The Memoir of Arch-Mage Ra'jirra, Or, how the hell we got lumbered with this farmboy Options

[treydog]

Also, the proposal was, simply, right. My heart sang to think of it. S'jirra and I would be happy now, not in a future that might never come…

Remarkably similar to our thinking, when Mrs. Treydog and I ran away to the courthouse to get married over 20 years ago.

but when you're without armour, running away and sniping from a distance are perfectly acceptable tactics. Especially when you're en route to your own wedding or some other function that would be ruined by you turning up dead.

QFT!

One was a Nord, Olava the Fair, and she seemed to shine with a distant, cool light, like sun on the snows on the very top of the Jeralls.

Wonderfully descriptive!

The whole whirlwind of the ceremony rings true- I remember signing the book and stepping down the hall to the office- and then we were on the steps outside.

[Cardboard Box]

Thanks guys - this was a really hard chapter to write.

as the question hung in the common room air like a noose, the bailiffs of honour and duty fronted up and made my choice simple.

This is actually a direct steal from David Eddings. In the third book of the Elenium, he observes that the arrival of the groom (Sparhawk) resembles a man being escorted to the scaffold.

The whole chapter is also pretty much a retelling of my "field trip" inworld, with the variation of the lunch stop. (The gripe about the royal 'we' is still true though!)

In regards to the wedding ceremony itself, I couldn't really go into gory details, since a) the last time I went to a wedding was over two years ago, and Ra'jirra probably wouldn't be, ah, paying all that attention. (Which explains how an entire Mage's Guild can sneak in without him noticing.)

Actually, in-game, when I arrived at the chapel, there was someone reading a book. I was going to have a comic scene where the reader tried very hard to ignore the goings-on before finally tantrumming off squawking about how he cannot read with all this noise!

So I'll probably bum around in-game for a few days before Ra'jirra's dumped in it. Again.

[Cardboard Box]

[Okies, here's Eric the Half a Chapter. Writer's block has been rather heavy this month. NaNoWriMo my buttocks.]

Chapter 20. Ra'jirra Enjoys His Honeymoon

It was about half an hour past eleven bells before S'jirra and I finally extracted ourselves from the nuptial bed. Something to do with Kud-Ei barging in without knocking and pretending to be surprised we were still there. Of course she'd have a second key!

“Oh!” says she, “I thought you had arissen already and collected your wedding giftss.”

“Gifts?” asks I rather confusedly.

“Giftss,” Kud-Ei repeats patiently, “Your mother hass already arissen five hourss previoussly, and wass ssaying ssomething about doing ssome sshopping before returning to the inn.” She dawdles at a bookshelf apparently looking for a volume. “I am informed that sshe went to the Archer'ss Paradox, and to that fellow who runss A Warlock'ss Luck.” She turns and starts rummaging through a chest, then adds, “You may like to invesstigate after lunch, which iss being sserved.”

Now we can take a hint as well as the next person, and come to think of it we were getting peckish, so once Kud-Ei left on went the clothes and we went down to the dining area. The talk was very small, and I couldn't help noticing that even at this late hour a sizeable cross-section of the guildies looked like they could do with some rest.

So anyway we let Kud-Ei have her bedroom back and out we go. “I know where A Warlock's Luck is,” says I, “But where's the Archer's Paradox?”

“Daenlin's shop? He is overr the Quiverring Brridge, my love, acrross frrom the lodge.” And my S'jirra – my wife – looks at me with a wicked grin. “The Lonely Suitorr. Not that my Rra'jirrra carres?”

Well, I certainly didn't, and across we go.

The Archer's Paradox was a tidy unadorned store that smelled of hide and glue, probably from fletcher-work, and was currently occupied by an unshaven Bosmer huntsman whose chin looked like it could skin a carcass on its own.

“The Archer's Paradox,” he declared in a surprisingly deep voice, making a careless gesture, “Because a perfect arrow flies forever, and that's impossible. I'm Daenlin, and I have no perfect arrows.”

“Er...” says I slowly, “I'm Ra'jirra, and how could an arrow fly forever? What if you had a perfect bow?”

And Daenlin's eyes widen to normal size! “A fellow philosopher!” cries he, “Of course, an arrow by itself is nothing without the bow, and – oh!” He blinks and remembers what Abhuki told him. “Congratulations to you and your lovely wife.”

I reckon you could have heard S'jirra's purring back at Faregyl.

“I take it Kud-Ei was her usual subtle self,” Daenlin adds with a wink, and grins even broader as we colour. “Anyhow, Abhuki wants me to give you these. She said,” and he looks puzzled, “you would need them in the course of your task.”

'These' were a silver bow and a quiver of twenty-five silver arrows. My mother-in-law was smart; undead tended to hang around the corpse-jockeys if not vice versa.

