. “Well, why hasn't anyone started rebuilding at all? Nine love us, even Kvatch was rebuilt and that was finished four years after the Oblivion crisis.”

Haines looked at me and looked away and at all the dead buildings and then west, down the road. “Does this look like some village to you?”

“Village?” I could not believe this idiot had dismissed the arduous but vital business of rebuilding the site where the Oblivion crisis had begun. “Kvatch is a city you jackass!”

“Well excuse us for not building castles! We didn't fight with futting crossbows and catapults you know!”

“Let me guess – guns, right?”

“Yes! I mean no! I mean...” Haines was trying to control himself. “There are worse weapons, all right? Can you even – Raider!”

We'd walked right past the ruined shell of a building without watching where we were going, and a raider at the far end of the 'street' had got the drop on us. There are many ways of cutting an argument short and being shot at by a bloodthirsty criso[4] is one of them.

I went for my bow but got the staff instead. While both Ernie and the raider were demonstrating what godsawful shots they were, I decided nothing ventured, nothing gained, lined up the raider and loosed an amber pulse.

It hit the woman dead on, showing them both what a marvellous shot I was; to my surprise it shrank into her hand and her piss-till fell to bits.

Disintegration magics eh? Guess the Nine have a sense of humour.

Until now I hadn't understood how many moving parts there were in a gun. From her expression she hadn't known either. She continued to gape as I dropped the staff and charged with mace at the ready before finally fleeing.

Something small and round overtook me and I heard Haines yell a warning. I pulled up in time to see the raider sent flying by an explosion that took her leg off.

“All right then,” says I, acting as though loud bangs were a regular part of life (all right, they were at Black Plateau!), “was that one of your 'worse weapons'?”

“That, sir, was a grenade.” And he shows me another little round ball with a sort of handle on one side and a pin in one side. “Just pull the pin and throw. Well, throw the grenade, not the pin, you, ah, only have three seconds before detonation.”

I just look at him. “And bigger ones could do more damage, eh?” I picked the staff up and looked about the ruined street.

And Haines looks up from where he's going through the raider's belongings. “Don't be an idiot! Chemical explosives are nowhere near as effective. Atomic weapons did all this, hundreds of them. Once I'm done,” and he mutters “to a turn” under his breath, “I'll take you to Megaton and show you how big they were. Think!... er...”

“Er what?”

“I've only just thought to ask now. What do you call your, um, race?”

What damage could it do? “I am Khajiit,” says I calmly, “and I had you pegged for a Breton.” Seriously. He had the pale skin, tone of voice and snotty attitude of the more aristocratic denizens of High Rock. As opposed to his coming from Hole-In-The-Rock, but never mind.

“Breton? But I've never been to France.”

“What?” was my intelligent response.

“Well... I took pre-war geography in school. There's a region of France whose people are called Bretons. I mean were.”

I just stared. I'd braced myself for strange things, and I could cope with two-headed cows, giant bugs and bloodthirsty bandits, but that this world had Bretons?

“Um... what about Redguards?”

“The only Red Guard I know off is part of the Chinese army.”

Whatever Chinese were.“Nords?”

He frowned, absently pouring gun ammunition into a pocket. “I remember some reference to the Norsemen of ancient Europe. We are talking human beings, right?”

“Well, yes, we have the races of Men, Mer–”

“Don't tell me you have mermaids on your homeworld!”

As most people know and I would later tell Haines, we have sort-of mermaids. As well as the sea-going forms of the dreugh, there are those nicer varieties adorning sailors, ships, grog-shops, gimcracks, poems and maps. Some folk even claim the Solstheim horker – basically a sack of lard with tusks on one end and flippers on the other – has been taken for a mermaid. Gods help the man that desperate.

I was about to explain this to him, but a distant high-pitched hiss stopped me. I froze at once. As we'd come east to loot the dead raider the only location it could have come from was due north, where the land dropped. I pointed and Ernie nodded and we crept to investigate.

