The Chronicles of Ra'jirra II: The Wasteland, In which Arch-mage Ra'jirra has an out of this world experience Options

[Remko]

I have to say, you solved the language issue nicely.
So Dagoth Ur had a dampening field over Morrowind that prevented magicka to restore.... oowwwkaaaayyy..

btw, your footnotes are more funny than explanatory

[mALX]

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.

SPEW !!!!!!! ROFL !!!!!! [GASP, CHOKE] SPEW !!!!!! ROFL !!!!!!

[Cardboard Box]

I have to say, you solved the language issue nicely.
So Dagoth Ur had a dampening field over Morrowind that prevented magicka to restore.... oowwwkaaaayyy..

btw, your footnotes are more funny than explanatory

FUN FANFIC FACTS!

FACT: A popular side effect of Dagoth Ur's dampening field was levitation!
FACT: Black Plateau is always looking for research associates to help discover how to levitate again. If you are interested in magickal research and have outstanding warrants, just ask your local Imperial guardsman today!
FACT: Earnest Haines sounds like Harry "Dr Howll" Robbins, voice of Dr Isaac Kleiner!
FACT: Hircine drove a wedge between Ra'jirra and Zul gro-Radagash, but blames it all on Mehrunes Dagon!
FACT: Latin cusswords made sense, given the Imperial dominance in culture, and were a blast to retrofit!
FACT: Doing the next chapter in Megaton terrifies me. I might go "meanwhile, at Black Plateau..." instead and see if they've actually decided what to do yet.

[treydog]

FACT: Doing the next chapter in Megaton terrifies me. I might go "meanwhile, at Black Plateau..." instead and see if they've actually decided what to do yet.

Or simply a "meanwhile" chapter where they argue about what to do next, fail to reach a decision, and choose to break for lunch, instead. After all, the Arch-Mage isn't there to tell them to "Get on with it!"

[mALX]

FACT: Doing the next chapter in Megaton terrifies me. I might go "meanwhile, at Black Plateau..." instead and see if they've actually decided what to do yet.

That is because Moira lives in Megaton. She is a frightening aspect of FO3...real frightening!!!

[Cardboard Box]

[Ah, interludes. To write, like Treydog, in snippets of letters, memoranda, and such? Or... well, I needed the exercise in third person writing. To be blunt, tried mock minutes but nothing came out right.]

Interlude: Loredas 11 First Seed 4E8, 11 bells of morning

Brucellus Vito, pilus of Black Plateau Security and Battlemage Training, rapped his stick on the table.

"Thank you all for coming," he said quietly, "at such short notice. The Arch-mage would have been pleased, and it's the Arch-mage we'll be discussing."

"I hope this won't take long then," was a statement coming from an elongated Bosmer down the far end of the table. Oh, of course, Arondiel. The fly guy.

"I think rescuing the Arch-mage is more important that sending more convicts to their deaths," Tuls Laren said acidly. "Honestly, are you ever going to let go of Tarhiel's stupid ideas?"

"Order," Brucellus said ominously.

"They worked damnit! It was just the landing that was fatal!"

"Order," Brucellus said again, but a little more ominously. The two magi took the hint and shut up, glaring daggers at each other.

"To recap the events of the past day and a half," Brucellus ticked them off on the report sheet in his head, "Arch-mage Ra'jirra arrived Fredas 10 First Seed at nine-and-quarter bells, and was taken directly to Laboratory Seven, Building Three, assigned to Laren, Tuls. There he was shown the portal which Laren had created, linking the laboratory to an unknown location for, at that point in time, a duration of six and one-half days. Due to the portal being opaque no identification could be made as to the portal's destination at that time."

There were various mutterings and scratching of quills as the assembled took notes.

"Said portal's intended destination was a point immediately outside Building Three for a proof of concept." This produced another flurry of surprised note-taking and Laren stared at the table.

"Did you try a smaller portal first?" That was Er-Ma, a collected young hatchling of three-and-thirty and wise beyond her years. Bruce had heard that Er-Ma had been part of a coven or something before heeding her true calling and arriving at the Leyawiin guild-house. Right now her unusually bright eyes were trained on Laren.

"Of course" he replied, "I'm not stupid! The original portal was only a foot across before it expanded!"

"Order," Bruce used a vocal trick that had in the past terrorised whole platoons. Herding cats, he thought to himself. "We can discuss good research practices later. If I may continue:

"At about seven-and-quarter bells in the evening, an intruder emerged from the portal. Intruder was hostile and attacked Pierre Beugalle, injuring him fatally. Arch-mage Ra'jirra apprehended the intruder long enough for security staff to secure the prisoner."

"That would be the wild woman," someone said thoughtfully, "quite the privy-mouth wasn't she?"

"The intruder was taken to the cells, searched and locked up for the night," Bruce forged on. "Interrogation of prisoner 'Dead-bolt' commenced Loredas 11 First Seed at seven bells of morning. Interrogation run by Brucellus Vito, Arch-mage Ra'jirra and Magician Tuls Laren in attendance for first half-hour before returning to laboratory."

"I love military talk, don't you?" Arondiel murmured to nobody in particular.

"Better than listening to you," Er-Ma channelled the feelings of most of the assembly.

"Do you mind?" Henantier said irritably, "I want to hear how she escaped."

Bruce shifted a little in his chair.

"Interrogation of prisoner 'Dead-bolt' concluded nine bells of morning," he pressed on tonelessly. "Brucellus Vito departed room before prisoner was transferred back to holding cell prior to transfer to Imperial City prison and sentencing for murder of Pierre Beugalle. At this point prisoner... managed to incapacitate the guards, unlock shackles and escape." The words tasted like dead fish and bog beacon.

"Four of them," Laren shook his head, "I still can't believe it even now. What the hell happened?"

"You should have given her to me," Arondiel snapped, "I need more research associates!"

"She managed to knock out four damn guards, you jackass!" Laren shouted, "Can't you think about something other than your stupid research for one second?"

"Stupid research? Look who's calling who stupid! Playing with holes in space when we could be flying!" Arondiel was up on his feet and turning red.

"What's the point in flying when you can't get down safely!" Laren was turning purple. "And you're so stuck on Tarhiel's stupid spells you're not even –"

Bruce closed his eyes, counted to ten in increments of five, then brought his stick down on the table. Hard.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Mage's Guild!" Brucellus Vito rarely raised his voice unless he was extremely excited. The fact he was raising it now caused everyone to freeze and egos to shrink back to normal.

"I think Ra'jirra would appreciate it if we all, as he liked to say, 'mucked in together' and applied ourselves to the task of locating and rescuing him." He twitched one corner of his mouth. "Backbiting, no matter how deserved, might make him ticked off."

Arondiel glared at Laren and then found something fascinating about the table. Having 'ticked off' the Arch-mage previously he didn't want that to happen again.

Laren opened his mouth but Holmar beat him to it.

"The Nine may not let us." This intonation hung in the air for about two and a half seconds before the table burst into seven and three-quarter seconds of furious objection, followed by Bruce rapping his stick for order.

"Holmar Long-Drink," he asked with an unnerving flatness of tone, "please explain your statement."

"The Nine blessed us with the gift of tongues," the priest said, "And they brought unto us the one known as 'Dead Bolt'. The portal of Tuls Laren enlarged without warning. Mayhap the hand of the gods was moving afore that day. Think you: how could a slip of a girl subdue a quartet of armed men? Look to the blessed Divines, for 'twould appear a Champion was required, to tread that distant soil in its hour of need..."

Bruce looked around at the rest of the attendees. Laren was frowning at nothing. Arondiel, Henantier and Er-Ma were wearing identical glazed expressions along with a substantial cross-section of the others as Holmar continued to preach.