“Abhuki is very wise,” says I, “I'd love to explain but it's Mage's Guild stuff and all hush-hush.”

Daenlin looks sceptical at that. “They're going after that Order of the Putrid Hand mob? About damn time. Come back when it's finished up, and we can have a talk – hunting stories, why nothing can move, good times!”

And I don't know what he's on about so we make our farewells and head off.

“Take a chance on the–” Ungarion started his spiel as we entered, “–Ra'jirra! I've got some gifts for you. Er...”

“What's the erring for?” asks I.

“Well,” and the Altmer goes pink, “the gifts are for you, Abhuki never said anything about... oh heck.”

“Motherr is giving me a grreaterr gift,” S'jirra says calmly looking at me, “Ensurring my Rra'jirrra rreturrns safe and securre.”

She had a arm around my waist, and I felt it shift downward and squeeze slightly. Wifely privilege I guess.

“Well then,” Ungarion says, going pinker, “let's to learning, shall we?”

Abhuki had purchased a pair of conjuration spells. One summoned a scamp, and another a ghost. “She said something about assistance in a fight,” Ungarion said, and frowned. “Is there something we should be concerned about?”

“I'm doing work for the Mage's Guild,” says I, which is about right.

Ungarion stiffens. “Then gods help you,” says he shortly, “I've run into rogue magi before.”

* * *

S'jirra and I left just as the latest Black Horse Courier arrived on the steps of Silverhome On the Water. She picked up a copy before I could stop her and started reading it as we exited out of Bravil.

Need I tell you what was top of the bill?

S'jirra's steps slowed, then stopped completely behind me. I turned to see her staring in disbelief at the bloody rag. “What is this?” gasps she.

So I take the paper and look at it. “What?” says I innocently, “you mean this sale on men's clothing at Divine Elegance?”

Truth be told, most of my clobber was salvaged or rewards. Actually buying an outfit instead of leaving it to chance sounded like a good idea to me. But right now S'jirra had taken a swing and I ducked back, seeing a flash of claws. Talk about whirlwind romance!

“No games!” S'jirra's eyes were blazing and her hair was on end, setting her ornaments shivering in the afternoon sun. “What is happening herre? The Brruma Mage's Guild is sacked, the town nearly on firre, and you behold the King of Worrms! Arre you trrying to get yourrself killed?”

I actually looked at the lead story and swore. Sure as merd, the idiot scribe had mixed me and J'skar together. Wonderful.

“Not me,” says I, “I got there after the spurius had already gone. It was J'skar saw his face.” I looked steadily at my distraught wife. “If I had seen Mannimarco face to face,” says I grimly, “I would be dead. Or mad.”

And she just looks at me like I already am. Mad, I mean.

“Look, not even Traven knew what was happening, okay? All we knew was there'd been nothing from them for days. Me, I thought J'skar and Volanaro were playing tricks on Jeanne again, swiping her mail like they did her Manual of Spellcraft.”

And her ears come back to half-mast and she's calming down. “They did what?”

“Well, they didn't swipe it, they made me swipe it. Y'see...” and away I go telling her about J'skar's invisibility prank and all the other pranks they'd claimed to have done. She was thoroughly distracted for a while, but then, “But what happens now about Mannimarrco?”

“Not my problem,” says I, “Arch-Mage Traven will probably find him, pay a visit and kick him into the deepest pit in Oblivion.” And I shrug. “I wouldn't try in a million years.”

“Of courrse,” says S'jirra relaxing, “Only the Arrch-Mage could take on that monsterr.”

“Speaking on monsters,” says I, “I'll have to pop into the Black Horse offices and set the record straight...”

And we talked of nothings as we returned to Faregyl.

* * *

On arrival, S'jirra and Abhuki went upstairs – to prepare the marriage bed, no doubt – and I was approached by Alix.

“While the ladies play decorators,” says he, “let's go get dinner. Which do you prefer – venison or pork?”

And I have a think; I've eaten plenty of venison and drunk it in potions too, more times than I care to admit. “Pork,” says I.

“Right then!” says he, as we go back outside, “I'll be chasing bloody deer all over Nenyond Twyll, but if you go around Mingo Cave –” and he points roughly north-east, “–I've seen boar sign around there.”

So out comes the bow and off I go stalking the wily boar.

There was a mystical imp hanging about, which hacked me off no end, but inside Mingo's heavily abused gate there was a fair-sized herd of wild pig. Despite their best interests, I bested them with spell and bow. This was the third time I'd come out victorious without armour – my spellcraft was improving!

It was getting late, so I went back to the inn. S'jirra and Abhuki fell on my haul with cries of delight and admiration; Alix on the other hand just sighed and said, “Maybe I should get married.” Apparently wolves in the area had the local deer spooked. Not surprising. It was winter after all.