Earnest headed in another fit of common sense to where a retaining wall still stood. Logical. In front of us the ruined road bed made a ramp down to whatever was making strangled scamp imitations.

Peering over the edge of the wall showed what might have been a small park at some stage, as it didn't appear to have been built on. A trench suggested a watercourse, but what took my attention was the figures tottering about it.

Haines extracted a wry-fool from his pack, and handed me his square piss-till. “Look through the scope,” whispers he tapping the tube on the top. So I do, and it's a nice little spyglass!

Unfortunately the figures in the scope didn't look any better. They looked dead, but they clearly weren't zombies. For one thing, they weren't obviously rotting and they moved easily. They were emaciated, but worse, they seemed to have no skin. I was looking at muscle and, I swear, insides.

And one was looking in my direction with cloudy, but still working eyes. Whatever the thing was, it was capable of pointing and screaming, which it did.

At us, squatting like idiots on a ledge in plain view.

I dropped the piss-till and took aim at one of the... well, they weren't exactly charging, since they couldn't seem to decide how to run, four limbs or two.

“What the hell are you doing!” Haines yelled at me.

I ignored him and launched a snowball – I don't know why, I just thought frost magics and there it went. Seemed to do the trick as it hunched over shaking long enough for Haines to aim and miss by a mile with an almighty bang.

“You could've –” he went on, shooting at the other horror and sending its head flying out its cully,[5] “– shot at it!”

Maybe he meant shoot the gun and not fling a nice Firestarter into the thing, sending it overcooked to the floor, which I'd just done. Why should he care? Results are results.

“I don't know how to use that thing,” says I, “so I stuck with what I know.” I also stuck my tongue out at him. (I know my tongue. It's always been part of my life.)

“Or did you learn to shoot guns when something was trying to kill you?”

Well, Ernie went red behind his visor, and his beard goes up and down. “Of course not!” he finally squirts out, “my father set up a target range for me!” He then looks down at his larger wry-fool. “He took it down later when he found out I'd converted it to hold radroaches and... um... charged for admission.”

I think for a moment and say, “Same here.”

And he stares at me.

* * *

When I was six, my dad gave me a wooden sword and shield for Emperor's Birthday. I was rapt, of course, and the hours in the day I wasn't doing chores I was General Ra'jirra of the Imperial Legion, defending the Empire from diabolical daedra, unspeakable undead, bloodthirsty bandits and mean ol' mages, “with a thrust and a stab and a parry-diddle-O” as the song goes.

One day I had to scoot the chickens back into the coop. Using all the logical powers a six-year-old could bring to bear, I decided the best way to make this really tiresome chore fun was to take arms and rout the evil poultry armada back to their fortress. (Hey, I was six, I didn't know the difference between an army and armada.)

Trying to explain to an irate father why two of our hens were dead and most of the rest flying everywhere but their coop was well beyond the explanatory powers of a six-year-old, unfortunately.

That night I was unceremoniously and dishonourably discharged from the Imperial Legion, my armaments consigned to the flames and my equally burning backside sent to bed without supper. In fact, I was on bread and water for a week.

Maybe that's why I've never been comfy with blades.

* * *

But anyhow I told that tale to Ernie, and he scoffed. “Bugger your chickens,” says he, “the fact remains, and I doubt I am wrong, that your learning to use modern weaponry will improve your chances of survival until you are hopefully rescued.” He points to the piss-till. “Now pass that weapon, please.”

Oh well, I tried. I picked up the boxy little thing and gave it to him and he gave me a familiar shape in return.

“One standard ten-millimetre pistol,” he announced, “as issued to Vault security officers. Now then,” and that's how I found myself with a gun in hand watching Ernie place a rusted piece of junk he called a tin can on the ledge some twenty feet away.

I can't go into details due to Imperial oaths[6], but I will admit that it took me two whole 'clips' before the can was knocked off the edge. I shook my head, trying to get the sound of gunfire out. Give me a nice quiet bow any day.