"He's right." Laren's determined tone shattered the spell and Holmar stopped dead, glowering at the interruption.

"It makes sense. There is no logical explanation except that outside forces manipulated the portal's daedronic fields – and given the translation magic Holmar's probably right on the money."

"Probably?" Holmar sputtered.

"Also note that we were unaware of the language problem until Ra'jirra arrived, and then that criso appeared after he did, and then she somehow manages to free herself from her shackles and four guardsmen." The Dunmer looked around.

"I am loath to use such a phrase, but, well," his face looked like he'd swallowed a lemon, "the gods did it. The question is: Why?"

"Ours is not to question the gods," Holmar intoned stonily, "but to obey their dictates. To do otherwise... is sin."

The meeting was brought to an abrupt close due to attempted murder.

* * *

In the following hours Brucellus Vito took charge.

He had a few words with Arondiel regarding the possibility that, despite Trebonius Artorius' notorious and well-documented incompetence, his underlings may have been somewhat more effective, and as such maybe analysis of levitation as observed and cast by other guild members might be worth revisiting. After all, the Arch-mage himself had suggested doing so on several occasions, and surely such a recommendation counted for something?

Arondiel looked doubtful.

Bruce remarked that while doing so, he might find something that would help reopen Laren's portal and keep it open before Laren did.

Arondiel looked more than a little interested when Bruce left him.

Bruce also visited Holmar Long-Drink in the infirmary, ostensibly to check on his condition. While that ecclesiastical worthy was unable to speak, he was able to nod when the pilus prior requested that he be informed should Holmar be granted any further insights into the Nine's intentions.

While at the infirmary, he also checked on Er-Ma. Apparently her arm had only been dislocated and would heal up by tomorrow afternoon.

Finally he visited Tuls Laren. The Dunmer had retreated back to Building Three and flinched when Brucellus entered the laboratory.

There was some one-sided discussion regarding respect for the clergy and general etiquette, with particular focus on the observed relationship between Holmar Long-Drink's throat and a pair of hands which appeared to be attached to Tuls Laren.

Tuls made statements regarding the personality and genealogy of Holmar Long-Drink and the nature of magical research.

Brucellus made it clear that he didn't give a fourdrake and that if it wasn't for the urgency of locating the Arch-mage the jail manifest would be longer by one Tuls Laren.

Tuls said nothing of note in response.

Brucellus added that Arondiel was revisiting pre-Nerevarine records of the Mage's Guild and might find something useful.

Tuls expressed significant doubts that this would happen. The exact wording involved speculation on Arondiel's family tree of a highly libellous nature.

Brucellus stated that he would expect a status report by tomorrow noon.



This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 25 2010, 10:38 PM

[mALX]

My favorite lines:

his face looked like he'd swallowed a lemon

and especially this one:

The meeting was brought to an abrupt close due to attempted murder.

ROFL !!!!!

[Cardboard Box]

One of Ra'jirra's complaints about Black Plateau is that "all the big brains in magic are linked to ginormous egos". It doesn't help that my research in The Imperial Library suggests friction between the Imperial Cult and the Mage's Guild, which would also explain the bias of Alessia Ottus.

[treydog]

Short Interludes are for those of us who can't think of a way to write long ones- in other words, please proceed.

Stupid research? Look who's calling who stupid! Playing with holes in space when we could be flying!" Arondiel was up on his feet and turning red.

"What's the point in flying when you can't get down safely!" Laren was turning purple. "And you're so stuck on Tarhiel's stupid spells you're not even –"

There was some one-sided discussion regarding respect for the clergy and general etiquette, with particular focus on the observed relationship between Holmar Long-Drink's throat and a pair of hands which appeared to be attached to Tuls Laren.

See how much more enjoyable that is than- "The debate became spirited"?

[Cardboard Box]

[Ugh, the wording. Lots of digressions and crawling into people's heads. One exception is Tar-Meena; she doesn't mind Ra'jirra's fatherly delight in his hatchlings, but she insists they stay well away from her precious Archives. There's one more chapter taking place in a Megaton afternoon before Ra'jirra and Haines make an unwelcome discovery. Partly because I have more business here, partly because of dangling conversation threads.]

_________________

Chapter 6: 21 August 2277: Megaton

I think it best that I perform a public service and explain for idiots what radiation is, more or less, so you can use your own judgement and stay the hells away from it.

According to Haines, the people of Earth had discovered that all matter is composed of bits called atoms, which are too small to see, and which stick together to make water, air, and everything else. In fact, they're so small that they're right on the border between being honest-to-gods stuff and energy.

“Energy cannot be created or destroyed,” Haines recited like a liturgy, “only transformed.”

Some atoms are unstable. So if you get a big enough lump of some stuff made of unstable atoms, the whole thing explodes as all the atoms turn into energy – heat, light, shock, and a whole raft of other energies we people of Nirn mercifully haven't even discovered yet.

Because these Earth clowns made weapons called bombs that used this 'critical mass' idea, and look where it got them.

Or if someone has, they went boom before they could tell anyone.

Anyway, some of these energies are lumped together as 'radiation', and it's these which were, apparently, causing Haines to feel weak and fall apart, and were giving me headaches, as well as an unexpected magicka boost. Evidently magicka is an energy – one that these people hadn't discovered!

Radiation cannot be seen, usually, but there are ways of sensing that it's there. Lots of dead creatures and plants for starters.

Anyway, that's the basics of radiation. And between you and me, no matter how badly you might need magicka, the side effects are simply not worth it: unable to eat, hair falling out, skin bruises and splits at the slightest provocation, literally puking up your guts, your brain literally rotting away in your skull, and a slow, horrid, painful death.

I may have some of the details wrong but radiation will kill you anyway.

________

We were quite the pair when we arrived at the Craterside Supply in Megaton that afternoon. Actually, we were quite the pair when we arrived at Megaton in the first place, but that goes without saying. I just ignored the inevitable stares and helped a decidedly enfeebled Earnest Haines up a rickety metal ramp and into a shack that Haines assured me was the main store in the place.

Speaking of places, Megaton is a walled village built within a huge crater over two hundred feet across. Apparently it's made from the carcass of a huge flying machine, one of many which dropped the atomic bombs here. And one of them didn't go off. That one still sits, mercifully defused, in the middle of the village, worshipped by its own cult of loonies. I'll describe it later.

Note to Arondiel: I'm talking about the bomb, not the flying machine. It wasn't until much later that Ernie deigned to explain how that damn thing worked.

Also please note the crater housing Megaton was made by a bomb that didn't explode. If it had, the crater would have been measured in miles, I'm quite certain, and there would have been no reason at all for me being here.

The crater walls have been enlarged by barriers of scavenged metal about thirty feet high or more, making it one of the best fortified places in the Capital Wasteland area. I know this because the sheriff told me himself, later on.

But right now a rather dirty and slightly singed young woman I decided was Moira was goggling at me and Haines from behind a counter, and also at our entourage: a scowling dirty Redguard boy in an overlarge coat, a girl who again looked sort of Breton under all her dirt, an oldster of indeterminate race, and two or three extra gogglers.

“Ah, Moira,” Haines said as though fronting up with serious radiation poisoning and an armoured Khajiit in tow was a perfectly normal occurrence.

“Uh, hi, Ernie,” Moira didn't look like a mad scientist, but then there was that odd smell in the air speaking clearly of potions gone wrong. “What... I mean who... uh...”

“Ra'jirra, this is Moira Brown, she runs the Craterside Supply,” says Haines in as breezy a tone as he can manage. “Moira, I'd like you to meet Ra'jirra the, er, Khajiit.” Yep, he's enjoying her discomfort. “I was explaining to him about your survival guide?”