To be continued

[mALX]

It is funny to have Abhuki as S'Jirra's mother in this - Abhuki is half S'Jirra's age according to the Construction Set, lol. Great Write !!!!

[Cardboard Box]

@MalX: I don't know why, but my impressions were that Abhuki looks older than S'jirra, and she's level 20 while S'jirra is 5. It may be the hairdos

[mALX]

@MalX: I don't know why, but my impressions were that Abhuki looks older than S'jirra, and she's level 20 while S'jirra is 5. It may be the hairdos

Not if you see her naked...er... what I meant to say is, I thought she was older too, so wrote Alix and S'Jirra as a couple in my story. It turns out, Alix is like 28 years old, Abhuki is like 24, and S'Jirra is like in her late 30's, early 40's !!!

This post has been edited by mALX: Dec 2 2010, 04:52 AM

[haute ecole rider]

It turns out, Alix is like 28 years old, Abhuki is like 24, and S'Jirra is like in her late 30's, early 40's !!!

So, what's wrong with a little June-September romance?

[mALX]

It turns out, Alix is like 28 years old, Abhuki is like 24, and S'Jirra is like in her late 30's, early 40's !!!

So, what's wrong with a little June-September romance?

I've got it in my story, Alix is the sweet young thing... S'Jirra is the ... cougar? ROFL !!!!

[Cardboard Box]

[Right, let's wind this chapter up. I was going to segue right into the searches for Jarol and Caminalda, but here's a better breakpoint. More info on the village here.)

Chapter 20 (cont'd)

The next day was Turdas, and S'jirra left our bed early. Finding this inconvenient for obvious reasons, I followed her outside past a sharp vomit smell to where she was fussing over her potato patch.

“Oh my poorr little darrlings, did you miss S'jirrra?” she crooned, doing gardener-type things – hey, alchemy doesn't always involve growing the damn plants. “Two whole days I've forrsaken you, oh my poorr babies, motherr has some nice waterr...”

It was all very maternal in a creepy sort of way. Fortunately she can, in fact, tell the difference between tubers and toddlers. Tubers don't create as much havoc for a start.

“S'jirra?” and she starts and turns to me. “Was there anything you wanted to do today?”

“Do?” and she frowns at me, then, “Well, I was just going to make anotherr batch of brread, but now I think about it...” and she rises and wraps her arm around my waist, “perrhaps S'jirra makes something else?”

That something else turned out to be a basket with one of her exquisite potato loaves, some cheese and pork, and a couple of bottles of Tamika vintage, which we took over the hill past Mingo Cave towards the Niben River.

As we started down the hill, the forest began to change for the worse. The trees were heavy and oppressive, the leaves unpleasantly discoloured like dried blood. The ground became blackened as well, and then there was the smell – lavender plants versus something malevolent. S'jirra tugged on my sleeve and we skirted the area's edge.

“Lorrikh Village,” she explained, as the remains of buildings appeared downslope, shrinking away from a well that looked unnervingly intact in the middle of what must have been the village square. I opened my mouth to ask what happened, but she went on, “The rruins werre herre when motherr and I came. Only fools and rrogues come herre, and dead men at night!”

Then she gasped at something behind us, and the next thing I know I turn invisible!

And I spin to see something like a bluish will-o-wisp floating away, giggling.

I go for my bow and that breaks the spell. S'jirra breathes a sigh of relief.

“That was forrtunate,” says she, “when I was a kit, that crreature currsed me badly,” she shudders. “I did not rreturn for a yearr.”

We continued past the remains of the village to the river's edge and after toasting some mudcrabs spread our repast on a flat spot that stuck out into the river.

It has a nice view of the Imperial Isle, although the bridge gets in the way. S'jirra and I ate and drank, talked about what life in the Arcane University is like, and fooled around a bit before we put our clothes back on, packed up and headed back to the inn.

“The Norrd who rruns the Inn of Ill Omen says he surrvived what destrroyed Lorrikh,” S'jirra said as we left the blighted area behind. “Perrhaps you should ask him.” And she scowls. “And learrn his current load of hairrballs.”

According to my wife, the fellow spins a good tale, but obviously can't leave it alone and keeps 'improving' it – improving that would be better used on his food.

S'jirra's description of her one dreadful meal there made me laugh and brought us to the crest of the hill. We began to head down to the road, and then S'jirra spoke.

“Rra'jirrra, therre is something I must tell you–”

“You're expecting?”

And she looks at me in surprise. “You know?”

“I could smell the puke this morning,” I explain. Apparently women bearing children spew every morning. They don't like it, but it happens anyway, and the sooner someone finds a cure for it there's probably a sainthood waiting for them.