“Don't worry about it,” said Ernie, “Most rounds are fired solely to stop the other lidgie firing straight. You'll get the hang of it, since you can fling... energy... as well. So – enough target practice, let's see what we've got here.”

I go to hand him the gun but he tells me to hold on to it. Fine. It'll be a nice souvenir when I go home.

And so we get closer to the corpses. They're ripe aren't they!

“Urgh,” says Haines as he rifles through their meagre claddings, and then turns to me. “Pocket money,” says he, dropping half a dozen metal circlets with crimped edges into my hand.

“Money?” I dig into my purse and pull out a drake. “No mate, this is money.”

And Haines snatches it and turns it around and peers at the image of Uriel Septim on one side and the Imperial Dragon on the other and runs his finger along the words along the edge, trying to make them out.

“Well,” says he pocketing it, “your money's no good here. Bottle caps! That's what they use for currency these days. Anyway! These must be ghouls, and I believe they inhabited that drain over there. Let us investigate.”

Inside the drain were more ghouls, stagnant water, and several metal gates stopping us progressing further. A pair of tunnels of extraordinary smoothness rose up to the east and we followed them. “Can't see a thing,” Haines grizzled and turned on his light again. I quickly turned away to avoid dazzling my night eyes and saw a shape in an alcove that wasn't a ghoul.

“Your eyes are good,” Haines remarked as he quickly divested the half-eaten corpse of its valuables: A gun Haines identified as an 'assault rifle', some ammo and some 'meds'.

“There's another up top,” says I, and so the second corpse came to pass, along with a metal box which yielded something too big to be a gun.

“That's no gun,” says I, “another of your 'far worse' weapons?”

“Indeed,” says Haines haughtily, “a missile launcher. Rather clumsy, and this one's in terrible condition... did you hear something?”

Haines two, me one. Apparently this sewer was a ghoul lair, and another quartet had returned home and weren't happy we'd been messing with their larder. We weren't happy with their attempts to put us on the menu either, so it all balanced out bar the shooting, shouting and whacking once-human wretches with blunt objects.

I poked one peculiar ghoul, which was still glowing an unhealthy green, but it seemed it wouldn't be attempting anything again. “What's with this one?” asks I, “When it flared up like that. Replenished my magicka reserves a treat.”

Haines came up, his Pip-Boy ticking away happily. “It what?” He looks at the ghoul and looks at me uncertainly. “Maybe it's an elder. Perhaps this is the redoubt of a ghoul... tribe, I guess. But what's this about magicka?”

Time for me to play the scholar! “All men, mer and beastfolk have a natural reserve of magicka within them. With tutoring and practise, they can use it to touch the Aurbis and create effects in this mundane world. Most times, it naturally regenerates slowly, unless you're unlucky enough to be born under the Atronach, or there's a damping field such as Dagoth Ur placed over Morrowind.” And I look at the glowing corpse and frown. “Normally I'd only get such a charge from a welkynd stone, or a really expensive restorative potion... and it wouldn't itch so much.”

Most of that sailed straight out Haines' other earhole and went splat on the ground.

“Well,” says he, and consults his Pip-Boy. “That's an effect of radiation exposure not covered in the books. Most remarkable.”

My cully heard 'radiation' and tried to hide up around my neck.

“Hang on,” squeaks I, “Radiation? As in 'tick-tick-tickety means run your cloony outa there'? As in needing, uh, Rad-X and RadAway to survive?”

“Oh, don't worry,” says Haines happily, “I have those in abundance, as well as a fine purgative system at my house, allowing me to absorb plenty of rads without fear.”

I was already heading for the door. All right, the grate. “Don't worry? You could catch on fire or something!”

“Well of course don't worry!” Haines wasn't following. He was making himself comfy in the spot where his Pip-Boy was ticking fastest. “This is all part of the plan today. Tomorrow, I assure you, I won't be leading you into any more hot zones than I have to.

“My mission is to contract radiation poisoning, preferably six hundred rads or more, for Moira to do her little tests and work on her 'Wasteland Survival Guide.'”