“Oh! He told you about it?” She perked right up like one of those twitty apprentices convinced they're going to turn the world on its ear with their profound discoveries. “Yeah, lemme explain why –”

I hold up a hand. “Maybe later ma'am,” says I, “but right now Doctor Haines here needs your assistance.” Ernie rolling his eyes suggested that was a bit more important than explanations about survival guides.

So she looks again at Haines and notices. “Oh, yeah, I'll tell you later,” says she, and then says to Ernie, “So, feeling a little under the weather... or maybe over the guy-gur counter?”

Oh what a lovely bedside manner. I would soon learn that the official healer in town was even worse. This meant people tended to sew their own limbs back on and stuff like that.

“Moira... my Pip-Boy's reading nearly 700 rads right now,” Haines manages to say in a civil tone, “I feel like I'm about to burn a hole through the floor, the only reason I'm standing is this counter, my skin is beginning to fall off, and I swear if I listen closely I can hear my genes crying.”

Genes? Another mystery word for the list, thought I.

“So, fatigue, tissue damage, and you're experiencing delusions, too? Fascinating!” She reminded me of Arondiel, the fly boy. “Now, after taking a few notes, I'll take care of that nasty radiation with a bit of my own home-made concoction. So, if you come over here,” and she points to a wretched-looking cot down the back, “and if your audience would like to give us some space,” and she looks hard at the gawpers, “I'll get right to it.”

“So you know some alchemy for curing this radiation then?” asks I. “I think a dose would do me good too.”

“Well,” says she, “I know a little chemistry –”

Must be what they call alchemy here, I thought. Or was it something else entirely?

“– But mainly it's a nice tall glass of rad-cleansing brahmin milk. Laced with a whole lot of Rad-X and RadAway.”

Oh.

“And maybe even a more reliable way to get rid of radiation! ...Assuming it works, of course.”

Uh-oh. I could see Haines thinking the same thing.

“I've never had a chance to test it out on someone so heavily dosed, but I'm sure it'll work out fine. Exciting, isn't it? Now, let's see,” and she turns away and starts rummaging through dented desks and crumpled metal cupboards, “a little brahmin milk, some magnets, a few happy thoughts...”

I've seen research being done, and I've seen the healers at work, and what Moira was doing wasn't research and would make any healer worth their salt hit the skooma. Basically she poked, prodded, stuck tubes connected to pouches of gods only knew what sludge into his arm, asked stupid questions, took samples, stared into a contraption with green symbols on a screen while tapping away on a mass of keys like a harpsichord gone wrong, and let's be honest here. She was making it up as she went along. As a secondary observer, I noticed to my dismay that whatever was in those pouches seemed to be having more effect than anything else.

I say 'to my dismay' because I'm no soothsayer, but I could see plainly that the “being stuck like a pig” cure was going to feature large in my future.

“What's the pouch things?” asks I of the nearest gawker.

“RadAway,” says he, “absorbs radiation and heals some of the damage. Only thing is the stuff does a number on your head and guts.”

“Lovely,” says I, “now I know what I've got coming next.” I looked over at Haines who was dozing in his chair as Moira did anything with a selection of small vials and other gimcracks.

“Huh? What's that?” She swung around to look at me. “You get irradiated as well huh? That's... uh...” and the confused look returns to her face, “great I guess, but...”

“I'm a Khajiit,” says I before she asks, “and it might throw off your results, right?”

And she just blinks at me and then the bottle-cap drops. “Yeah, right, exactly! Well, I can maybe do a few checks, but since you're a mutant –”

And she stops dead because I'm not hiding my annoyance. Yes, I don't look human, but – “Let me set you straight,” says I, “I'm a born and bred Khajiit, for more generations than I have fingers. Despite that, the arts of the healer and the alchemist work as well on me as any man or mer. And if anyone calls me a mutant...” and I trail off and look around meaningfully, then the increasingly pugnacious-looking Redguard kid pipes up.

“You don't try nothin' mister,” says he, “my dad's the sheriff here, so you just watch it.”

Gods! If I closed my eyes I could imagine that coming from my fearless J'dargo, facing a drunk at the Faregyl Inn! It's a wonder he's still alive.

“Well then, young sir,” says I soberly, “I won't start anything.” Which is a good way to run your life. Let the other pugnacious idiot seek help getting their head bashed in.

“Sounds good to me,” said a voice that probably started in the man's boots before emerging from his beard. His coat – his son was wearing a cut-down version – bore a metal star, as did his broad-brimmed hat. “None of these folks causing you trouble?”

“Apart from making me feel like I'm in a menagerie, no,” says I, then I tap my chest. “Ra'jirra,” and I pause, then decide what the hells, “Arch-mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild, currently picking my nose and awaiting rescue.”

“At the same time?” Yep, I was going to get on fine. “Lucas Simms, mayor and sheriff of Megaton. I see you've met Harden,” he adds. “So where you from?”

“Cyrodiil,” says I, “which is probably a lot further off than even I think.”

“Did you have to mention you do magic?” Haines had come around at last, albeit with, I suspected, stomach pains and a headache, as well as an irritated expression.

“Nice of you to come round,” says I, “how're you feeling?”

“Horrible,” says he, “I don't think I'll be able to eat anything for a week.”

“That's RadAway for you,” says Simms the elder with a knowing smile. “Oh, and make sure you drink plenty of water. That stuff goes in orange and comes out green.”

Oh, joy. Laughter made me realise that I'd groaned that aloud.

“Well, the good news is – you're alive!” Moira chirped happily to Haines, who didn't seem cheered by that. “But... um... there was a little side-effect.”

“You mean something worse than a force-regrown digestive tract?” Ernie was exaggerating. It's the lining in your guts that gets regrown, apparently. I shudder to think what happens in your brain.

“No, not that bad! Just a teeny, tiny, um, mutation.”

Haines went even whiter than he already was. Apparently mutation tends to be a bad thing.

“But it seems to be benign, at least.” She tapped away on her contraption and peered at the green symbols. “Looks like a form of radiation-assisted regeneration.”

“Fat lot of use that is,” Haines grumbled, “seeing as I don't intend getting radiation poisoning ever again.”

Moira didn't answer that as she dug into a box and extracted some items. “Here,” says she to Ernie, “take a few radiation chems, as my little way of saying, 'I'm sorry I twisted your DNA like a kitten with a ball of yarn.'”
And then they stop and look at me since I burst out laughing.

“Sorry, sorry,” says I, “you haven't seen what my little kits could do with yarn. Trust me on this.”

________

Abhuki liked to knit. She knit vests. She knit caps. She knit scarves and really quite pretty placemats and gloves and such. And she made a nice drake out of it. Which for the slow meant she had a chest full of bright coloured materials and needles.

When the twins were three, they went upstairs to play, while Abhuki manned the taps, and S'jirra and I were in the basement, checking inventory. One of the downsides is that the Arch-Mage has to do all the shopping in the Imperial City where Bravil's markets don't cut it.

Anyhow, there's a crash from upstairs followed by a shrill howling duet that shook off all thought of shopping trips. S'jirra and I jumped up and adjusted our clothing and headed upstairs where the patrons were all staring up at the ceiling and Abhuki was nowhere in sight.

So we went upstairs and saw Abhuki outside her room, arms folded. She looked up as we approached, and I noticed she was trying very hard to not laugh.

In the middle of her room was a large ball of assorted yarns which apparently had attempted to engulf the rest of the room's contents... including two very frightened little Khajiiti girls, staring out of their brightly-coloured bonds with eyes the size of their heads!

________

“And that,” I finished up once the laughter died down, “is what kittens can do with yarn!”

Moira was busy with picking herself up off the floor, while Haines just looked pained. “Thank you so much for that slice of your home life,” says he stiffly, “now I look forward to you getting the treatment.”