I took S'jirra's hands. “I am going to be there,” says I, “and I will hold our baby, and be a father. That's more important to me than...”

She didn't let me finish and I didn't have to.

I wasn't going to get myself killed if I could avoid it. Whatever Traven threw me into, I was going to do my damnedest to either beat or retreat from it. And then I was going to spend the rest of my life being a dutiful husband and father – and not worrying about any more Mannimarcos, thank you very much.

And I didn't. Instead I found myself worrying about Oblivion gates, getting assorted nutty magi to pull their heads in, and longing to bang assorted Imperial Council heads together on a regular basis, but fate plays pranks like that.

[mALX]

Arch Mage Ra'jirra works fast !!! WOO HOO !!!! Great Chapter !!!

[Cardboard Box]

Yeah, that's really a problem.

In the playing of this character, I've been pretty much as follows:

1. Get a quest
2. Complete a quest
3. Return to quest giver, get rewards, and then immediately step 1.

Which it has to be said isn't entirely realistic. If I ever rewrite this, I might just pad it out by remarking about how so many weeks passed in the hellish halls of academe.

At the same time, Abhuki probably did perform the Cyrodil version of a pregnancy test on S'jirra - or bullied her into doing so herself - and so if Ra'jirra had said 'no' earlier, she might have spoken to the Night Mother for all I know.

[Destri Melarg]

I’ve finally caught back up, Box. You’ll have to forgive me for putting Ra’jirra’s other adventure off for now. I have recently started my first playthrough of Fallout 3 and I didn’t want to subject myself to any spoilers.

The wedding scene was great! There was just enough abject confusion by the groom to make it all believable. The appearance of the entire roster of Bravil mages just underscored the amount of worthy esteem that Ra’jirra finds himself held with these days. Working for the Arch-Mage has its perks, I suppose.

And now we find out that S’jirra is expecting . . .no wonder Abhuki was so hot to get them hitched! Isn’t it nice that S’jirra found a soul mate in the one khajiit for whom she doesn’t have to change the initials on her luggage?

[mALX]

I’ve finally caught back up, Box. You’ll have to forgive me for putting Ra’jirra’s other adventure off for now. I have recently started my first playthrough of Fallout 3 and I didn’t want to subject myself to any spoilers.

The wedding scene was great! There was just enough abject confusion by the groom to make it all believable. The appearance of the entire roster of Bravil mages just underscored the amount of worthy esteem that Ra’jirra finds himself held with these days. Working for the Arch-Mage has its perks, I suppose.

And now we find out that S’jirra is expecting . . .no wonder Abhuki was so hot to get them hitched! Isn’t it nice that S’jirra found a soul mate in the one khajiit for whom she doesn’t have to change the initials on her luggage?

You will absolutely LOVE it !!! It is my second favorite game of all time !!!! And all the DLC for it is AWESOME too !!!!!

[Cardboard Box]

[OK, I don't get it. FO3 recently began to run like a pig, especially in the outdoors. New Vegas doubly so, which pisses me off no end, and on exit it ties up core 1 in the CPU for eternity. Yet Oblivion runs like a dream!

Suggestions on a PM please.

As I say, I don't get it. So here's Ra'jirra almost getting himself killed for your entertainment.]

Chapter 21: Ra'jirra Seeks Council(lors)

The following day I took my leave and returned to my waterfront shack to pick up a few things. As I intended spending as much time as possible in the presence and arms of my wife, it made sense that I should have my working clothes and equipment close at hand.

The discussion had been somewhat vigorous; Abhuki making me swear not to pong the inn out with potions, S'jirra begging me to get someone else to fetch my stuff, and me trying to allay their fears and promising I'd only be a day or two.

So what happens? I arrive, I get to packing, I emerge from my storage chest to find Traven had let himself in and was leaning against the door, munching on a pear. “Don't trust apples,” says he by way of greeting.

“Arch-Mage,” says I respectfully, “how may I be of service?”

Not at all, I hoped.

“You can find Councillors Jarol and Caminalda.”

Bugger.

* * *

“You will not pass, fleshbag!” the dremora snarled as I emerged from behind the fallen ebon golem. There's a difference between atronachs and golems that wasn't really important at the time, and frankly both are much nastier than corpse-jockeys and will take your head off given the chance.

And I just scowled. I'd managed to dash off a quick note to S'jirra explaining what was going on before riding down to the Drunken Dragon Inn in the bitterly cold rain. I'd located the almost buried Fort Teleman through the aforementioned bitterly cold and increasingly fierce rain. I'd fended off some patrolling undead that were waiting outside in the damn rain. And, once inside, I'd had to fight my way through about a zillion corpse-humpers, daedra, and elemental summonses, just to get to this point. And all I wanted to do was find exactly one Irlav Jarol and get the Bloodworm Helm off him.