Just then his Pip-Boy rang a little bell. “Ah!” exclaims Haines looking at the thing, “Minor rad poisoning! We're on the way!” And he rubs his head.

I gave serious thought to just fleeing back to where we'd met and leaving my nutty travelling companion to his fate. Yes, I might well starve, or get stomped on by something (or several somethings), but hang it all...

...I was stuck here nursemaiding this loon. The gods had decided, and I might not like it, but at least I could... I could learn from it. While things weren't trying to chew my tail off anyway.

“Have you never seen a khajiit before?” asks I.

“Hum? No...” Haines says quietly and winces. “Only humans.”

“No mer? Maybe you know them as elves.” He just shook his head. “Only in fairy tales.”

“What about the Orsimer – you know, orcs?”

“Big green things? Snaggle teeth? Aggressive and love a fight?”

That was Zul gro-kissmycully-Radagash[7] to the life! “You have them then?”

“Only in fairy tales.” He leaned over to one side and was noisily sick. My night-eye vision revealed bluish tints that could have been blood.

I didn't ask about Argonians. I could guess what the answer would be. A whole world of nothing but humans boggled my imagination. Or perhaps, just perhaps, they hadn't found other races yet...

“So how much of the world has been explored?” Perfectly sensible question.

“All of it!” Haines rasped. “We've sent explorers to the deepest deserts, to the North and South poles, dived under the seas and seen the Earth from space. We've even been to the moon! What d'you think of that eh? With your magic and horses and boats oh my?” And then he was sick again.

I assumed it was the radiation talking at the end. No mer, no beastfolk, no orcs. Unbelievable. Maybe they'd been... I decided not to ask.

A little bell rang.

“What caused this war anyway?”

Haines forced his eyes open, and even my night eye could tell they were discoloured. “Natural resources. The last supplies of oil, the last mines of uranium ore. We needed those to survive. But the futtin' Chinks thought they could just invade our territory and take it. Spurrys. We showed them up – power armour.” He smirked and his lips cracked into a maze of blood. “They dropped the futtin' bombs on us, so we dropped ours on them.” The smile slipped. “And destroyed ourselves.”

“What – the whole world?” I couldn't understand. Haines observed this and I agreed with him.

“You've no idea what atomic bombs can do. Look at me.” I didn't want to because there were hideous bruises or lesions appearing on his skin. “When they went off, they kicked up dust. And it wasn't just us versus the Chinks – it was our allies in Europe, their allies in the Middle East, nobody was spared. The radioactive dust in the air, the fires, the destroying of all civic infrastructure... millions died. Thousands of millions.”

Exaggeration, I thought, it must be. Haines is going potty from all that radiation. An entire world destroyed? Thousands of millions of people killed? Impossible. At least, that's what I thought at the time.

A little bell rang. Haines hauled his Pip-Boy up to his face, drooled bloody and coughed. “Well, I'm nice and toasty, don't know about you,” he chuckled. I wish he hadn't. It sounded like our beloved Champion of Cyrodiil during a banquet. (To qualify that, at least Haines wasn't pawing anything in a skirt and – oh, let's be honest, I speak from agonising experience.)

Anyway, Haines levered himself up to a standing position. “Let's go back to Megaton and let Moira do her worst, eh?”

_______

[1] From the Latin merda, literally 'full of excrement'.
[2] From the Latin futu. Self explanatory.
[3] From Latin clunes, 'buttocks'. No reference to actors British, Hollywooden or otherwise.
[4] Refers to the female partner's actions during sex (derogatory); 'b*tch'.
[5] Slang term for anus. 'Cully-licker' is a good offensive term, especially for Khajiit.
[6] Let's just say Ra'jirra brought more than a good tale back, and leave it at that, shall we?
[7] I would like to clarify at this point that the full name Champion of Cyrodill, Hero of Kvatch, Knight of the Thorn etc. is Zul gro-Radagash, period. This disclaimer is brought to you in order to prevent possible injury or death.