“Oh yeah,” Moira says uncertainly. “Uh, you'll have to remove your, um, upper, armour... stuff.”

“My cuirass? Just remember I'm a married man,” says I, and a fiddle with the straps later off it comes. I wanted a good look at myself to ensure that I wasn't shedding my hair. S'jirra would have a fit.

And I wasn't taking off my greaves in public. S'jirra would kill me.

My torso looked shed-free, although I needed to lose a few pounds. But you try saying no to my wife's cooking.

My cuirass looked like it was holding up nicely apart from a couple of ghoul-induced dents.

Moira was looking like a cross between a carp and a startled strawberry. Maybe she was allergic to Khajiit hair or something.

Ernie was getting colour back into his mug and concealing a grin.

“Right,” I went on as if nothing had happened, “let's get this radiation out of me if you don't mind.”

________

From Moira Brown's notes

This Rajirrer guy (how does he spell it?) looks like a cat. One of the big cats. That fur of his makes it difficult to find a vein to set up a RadAway dose though. At least I did find one and it seems to work, he did mention that his energy was coming back and his stomach was starting to hurt.

Doctor Haines says he ran into the guy in a building more or less east of here late yesterday chasing a raider. There was some sort of magic portal that the Ka-jeet came through, and he looked like he was about to puke when he said “magic” - Haines I mean. Apparently the portal closed suddenly so this guy's stuck here awaiting rescue.

Haines can be such a prick sometimes. Maybe I should warn Rajirrer about that before he smacks his head off for an insult or something.

________

From Earnest Haines' journal

I had no idea Moira's terminal patched into a medical computer system until today! It seems, despite her magpie habits and undisciplined attitude towards Science, she can work wonders with genetic analysis. Perhaps I should re-evaluate her merits.

Naturally I asked her what genetic analysis showed on my furry compatriot compared to the normal human genome.

What she found out was nothing short of jaw-dropping. Well over 80% of his DNA is a match for homo sapiens!
It is my current hypothesis that this “Cirodil” place is somewhere else on Earth, and that Kajeet and their mysterious powers are the result of genetic manipulation by another country's super-Science, perhaps somewhere in Africa or the Antipodes.

I shall be careful not to let Rajirra go home with an excuse for them to conquer us. After all, I am an American free – and I would prefer to learn about their Scientific knowledge as an equal!

________

The bloody needles were blunt again. Just as I expected.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Oct 4 2010, 11:28 AM

[treydog]

Brilliant stuff- especially the dueling journal entries. I also loved the story of the kits "discovery" of large amounts of yarn.

[mALX]

And I wasn't taking off my greaves in public. S'jirra would kill me.

Er...Ra'jirra...is...PW?

[Cardboard Box]

Er...Ra'jirra...is...PW?

My dear MalX, Ra'jirra is married, and has a sense of modesty, and he doesn't know what PW means either.

In other news I'm having trouble with a tricky scene holding me up. Actually the last scene was only solved by 'duelling journals' as Treydog put it.

Actually, I'm surprised Foxy hasn't noticed a certain detail in Ra'jirra's reminiscence...

[Cardboard Box]

[Alrighty. I've been wrangling this section for ages, and I think this is a decent draft.]

Chapter 7: 21 August 2277: House 'Wares

The silence between Ernie and me was a little tense as we entered the shack grandiosely called Moriarty's Saloon. Haines looked like he'd been played the yokel after my demonstration of Conjuration magicks to the still-curious group loitering outside Moira's shop.

I didn't see what the problem was. Harden the Pugnacious had more or less challenged me to prove I did magic, so I did. As setting fire to the village was pretty much out of contention, and daylight meant you wouldn't be able to see Starlight, I invoked the pattern Volanaro had taught me all those years ago, and conjured up Mister Bones.

Mister Bones, in the time I'd spent summoning him over the years, had begun to develop a definite personality. While unable to speak, his pose spoke volumes at times, and he recognised the interior of the Faregyl Inn – especially at Tales and Tallows. He also had begun to be more canny in fighting, leading with his shield rather than the rusty axe seemingly nailed into his bony hand. When he appeared during negotiations – such as cutting off drunks or encouraging reckless experimenters to move to Black Plateau, he generally tended to adopt threatening postures, and at during one set of negotiations managed twenty-seven different poses before the spell wore off.

The demonstration didn't go well. Several people fled, including the children, several others just stood stunned, and Lucas Simms drew his gun. Mister Bones saw him and immediately took a threatening stance.

“Don't shoot you fool!” yells I! “He'll attack you if you do.”

And Mister Bones looks at me with a what-the-hell-was-that-all-about pose and then at Simms with a just-you-try-it pose.

Just then Haines emerged from Moira's, saw Mister Bones, and adopted a what-the-hell-is-going-on-and-what-is-that-thing pose with matching expression.

“Sorry Bonesy,” says I, “wasn't expecting that reaction.”

Mister Bones assumed an I'm-disappointed-in-you pose as I launched a dispel enchantment on myself, and he disappeared in an amber flash.

Haines did an impression of a freshly caught perch for a bit before finally saying, “When you've finished terrorising the villagers we'll visit this Moriarty person.”

Lucas Simms just shouldered his rifle with a flat expression and suggestions about using a little more discretion next time.

* * *

The first thing I noticed in Moriarty's was a ghoul thumping a buzzing, crackling ray-dee-oh with added swearing. “Why won't you work?” it demanded in a voice that could have come straight from inland Vvardenfell.

“It's not the radio, it's Gee-en-ar,” a young woman with golden hair in a rough bun said to him, “their signal's been merd lately.”

“Well I'm not puttin' the Enclave on,” the creature growled, “between endless futtin' Yanky Doodle and that cullyhole Eden it makes me puke.” And it gave the device another vengeful thump and turned back to rearranging the dirt on the glasses.

“Maybe we should pay this Gee-en-ar a visit,” says I quietly to Haines, “they seem to know a lot about what happens around here.”

“Later,” says Haines curtly, “Moriarty is closer. Wherever he is.”

Just then there was the sound of a breaking glass. The ghoul had seen us, and everyone else's eyes followed his.

It says something that I was getting used to it at this point. To be honest, it was a wee bit refreshing not to be stared at as the Great and Terrible Arch-Mage, but only wee, since I was being stared at as a What The Hells Is That, which is slightly worse.

There was a girlish little squeal from further in the room, and it wasn't happy, and it came from behind a roguish gent with an eyepatch who was standing up and glaring at me.

“Hey! You're that cat-man Maggie was talkin' about!” Well, obviously, since there weren't any other Khajiiti running around! “What the hell'd you do to her?”

“Now hold on there, sir,” and Ernie steps forward raising his hands, “Ra'jirra here didn't mean any harm by his, ah, demonstration.”

Yeah, right, seemed to be the consensus between Maggie's protector, the hard-faced guard, and Gob for that matter. “What the fut's that mean? Maggie comes screamin' in here, scared out of her mind, screamin' about cat-men and monsters appearin' outa thin air!” His hand's on his gun! “You got some 'splainin' to do!”

So I push Ernie out of the way and 'splain. The details aren't important, but I showed him my family portrait and retold the one about R'mara and Sheeyin's adventure in the yarn and Maggie got to giggling and the gent calmed down nicely. Apparently Billy had found Maggie after raiders killed her parents up north somewhere and had been protecting her ever since.

“Well that explains you wanting to kill me,” says I at last, “I'd be mad if some idiot mage scared my kits too. Hey, where's Ernie gone?”

“Out back with Moriarty,” Gob said, jabbing one cadaverous finger towards an anteroom. “Said he needed to talk with him, not listen to your home life.” He rolled his foggy eyes. “He might've defused that bomb out there, but he can be a real cullyhole huh?”