“Markynhaz of the Kyn,” says I as formally as I can, remembering what Volanaro told me, “I am here on behalf of the Mage's Guild –”

“Well spoken for a lying mortal, like the–” the daedra broke off and squinted at me through the gloom. “Wait a minute, haven't we met before?”

And Volanaro's memory gives me the elbow. “Markynhaz Gadaz'tor of the... Or'rozht Kyn?”

“That is I,” and the dremora frowns. “Say, does the name Volanaro mean any–”

“It does,” says I, “He summoned you about a week ago, teaching me how.” I pause then add bitterly, “Before these damn corpse-humpers sacked the place and killed him.”

“Volanaro's dead?” And the dremora stares at me in disbelief.

“Killed by the King of Worms,” says I with less bile and more anger, “And Irlav Jarol was supposed to be here hiding some artefact the necromancers wanted.”

Gadaz'tor wasn't listening. “That explains it,” mutters he, “the mortal was dying when he summoned me, he told me to let no man near him. He must have meant no necromancer...”

So Irlav Jarol was dead. That was, I'm sorry to say, expected.

“Which I'm not,” says I, “The Arch-Mage himself ordered me to retrieve the artefact.” And I scowl. “Besides, this batch is all dead, and I'm to retrieve the artefact and return it to Traven – so we can stick it to Mannimarco.”

“But this damnable geas won't let me... Ah! Wait here.” And he goes down the tunnel he came charging out of, and about two minutes later comes back clutching a helm that appeared to be made out of solid bone – more precisely, out of the skull of something that would have been ten times worse with flesh on it.

“One very magical helm,” says he extending it, “for Roger of the Mage's Guild.”

“The Bloodworm Helm, I presume,” says I, “and my name is Ra'jirra,” and I pause for effect, “Wizard of the Imperial Mage's Guild, Knight of the White Stallion, and now husband to S'jirra, who is probably worried sick about me.”

“Bloodworm Helm, eh?” says Gadaz'tor, looking at it. “It's mighty powerful, although I don't like the enchantments it has... hey, wait a minute, what did you say your... your...”

“Wife...”

“Wife's name was?”

“S'jirra.”

“And you're Ra'jirra, right?” I nod and the dremora looks confused. “You two aren't related are you?”

He was only the first to ask that.

“Well, in a sense we are,” I couldn't resist. “We're both Khajiiti.”

And thus it was that I made a dremora laugh.

“That's perfect!” says he finally, “Volanaro couldn't have cracked better...” and then he blinks. “The geas is lifting,” says he, “My bondage is nearly done. But before I go, about my mortal friend...”

“He will be avenged.” And I meant it.

“I'll hold you to that,” were the last words of Markynhaz Gadaz'tor to me before the geas released him back to Oblivion.

* * *

“And that's what happened, sir,” says I in the horribly empty council chamber to a horribly distraught Arch-Mage Traven.

“Even from the grave our guildmates of Bruma help us all,” whispers he as he turns the Bloodworm Helm in his hands, “do you know what this is?”

“No,” is my intelligent response.

“It was found in Morrowind,” says he quietly, “in a Dunmer tomb, on a madman's body. It massively amplifies the conjuring abilities of the wearer. In fact... it is said that this helm was possessed by Mannimarco himself.”

I say nothing.

“It also allowed the wearer to... drain the very essence of their victims.” And he smiles almost. “The sort of artefact the King of Worms would like, eh?”

Yep, I could agree with that.

“Look, Ra'jirra,” and now he taps the ring on my finger, “I know you've been wed barely a matter of days, and I nearly sent you to your death. If you want to wait, it's no problem...”

“Mannimarco's a threat to my wife,” says I slowly, “and he's killed good people. We need to send him a message.” I remembered Mucianus, probably still lurching about under Nenyond Twyll.

“We've been on the back bloody foot since these spurii showed their hand. So,” and I stand up, “if you'll excuse me I have a Caranya to find, and I need to let my wife know I'm all right.”

But Traven just sits there and gives me a grim look.

“Remember Kalthar.”

* * *

Not many people know this, but on the farm knowing a bit of smithcraft helps when you need a running repair on the plough, or sharpening the tools, and it's too small to make the trip to the smith and there's no tinker around. At the same time I have to admit my skills are still very much limited, and I still cannot mend enchanted gear to save my life.

You see, enchanted clobber and arms aren't just things with spells on. In effect, the enchantment fuses with the item, affecting its composition. And that means the novice armorer will find things going strange when they work – tongs falling through the item, heat not affecting plates, your skin turning luminous green and smelling. (All right, maybe not that last one.) The mark of an apprentice armorer is being able to figure out how to mend the armour around the enchantment, instead of trying to force through it.