“Bomb?” was my intelligent response. You have to understand that this was my first visit, and I'd been more concerned with getting Ernie to Moira's than sightseeing.

“Yeah, the bomb! Big round black thing in the middle? What got the town named after it?” Gob looked at me scornfully. “Well, two days ago the Doc there was helpin' Walter fix the water pipes in town, and he decides hey, while I'm here, let's fix that bomb, so he did.” Gob grinned and shook his head. “Next thing I know, Simms comes in here and lays a hundred caps on the counter – drinks on him toastin' the good Doc.” His face darkened. “Weird thing though – this Burke guy who used to hang out in the corner over there. Just asked if it was true, jumped up and left like he'd been insulted.”

“And have you finished giving our guest a freebie?” The man glaring at the ghoul had a lilting accent that didn't match the ice in his eyes. They switched to me and I felt my hackles rise. If this was Moriarty then I'd be taking my trade elsewhere.

“Just tellin' him about the bomb,” Gob said nervously.

“Anyone could tell... him... about the futting thing,” Moriarty said disgustedly and smacked Gob upside the head. “Go clean the rest room and do something useful.”

Gob just shrugged meekly and trudged to the back. 'Rest room' is what they call privies in the Capital Wasteland, but they smell just as bad.

“Well, you've got what you wanted to know,” Moriarty was talking to Ernie but his eyes were still frozen on me, “So either buy a drink or fut off.”

“Indeed,” Ernie said stiffly, “And besides, we have work to do first, play later. Shall we go, Arch-mage?”

“By all means, Doctor.”

And off we fut.

* * *

As we navigated around the south end of Megaton we both found mutual ground regarding the venality and general cullyhole-ness of one Colin Moriarty, proprietor of Moriarty's Saloon, and that we would be taking future trade elsewhere. “Maybe the Brass Lantern,” says Haines, pointing to a stall at the bottom of the crater, then he pauses. “Follow me.”

I don't bother to ask where we're going. He leads me over bridges and across decks and at one point across someone's roof to stand in front of a building.

“Here,” says he, “I'll let you do the honours.”

And he hands me a key!

“What's this?” is my intelligent response.

“I was given this house,” Ernie explains, “after defusing the bomb down there.” And he points to the bomb – it says something about my preoccupation that I missed it when I came in here. “Right next to it there is the local cult that worships the bloody thing... religion. The Brass Lantern's right below, the clinic's right behind it... After you?”

So of course I take the key and slot it into the lock and inside I'm approached by a big metal ball with three eyes.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” it says in a posh voice, “I am Wadsworth, your personal robotic butler.”

I looked the... machine... over dubiously. It seemed to be floating on a column of air – hot air at that. As well as three eyes, or what I assumed to be eyes, it sported three spidery arms, one of which was tipped with a jagged circular blade, one with a suspiciously blackened nozzle, and another with an evil-looking claw.

“I am here to look after your needs and to keep you happy and entertained,” it declared proudly. “What can I do for you?”

Need I say I was at a complete loss? Doctor Haines to the rescue!

“This,” says he smugly, “is a Mister Handy robot. We had one in the cafeteria in Vault 101. Wadsworth, what is your functionality?”

“My functionality is your pleasure and comfort sir,” the robot declared, “I can clean, exterminate vermin, distil limited amounts of water, provide quality haircare and even tell jokes.”

“Jokes?” says I, “Well, let's hear one.”

“A neutron walks into a bar and asks, 'How much for a drink?' The bartender says, 'For you, no charge.'”

Only Haines got it, I saw him smirk.

Wadsworth rotated between us uncertainly, then focussed on Haines. “Your hair needs some attention sir, may I recommend the combover?”

“Would you like a haircut?” Haines looks at me.

Right. A haircut from a floating ball that didn't even have proper hands to handle shears and comb. “You first,” says I.

“Certainly!” Wadsworth cries, “I am programmed with a multitude of hair shaping scenarios, if you would care to choose one, I would be happy to replicate it for you.” And it extends a sort of circular screen and up comes a picture of Haines with a new hairdo. As he looked at it his face became speculative.

“Can you tint my hair? Say, black?”

“Certainly,” and the picture changes its hair colour.

Once Haines had decided not only a hairdo but a beard-do as well, I was honestly surprised at how effectively the machine worked. I won't try to describe its actions – let's just say better Haines kept his eyes shut during proceedings – but when it was finished, Doctor Earnest Haines looked ten years younger and I said so.

“Really?” preens he, flicking stray hairs out of his collar, “I'm glad to hear it. Thank you, Wadsworth.”

“No trouble at all sir. Is there anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“I'll just clean up then sir,” says Wadsworth and it floats off doing whatever it is the robot does with nobody around.

“I have my own house,” Haines explains, “outside Springvale, and it's all I need. But you... I'd like to give you use of this place. If you want a space to yourself, that is.”

And I has a think, and finally, “Sounds fair. Keeps me away from you too right?”

Haines just smiled thinly.

* * *

“So why are we here again?” asks I outside the waystation where we'd met what felt like a million years ago. The setting sun drew tattered palls of shadow over the dead city.

“I'm doing research for Moira Brown, as you've been told,” says he with an annoyed look, “and so far, I've been nearly blown to bits from landmines as well as almost having a very personal meltdown – as you know first hand.”

“What's a landmine?”

“Oh for... It's an explosive device that rests on the ground. Objects that trigger proximity detectors or stand on them–”

“Oh, like the 'Bouncing Borbas' encountered through the Oblivion gates!” I was quite pleased with myself for making the connection.

Haines looked like he was about to crap a brick – backwards. “Er... these don't bounce.”

“That's a relief.” I fingered my quiver, flicking through the shafts. Nineteen-odd. My stay here was going to be troublesome if I didn't find some way of getting my arms and armour mended, and I got the impression that fletchers were few and far between. Magic's not endless, and the pistol Haines had given me still felt wrong on my hip.

Haines himself spun around and fired several shots at a mangy dog which had followed us down the bank. The last shot blew its skull apart, causing the corpse to go head over heels down to where we were.

“Anyway,” says he, skulking along the side of a ruined tower, “my mission is to investigate the Super-Duper Mart down there and see if there's any food and/or medicines inside.” His face went grim. “In my home, there's a terminal that the previous occupant used. What Moira doesn't know and I do is that raiders took the place over a year ago.”

As we rounded the corner, Haines dropped to a crouch and peered through the scope at the boxy building under a large, probably once eye-catching sign, now rusted and unloved. I squinted at the characters that adorned each panel, matching them to what I had gathered of the English alphabet.

Haines nudged me and passed over his laser pistol. “Check the awning.” I looked through the scope and saw a corpse apparently – no, it was hanging from the awning. Yep – raiders.

Somebody fired a shot. We froze, looking eastward. What we saw through Haines' scope was a raider actually doing pretty well against three better armed and more professional-looking thugs. I say 'thugs' because that's what we found out they were.

I'm not stupid, so I tapped Haines' shoulder and made a sweeping gesture west and north. He nodded.

We broke cover, swinging west towards the back of the mart, clinging to the shadow of the slope behind our destination. The mystery trio didn't see or hear us, being too far away, and we relaxed slightly once we reached the building.

“What sort of place is a 'Super-Duper Mart' anyway?” asks I softly.

“A place where people did their shopping, of course,” Haines murmered irritably, “Buy food, basic cleaning materials, housewares, all under one roof. Generically, they're 'super-markets'.”

Oh – so it was like a cross between The Feed Bag and Three Brothers or something like that. As the last rays of sun fled, I invoked the Eye of Night.

We continued our circuit around the west, then north sides of the building, then froze. Voices meant the thugs were still in front of the building.

“What didja say he looked like again?”

“He's bald with a beard. Totes a scoped laser, but he might have a rifle on 'im. Just watch it – he's got some sorta mutie for company.”