The reason I mention all that is because after I left an unhappy Arch-Mage, I first headed off to Skingrad. There I picked up this information from Agnete the Pickled, while I waited, wrapped in a grotty loaner robe not even beggars would touch. Agnete had got some paint at some stage and written STOLEN FROM HAMMER AND TONGS all over it.

The other reason I mention all that is because there's a Galerion Prize for the first person to figure out why enchanted equipment resists repair, but not damage. As of putting this to paper, it hasn't been won yet.

After my armour was all fixed up and I'd given her robe back, along with the night's drinking funds, I studied my map. Caranya had taken herself to Fort Ontus, which my map suggested was northish of bloody Brotch Camp (site of the ogre encounter) and even more northish of Shardrock farm. The great Ra'jirra brain suggested heading to Shardrock and then northward ho.

There was nobody around as I dismounted between the farmhouse and sheep pen, and I didn't twig to the unnatural silence until a bloody great black bear damn near took my head off!

Yep. This adventure was off to a great start. Barely left the farm and I'm being attacked by the wildlife. Suffice it to say I finally taught the beast not to meddle in the affairs of wizards, to a round of applause from the local farmer who'd emerged from wherever he'd been.

“Well done stranger,” says he in a definite Breton tone, “That's one less to worry about. Bloody beasts.”
“Something I should know about?” asks I.

“It's obvious, isn't it?” says he angrily, “Bloody West Weald bears coming after my sheep. There's no way I can fight those monsters off on my own, and I don't have that many sheep to spare.” Fair enough – I counted about six milling about in the pen, unable to decide if they would be frightened by the bear's corpse, or eager for breakfast.

“If you could thin the population a bit, they would probably get the bloody hint and leave me alone.” As he said this, he reached into the bear's mouth with a knife and sawed out one of its rather impressive fangs. “I'll tell you what,” says he cheerfully, “Kill another five of the things, bring me their fangs as proof, and I'll reward you well!” Then he looks at me and the cheer vanishes. “Please, you're my only hope.”

“I'll see what I can do,” says I, “I'm Ra'jirra of the Mage's Guild. You're...?”

“Thorley Athelred,” says he, “just a shepherd. But I promise you, you will be rewarded.”

“Fine,” says I as I turn north again, “And I'll cull your bears for you.”

As I stepped beyond the edge of the pen my culling kicked off with a hiss (me) and a roar (bear number two.)

Bear number three never even laid a paw on me. And these were big buggers too, animals that would have made any of the elementals or atronachs of Fort Teleman cack themselves. I continued north; sorry Thorley, but I had another pressing obligation.

And so I climbed the ridge, and skirted Brotch – another set of bandits had set up camp there, although two of the sods looked like they'd been dancing with ogres at some stage. Which was fine by me, so I continued climbing to a back road bridge, which led me right to Ontus.

“What are you doing here?” What a relief! It was a fellow mage.

“Traven sent me,” says I, “I'm seeking Caranya.”

“Oh – yes, you'd best talk to her, she's in the Understreets area, I think.”

Wherever that was. I passed numerous other magi, all of whom looked uncomfortable as I passed, suspending conversations, putting things under their robes. I guessed that it was something to do with the fear of attacking necromancers.

I did find the Understreets, and finally Caranya, in a chamber adorned with banners I'd seen before. Necromancer's banners.

“Caranya?” calls I, “you okay?”

“Who–?” and she stares at me. “Ra'jirra? Well, well. This is quite a surprise. I thought you were Traven's lapdog, doing whatever he said, and yet here you are,” and she smiles at me!

What in the name of the Nine?

“Good that you've finally seen the light. The cause will benefit from your assistance.” Her smile was giving me the creeps.

“Cause?” I didn't have the patience for this. “Listen lady, I was told to get you and the amulet back to Traven right now.”

“What?” Would you believe she gaped at me like an idiot? “You're here to – to take it back to Traven?”

She actually approached me and patted my arm. “Oh, my dear,” still smiling as though I was just a kit, “I'm afraid you're in over your head.”

I understood what Traven had said. “You're back with the corpse-humpers, eh?” says I angrily, “We'll see what my fellow magi have to...”

She just laughed, still smiling like a skull, eyes glittering like broken glass. “Oh yes,” says she, “When he has the amulet, his power will be increased, and Traven will be helpless to stand in his way. You, I'm afraid, won't be standing at all.”

There was a resounding crash as gates penned me in. I cursed my idiocy. Caranya wasn't the only Kunthar in the fort!

“I promise I'll make this quick. I'd like to have you mostly intact, so Mannimarco can suck the marrow from your bones,” and that set off the fight.