And we look at each other in alarm. Why the hell are these guys waiting for us?

“Well how futtin' long are we gonna wait here?”

“As long as we have to, dumbcully. Our intel is they're coming here, so they're probably close by. And thanks to that futtin' raider they prob'ly know we're here.”

“So? Makes for a fun fight. Now, we split the caps even stevens, right?”

“Are you crazy? Whoever deals the death blow gets half and the others a quarter each.”

And my hackles are rising and I see Haines' teeth flash. Assassins. We should have known.

I watched Haines shrug off his pack, pull out a pair of rifles, and took the one he handed me. He also pulled out several objects I didn't recognise before nodding back the way we came. Rounding the west side, he turned on the light of his Pip-Boy. I winced and closed the Eye.

“Now pay attention,” whispers he, and I learned how to work an assault rifle. He made me load and reload the gun several times, then nodded. “I'll toss some grenades to soften them up,” he added, “And that's where the rifles come into play.” And he smiles grimly. “Welcome to your first firefight.”

And off goes the light and I open my Eye and we creep off to war.

Ernie's 'grenades', when thrown, bounce a little way before exploding – unfortunately too far away to soften the assassins enough – “What the balls!?” – “Find cover!” – “Two north!” – hard-faced men in purpose-made raiment with a claw design, and toting assault rifles of their own – “Talon Company!” – I pull the trigger but the damn gun wants to kill the sky – to hells with it – I drop the gun and summon a scamp – “Where'd the hell that come from?” – “It's shooting at us!” – my arrow leaves the string and one falls grabbing his belly – “Keep firing!” – I loose arrow eighteen and another drops his weapon from an arm gone useless before Haines blows his head apart – a clink – something loud knocked me down – my bow's gone – pistol – the world's at an angle – summon Mister Bones – the gutshot guy's screaming whatthefut over and over again – the other's turned to face Bones with gun spitting – something hit my pauldron – gutshot's in front of me fumbling with a stimpack – put the gun to his eye – he spits – falls eye a hole – someone in front of me – gun as a club – knocked down but I still have the gun – and hand free – left-handed spellcasting – woe upon you – I passed out.

[mALX]

Minefield - I love that town !!! I thought it was cool the way he connected them to the ones in the Oblivion gates - and the Neutron joke !!

[treydog]

The developing personality of Mr. Bones- and the Megatonian’s reactions to him- were a treat.

As always, your characterizations of others in the game are spot-on- particularly Gob and Moriarty.

Never could quite bring myself to let Wadsworth give me a haircut, especially not after seeing the birthday cake back in the Vault.

I pull the trigger but the damn gun wants to kill the sky – to hells with it – I drop the gun and summon a scamp.

And a cliff-hanger ending…

[Cardboard Box]

The main thing is and has always been diarising and research - and holding fire until I can find my way through a scene. Or my hasty scribble

Haines is a rather arrogant, vain young man, as you've probably guessed. Thanks to a disastrous early attempt at Science, he got the nickname 'Baldy' from the Tunnel Snakes and grew a beard to compensate. In a few days he's going to get another hairdo, but stay tuned - he's going to apply Science as well.

My other concern is making sure I don't give Ra'jirra powers he shouldn't have - while he does have some spells he cannot use yet, radiation giveth magicka fortification and taketh away health and genetic integrity. This is a dilemma for me as well as him - because you can be sure there'll be another litter nine months after he returns.

Quill-Weave,

We've had this out time and again regarding the fight outside the Super-Duper Mart. USE THE NOTES STRAIGHT. People need to know that fights in the Capital Wasteland are NOT like playing whack-a-daedra, it's completely different, much more fast and frantic.

Besides, if folks want a laundry list of slashes and smotes and cleaving and all that merd they can bloody well read the Radish's load of lies. If he really did all that flexing of thews and slashing of strokes I'm surprised his arms are still on.

Also if you think we need padding there's plenty of stuff to explain - just send me a list and I'll work something out. Understand some of this is sensitive and the last thing we need is rogue experimenters.

By the way - I've heard rumours that that fawning little cully-lick that follows gro-Radish around writes all his material. Is that true?

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Oct 28 2010, 02:04 AM

[Cardboard Box]

[And here we go again with another long-delayed episode of Ra'jirra's exile in the Capital Wasteland. Playing through the game, I found myself wondering why hitmen were waiting for me, and how they knew. So creating a natural explanation took up a fair whack of my time.]

21 August 2277: The Super-Duper Mart

The main reason I came to was because I wasn't dead. The other reason was that Haines was playing healer very roughly and causing me excruciating pain around the groin area.

Now when someone inflicts pain in those locales, a man tends to voice his objections, so I was not really surprised to find my own gauntlet muffling me.

“You're alive,” Haines said soft and tense like, “thank god. Take a look at this!”

He held up a wickedly sharp shard of gore-drenched metal – grenades, like landmines, are designed to shatter into lots of sharp pieces and literally shred the enemy. Mind you, on reflection, that's what their bullets do as well. These Earth types seem a bit squeamish about blood, preferring to kill folk in one go from a safe distance.

I was feeling a bit squeamish too since I realised the gore was mine. So I took my mind off matters by looking up at the sky, where a crescent of corpse-pale, leprous moon the colour of Haines' Pip-Boy light smirked down at me. Evidently Haines had dragged me back behind the Super-Duper Mart before anyone inside came investigating.

“Brace yourself,” Haines said, and that now familiar sting of a (blunt) needle heralded the burning coolness of a stimpack. “One more inch and your femoral artery would have been severed.”

I shivered, less from realising how close I was to death – occupational hazard when you're Arch-Mage – than from realising I was lying on a stone surface stark naked.

I spat the gauntlet out and managed to say, “Where's my gear?”

Haines just looked at me, reached over and mutely lifted up my cuirass.

Or what was left of it.

The left side was punctured and dented by bits of grenade, and the left pauldron was hanging by half a strap. The gousset on that side resembled rotten lace. The right side wasn't much better, pocked with bullet holes, and then Haines showed me my helm.

My helm had a thumping great crack running from the corner of my eye to the base of the left horn, and then another picked up the trail down towards the back of my neck.

Nothing needed to be said. My reliable, faithful Ayleid suit, which I had seized as of right after hard and bitter combat in the marauder den of Fort Cedrian; which had stood me in good stead as I rose to meet the challenge of Mannimarco; endured the fires of Oblivion; withstood the assaults of bandit, beast, undead and worse – and also helped me make quite the entrance into this strange new world – was utterly, irrevocably buggered.

“Fortunately we have a loaner suit for you,” Haines finally said with a ghost of a smile.

I didn't answer; I attempted to lift myself up enough to take a look at the most important casualty of war. While my left thigh was a mess of blood-sodden fur, my manliness was intact, and the wounds on my left side were reasonably minor. In my travels I'd kept an eye out for Ayleid greaves, but never found any. Traven wouldn't have approved, I think, but not everyone's got the broad back for sodding daedric.

I concentrated, shunting the pain into an invocation to Stendarr.

Stendarr, God of Mercy, if you can hear me–

No, I've done magic, He can hear me, all of them can hear me–

O merciful Father Stendarr, make me whole and strengthen my arm, so I may bring Divine justice to the wicked and the unbelieving, and return victorious in thy name and all the Nine Divines...

I felt the pain cool and burst into silver rain. I opened my eyes again to see Haines looking like he could do with a go himself.

“Prayer?” says he in an ill tone.

“Don't mock,” says I, “It's worked hasn't it?” I led one-nil.

I cast the invocation one more time, then gingerly lifted myself to my feet. Yep, I could walk, talk, and do all the things that separate the living from the more stupid creatures. But I was still stark bollock-naked in a pool of light that picked us out to any predators out there.

I looked at the remains of my armour, then at the dark outfit laid out next to it. Sturdy boots, padded pants of a tough material, and a heavily padded jerkin, which I now saw was black with that stylised claw in white. Looked like a clannfear's claw.

“That's proper combat armour,” says Haines, and I turn to see him lifting up another of the outfits in a measuring pose. “Better that this patchwork quilt I'm wearing.” Good point – when we left Megaton, Haines had changed into a leather armour suit apparently made of offcuts crudely stitched together. He nods at the kit next to my Ayleid wear. “Go on, looks like your size, and I doubt going in naked will work.”

You know something? Haines had a good measuring eye. To be frank I felt more than a little exposed with bare arms, but later I'd see myself in a mirror, and you know something else? I looked like a hardy Skyrim native. “Boots are a bit tight,” says I thoughtfully.

Haines just looks at me and almost steps out of his. So one pair of switched boots later we prepare to go in for the second time.

“Don't get too attacked,” says Haines grimly, “we've only got the one suit for spare parts at the moment. And then there's this. I think you'd better hear it.”

He pulls out a tatty note and starts reading.

“'Find Earnest Haines and show how we treat people that fail to live up to Mr. Tenpenny's expectations. Do not fail me. You know what will happen if you arouse my displeasure.' It's signed 'B', and it describes us both in unflattering detail.”

“Burke,” says I, “While you were talking to Moriarty, I was talking to Gob about your work on the bomb.”

“Go on.” He starts piling my ruined armour in one of the big containers along with some spare weapons. “I'm listening.”

“Apparently once this Burke guy had confirmation of what you'd done, he jumped up and stormed out of the place.” Zenithar gave me a slap upside the head. “And I'm guessing...”

And the two of us stare at each other in disbelief. Burke and this Tenpenny person must have wanted Megaton destroyed!

“But I've never met a Burke,” Haines says in confused irritation, “and I've never been into Moriarty's before today. How would he know what I looked like?”

“Bugger that,” says I, “how'd his thugs know we were coming here?”

Haines by the look of him had his suspicions. We stealthily retraced our trail – mostly my blood trail! - to the entrance.

The entrance smelled of old death from the corpses hanging above us. I felt the horrors; they hadn't been haphazardly chained up there, but carefully displayed in the sputtering flashes of a red and white machine. Haines crept up to it and cracked the thing open, then returned with a trio of bottles.

“The Nuka-Colas are on me,” says he, handing me one. I watched him twist off the cap; in the Eye of Night I could see the cap had been somehow pressed into place. I emulated what he did, and swigged the horrid potion – a sickly sweet fluid that nevertheless would help replenish my bodily fluids. I stuffed the cap into one of the pockets sewn into the pants – handy but not secure – and looked at Haines.

“Two entrances,” says he, “I say take this closest one.”

I'd no complaint. So we carefully pulled the door open and skulked into some sort of antechamber before one great hall. The dusty air showed long ranks of empty shelves and some sort of nearby counter with a contraption on top, but what concerned me was the raiders. The lidgies had set up the shelves as a raised walkway, and I counted three guards patrolling their beats. Worse, light fittings in and dangling from the ceilings were still mostly working. It hit me that my golden Ayleid wear would have stood out like a beacon.

So I look at Haines on the other side of the doorway and he looks at me and points past my right shoulder. So I take a breath and peep round the edge. There was an enclosed area with nobody in it. Which meant it was defensible. Great.

So Haines and I go creeping up to the counter. There's a contraption on the top, which I notice Haines takes pains to avoid touching as he flops onto the countertop and over. I take another look around the dusty, malodorous space and do the same, wincing as several cuts around my waist open.

I drop and crouch over the other side to see Haines picking the lock on a battered metal box. It was an interesting procedure, and I got the impression that I'd need to know how it was done since Earth locks are a completely different design to ours.

In one hand, he holds a straightened out example of what a little packet by his foot called 'BOBBY-JO TM Best Quality for Girls BOBBY PINS'. (Didn't look like a pin to me, more like a metal hair clip.) In the other, he holds some sort of hand tool not quite like a chisel. He rotates the bobby pin in the lock trying to tickle the tumblers and applies pressure to the lock with the tool. And I squat there trying to lockpick my memory. Something Bothiel told me about Dwemer engineering.

The click of the lock breaks my concentration and Haines chuckles as he scoops out that ammo he uses in his precious laser pistol. He then picks up another of the boxy devices – this one in pretty bad shape.

“We're in the money,” whispers he, and points past a door to the back, where a bulky, dirty white cupboard cowers behind some metal shelves. “Let's raid the fridge.”

So we raid the fridge – that bulky cupboard is a machine. I recognised meat, and some things that Sheogorath might declare fruit, but the rest was a set of paper boxes. “Fancy Lads Snack Cakes, pork and beans, and a mack-a-roeny and cheese dinner – 'just heat and eat',” Haines muttered. “So there's food here, but for medicines...”

“How old would these be?”

Haines stares at me. “About two hundred years old, why?”

“They can't still be edible, surely.”

“I've eaten them, and they are.” Haines grinned. “The power of Science, my good man, the power of Science.”

Fine. One all.

“How's your wounds?”

I check my side. Sticky. I check my left thigh. Also sticky and smelling coppery. “Breaking open a bit... leg's a bit stiff.”

And Haines has a look round. “Try your... spell... again.” Good idea – since we're under a light, nobody should notice my invoking Stendarr's mercy again. One shower of silver rain later I manage to stand and take a few steps. Stiff and awkward, but steps nonetheless.

“You're better off waiting here,” says Haines, and hands me some thick things the size of plates. We crouch our way to the counter where Ernie says “Watch,” and I do as he prepares one for anyone coming in that way. “Now you,” and so I set my first landmine where he points.

“I'll place one outside this door,” says he, “once I start moving. You keep watch and if I call, you provide covering fire so we can both get out of here alive.”

And so he pushes the door open, which swings out and smacks one of the many metal carts all over the place. We both freeze and wait for investigation.

“Hey, watch out with those carts cullyhole!” came a distant voice.

“Who you calling a cullyhole?” asks another, 'Sides I have to look at yours all the futtin' time!”

The upshot was that one savage on high thought some other savage on the floor had made the noise, and the argument meant nobody came to enquire just what Haines was doing strapping a doohickey I'd never seen before to his wrist.

Then he cast a spell of chameleon on himself – somehow without the usual flare of light – and slipped out and closed the door behind him. I heard the clunk of a mine on the floor, and now I just had to wait.

I spent the time peering into the metal boxes on the shelves – nothing of worth – and watching the raiders pad about on patrol. For bloodthirsty savages they were surprisingly disciplined –

“Hey! Jagger! Quit goofin' off before the bossman gets back!”

All right, not so surprising. And equally unsurprising that there'd be a hunting party out there. Great.

I went back to passing the time, and my eye fell on the box Ernie had tickled open. That little tool of his wasn't a chisel...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bothiel emerged with smuts on her just about everything from the guts of the orrery. “Almost done!” says she, “I just need to adjust a few tensioning screws on the secondary mainsprings.”

“Screws?” asks I, relishing the chance to speak in a normal tone inside the Orrery as opposed to screaming my lungs out over its creaking and clanging and clashing.

Bothiel explained that in many of their constructs the Dwemer had used a fastener like a nail with a long spiral down one side. These fasteners were more resistant to vibration, more secure, but since you couldn't bang them in with a hammer you needed to twist them in with a–

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Screwdriver,” gasps I, of course! Maybe these Earth people were related to Dwemer, or had been visited by them at some point. Now I looked, I could see screws holding the light fittings together, the contraption on the counter, the shelving, the–

I heard a door open close by – the entrance – oh hooray, hail the hero returning. I instinctively drew my bow and ducked behind the shelves as three unkempt people entered the hall and came over to the counter. One grabbed the stalky bit to his mouth and did something that made his voice echo all over the building.