Now I wasn't as good as Caranya, but I had armour and the Molag Stava, and I decided the best thing was to just zap the turncoat criso with my best spells. Unfortunately her summoned ghost and her fellow traitors complicated things.

Towards the end I forsook subtlety, and in a fit of rage simply charged straight towards where she, more than a little battered, was cringing in a corner, trying to muster the magicka for a restorative.

I remember seeing her eyes widen, how she attempted to duck past me on the left. Her scream as I used the white stallion to slam her against the wall. Then I stood on her foot – hard – to stop her getting away as I used her face for a training dummy.

I swung for poor Jeanne.

I swung for Mucianus.

I swung for Volanaro.

I swung for Selena Orania. For Eletta. Zahrasha. Jarol. I think I also devoted a few swings to the Count of Skingrad's reputation. Then I stopped since, frankly, Caranya didn't have enough head to swing at anymore.

There was a distant retching sound, and I looked across the chamber at the grate. Apparently even corpse-humpers have limits, and for a moment I locked eyes with one of Caranya's dupes, before he squealed and fled.

Later, I too would flee – shoulder-slamming aside corpse-humpers as I flew to the good clean air of the Colovian Highlands. I didn't even stop to wonder why the unicorn was waiting outside; I didn't even guide him; he just flew like the night wind towards the Imperial Isle, into the morning of 4 Sun's Dusk.

* * *

“You should have killed them all,” Traven said bitterly as he dangled the rather soiled Necromancer's Amulet from his fingers. Even with my rudimentary knowledge of enchantments I could tell that the damn trinket – a lump of jade engraved with a skull on a tarnished chain – demanded tradeoffs for its power.

“I didn't have the might to do so, sir,” says I, “just fighting Caranya took it out of me.”

“Well you bloody well should have!” Traven almost yelled, then rubbed his face. “I'll just have to tip off that n'wah Lex and see if he can send one or two Legionnaires to get themselves killed...”

I looked at Traven, sitting next to me, and it hit me that while he might run the Guild and clank about in full daedric, he was still old. And now everything was going to Oblivion in a handcart. I'd seen that when I returned the Bloodworm Helm, which felt like a million years ago, and –

“Oh, I got a message,” says he suddenly, “from your wife.” And he forces a grin. “Simply put, I'm to send you straight home as soon as your tasks are complete.” He extracts a paper from somewhere and passes it over. “On pain of no more potato bread.”

And I look at S'jirra's diffident hand, and Traven was pretty much accurate. “I'd best get going then,” says I shifting in my seat.

“Before you do,” Traven taps my hand again, “skills. You're still not as good as you need to be. Talk to Abhuki, she can suggest people to talk to.” And he winks. “If your wife will let you visit them. Oh,” all business again, “one more thing.” I cover my ears as he bellows for good old Raminus.

Raminus popped into existence promptly. “You called, Arch-Mage?”

“Ra'jirra here's laid down his life – twice – for the guild this week,” says Traven, “So he's to be kicked upstairs.” And then he grins thinly. “And he's to bring his skills up to his new level too.”

“That's not entirely metaphor, by the way,” Raminus says to me, “As a Master-Wizard, you're given a seat on the Council of Mages, so expect to spend a lot of time on long boring speeches.”

“Raminus...”

“My apologies, Arch-Mage. Ra'jirra, your travels have taught you much, and that's important for the future of the guild. Anyway,” and he winks at me, “congratulations. You've risen as far as anyone can. Why, there's only one person who outranks you now!”

And Traven just nods and adds, “Well, let's fill out the damn paperwork and make this official. And hurry Polus, Ra'jirra's wife's waiting...”

[SubRosa]

I have no clue what could be wrong with your Fallouts. I would have said maybe it was a mod doing it, but it seems strange that both games would be having problems. It does not sound like it could be a global issue on your computer if Oblivion is running fine. It has always been a worse resource hog on my machine that FO3.

Ra'jirra is rocketing to toward the final showdown with the King of Corpse-Humpers! I liked your description of the travails of trying to repair magical equipment. And that in the end Ra'jirra just beat Caranya to death!

Nits:
Caranya wasn't the only Kunthar in the fort
I think you mean Kalthar?

[Cardboard Box]

Nits:
Caranya wasn't the only Kunthar in the fort
I think you mean Kalthar?

You're quite right, but I blame Freudian slip [Never heard of the guy - R.] I need to go through the whole story and fix up not only that, but a number of clangers; I've called Caranya Carandial more times than I recall. [Maybe that's why she didn't like me - R.]

I'm going to hang fire on playing F:NV until an updated version comes out. Apparently there was a "patch" which came out before I got the damn thing which some folks reckon broke it.

Maybe I'll go down to Rapture and have a chat with Steinberg and blow his head off again...