“We're back. Open up the...” And he stares at the countertop – of course, my bloodstains!

“Hang on! Somethin' ain't right here...”

There certainly wasn't. Gunfire erupted over in the far corner of the hall. Two of the speaker's mates immediately turned to head towards the commotion, and I swung around the shelf and let arrow number sixteen fly. Mister Talky Man dropped choking and the other two spun back to me.

So I duck back behind the shelves as they open fire on me! One thing about those metal boxes – they were sturdy. The Earth people seemed to have a fixation about building things to last.

“I'm goin' over! You hit the door!”

Which is what they did. One fellow with a mangy haircut vaulted across the counter – and I smacked him with a flare spell. Not much damage, but it made him stagger back onto one of the mines.

The results were quite impressive. (If you're interested in the details, please apply to Raminus Polus at the Arcane University and ask about our experimental alchemy programmes. That way we know who to watch.)

The side door flew open, less from charging raider than flying body parts. Good ol' Haines. No wonder he didn't like landmines. Since the newcomers were sorted, I decided to go see if he needed any help.

I snuck out of the door and squelched through the remnants of a raider – in the Super-Duper Mart, the door hits you – and saw through the dust a figure on top of a shelving unit. He was looking away from me, weaving as though trying to see what he was aiming for. Haines, probably.

So I decide he needs to cool off and send a frostball his way. It hit him on the back of the neck, and did it make him yelp! He turned halfway and was about to fire his pistol when an almighty flash literally shattered his skull. Must have reacted badly with frozen flesh or something.

“Ra'jirra?”

“Haines? You all right?”

“Of course I'm all right! Well, as right as I can be, fortunately I still had some stimpacks left after your medical treatment, so we may as well go home.”

And we approach each other. Haines had a few new marks in his second-hand armour.

“So what'd you find?”

“Ah!” He preens himself. “That Stealth Boy got me all the way to the back there,” and he points to a counter past a double door. “Being knowledgeable of Science, I was able to unlock the door to the store-room, where I did indeed discover a cache of much-needed medical supplies.”

Oh, let it rest you lidgie. I didn't know what grenades could do, all right? I just thought that since saying it wouldn't help.

“There was also a protectron on standby, which I was able to activate.” He frowned. “Obviously it wasn't up to handling armed resistance, and I was forced to resort to guns and mines.”

“Did you? I was busy.”

“Yes. I noticed. Careful application of landmines took care of more, and I am so pleased I found this scope.” He frowned. “What did you do to that raider on the shelves?”

“Frost magic.”

“Really? Hmm... a laser does inflict heat on its target, and if the target is as a low temperature...” He frowns as thought he's been offered a light snack by King Helseth.

“Let's discuss this as we go,” says I, and Haines nods and is about to follow me when we hear a woman: “Hey! What's all the shootin' for? Thunder-struck? Yale? What's goin' on?”

She was just another raider, and so we ended up with another gun, then left, stopping only to load up with our stored loot before heading westward.

“Two in the morning,” Haines observed as we trudged along a shattered road, “We can rest a bit in my house before we see Moira and that spurius.”

We didn't actually discuss it as we went; I was too busy scanning the scenery with a watchful Eye where Haines was virtually blind. We reached the burnt bones of a town (“Springvale”, Haines said it was called) before heading north to Haines' redoubt – a surprisingly intact building. “Follow me,” Haines said, leading us to a metal trapdoor in what I judged to be a kitchen. It led to a basement, where I was relieved of my excess baggage. I looked around. There were three cabinets of metal, a fancy stand I didn't recognise, another fridge, but emblazoned in red and yellow with some image of a bottle, a bench, and a table with alchemical apparatus and a device like Moira had, some square dingus I couldn't identify, and an uncomfortable looking bed.

“You can rest here,” Haines says, “Me, I'll crash upstairs,” and was gone before I realised he'd taken the better bed I'd glimpsed upstairs.

Despite the uncomfortable appearance of the bed, the mattress inside was very comfy indeed, and I was out like a light.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So why are we here again?” Simms asks us a bit testily outside Moira's later that morning. He'd been less than pleased to see us enter town until he realised who we were. Apparently Talon isn't good company to keep.

“Unmasking a spy,” snaps Haines, “follow me!” and he flings open the door, totally ignores a startled Moira, and up to the guard, who also props up a very important wall in the Craterside Supply.

“Recognise these uniforms?” snarls Haines.

And the guard looks real surprised doesn't he! “Hey – y-you took on Talon Company?” stutters he, “Y-you're a real pair of bad-cloonies y'know?”

“They were waiting for us,” snarls I, “and they knew we were coming.”

“And then there's these instructions,” says Haines all icy, passing that note he found to Simms, who read it and at once drew his gun. “Tell me, ah...”

“G-Geoffrey, look I don't kn-know...”

Don't know my backside! I gave him a little jolt to get his brain going a bit better. Sure he screamed and fell to the floor but you get these side effects.

“No games, fetcher,” says I, “Who is Burke, and who is Tenpenny, and why do they want us dead?”

“You,” adds Haines, “were the only other person in here when Moira gave me my instructions. So that narrows down the list of suspected spies quite a bit.”

“Take all the time you wish,” recites I to be encouraging, “I can boil the blood in your veins, or freeze your bones to the marrow... or worse. And should you be close to death, I can bring you back... and start over until you tell us what we want to know.”

Got that line from The Fall of King Handril.

Anyway he went to get up but Simms points his gun at him. “Well, Geoffrey? Care to explain?”

I prep another Spark to encourage him. Geoffrey was encouraged so much he pissed himself and started talking real fast.

He's a spy all right, for Alastair Tenpenny, up there in his Tenpenny Tower. Every night when he goes to “dinner”, he's been sneaking out to a hidden ray-dee-oh and finking on the town. So when Geoffrey snuck out to deliver the daily report after Haines had defused the bomb, he got grilled for a description and told to report on our movements. He was also told to not blow his cover, just keep finking.

“A-and Mister Burke's Tenpenny's right-hand man, h-he's probably the one who – who ordered the hit, not m-me!”

He didn't know that the mercs would attack this time.

“So you weren't surprised we were still alive then?” asks I.

“N-no! I-it's the T-Talon uniforms!”

“Never mind!” snaps Doc Haines irritably, “Why does Tenpenny want Megaton destroyed?”

“I-I-I-I dunno!”

And then he lunged at Haines' legs, knocking him over, scrambled to his feet, and then he pulled a knife and lunged at Moira, who'd been pretty much transfixed during our little talk. Simms opened fire – Moira screamed – she and Geoffrey fell to the floor.

There are interesting ways to start a day and this was pretty much one of them.

[treydog]

The first page alone made it worth the wait. Medieval-style armor does not fare well against industrial era weaponry- rather the opposite, as all that metal becomes so much shrapnel itself.

And the “Battle of Faiths” was a great way to demonstrate the rivalry between Ra’jirra and Haines.

The results were quite impressive. (If you're interested in the details, please apply to Raminus Polus at the Arcane University and ask about our experimental alchemy programmes. That way we know who to watch.)

And your explanation for how the Talon Co. can not only locate, but also recognize Haines was perfect.

[mALX]

It's signed 'B', and it describes us both in unflattering detail.”

SPEW !!!

One of the things I love about your writing - tiny details slipped in. This sentence is a huge example of how you managed in eight added words to convey a history of information, change the tone and mood of the words that went before it. Your story is filled with these examples, and it is what keeps the reader on their toes and interested!

Another Great Write - as always !!!!!