Update: It was just 808 bytes in my local files that were off. One validation later and it runs like a dream.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Jan 1 2011, 12:44 AM

[mALX]

So here's Ra'jirra almost getting himself killed for your entertainment.]

ROFL !!!!


You may just need a routine maintenance on your PC, clean out old cookies, .tmp files, etc. - maybe do a scandsk and defrag on your PC (plan to do it overnight, it takes a while to defrag).

[Grits]

Cardboard Box, I am loving Ra’jirra’s memoir. Instead of quoting eight pages of my favorites lines back at you, I’ll just spit out my very favorite:

”a swirl of words that gave me the impression of a storm of flowers just before a great precipice.”

Yep, That’s a wedding ceremony.

[Cardboard Box]

Thanks Grits, much appreciated.

There's going to be a somewhat debugged edition on FanFiction.net shortly. I've just debugged the Oblivion/FO3 crossover, but as this one's over twice the length it'll take more work.

[Cardboard Box]

Chapter 22: Something In the Water

Things were about to come to a head. I could feel it. My repeated near-death experiences chasing artefacts left me in no doubt that I needed to jack up my ideas and abilities to be ready.

That night, I sat at the table brewing potion after potion. Being an imaginative chap, I was especially interested in cooking up health restoratives for me and poisons for them. One of my favourites was a mix of rice, vampire dust, wisp stalks and stinkhorn I dubbed Shut Up and Die.

After a restless sleep, I pulled on the merchanting togs and took a cross-section of weapons and things to market. The result was a fine weight of drakes in my pocket – which a little praxography promptly removed. My nightmares had all been about spectral warriors and I felt I needed more powerful lightning magicks. With any luck Discharge would help.

Later in the afternoon and three clubbed wolves later, I entered Fort Nikel and listened to the sounds of combat. Curious, I crept forward and enjoyed the sight of several swimming bandits and, to judge by their better armour, marauders.

Subsequently the bandits were killed and the marauders turned their attentions to me. I wasn't so happy about that since I'd idiotically left my potions at home. Traven would have had a fit. To this day, I'm sure that only dumb luck kept me alive.

That night saw me, dressed in simple clothing, repeatedly riding to and from the fort, aglow with Starlight, laden with loot. Even with feathering all this lugging stuff around was making me stronger, and the spellplay was helping my understanding of twisting the Aurbis to my will.

What? I'm allowed some purple prose on occasion.

I was on a high from my successes, but I could imagine Traven: You weren't prepared. I don't need fools on the Council. Maybe we should re-examine your credentials? No, Traven wasn't one to suffer the over-promoted. Maybe he was telling the truth about being more interested in what I was willing to do for the Guild and Empire as opposed to what I sought to get from it. I mulled it over as I sat fixing dings in front of the fire in the wee hours before packing up and crashing for the night.

-o-o-o-o-

The following morning I donned the merchanting togs again and loaded up for another assault on the massed pursestrings of the Market District.

“Pardon, Master Wizard, sir,” says a nervous voice just as I emerge from The Best Defence. I'd flogged the gear in exchange for some pointers on using heavy equipment, thinking it would come in useful.

“Yes, what is –” I broke off when I recognised Traven's face grinning at me atop a set of magician's whites.

“I don't wear it all the time you know,” says he, obviously referring to the daedric I usually see him in. “Been busy?”

I'm about to stutter an explanation but he gives me no chance, grabbing my elbow and steering me to the Merchant's Inn. “I've got a problem,” says he after parking us at a corner table.

“What's her name?” is my intelligent response.

“Abhuki,” says he, “I need to ask her a favour.”

And I'm thinking what you're thinking, but his face kiboshed that.

“Abhuki was a promising student,” says he, “but events... well, let's just say I've been told she's still willing to teach Alteration for a fee.”

Abhuki was a mage? I never knew that. I tried to imagine her as a young she in green, but couldn't.

“Give her this letter,” says he, “I know she's your mother-in-law, so I'd like you to see what she thinks, and what her response is.”

“Did she leave the guild or something?”

“I'd rather not say. It might affect her response. But,” and he looks at me seriously, “she was a promising Apprentice before she... Well, I'd better be off. I've a meeting at the prison. There's a chap there I want to have a little chat with.”

“Already?” The 'chap' had to be a necromancer. Why else would Traven be visiting?

“Already.” Traven's smirk was telling. “You have to be careful where you hold secret meetings. Apparently the resident amazons disapproved – violently – or so I'm told.”

“Dzonot cave eh?”

Evidently not. “I'll tip off the guard to that. Anyway, go home, visit your wife, get some practice in, then come back when Abhuki's made a decision.” A serving girl arrived with a small carafe of Tamika's and two glasses. “Ah!” Traven poured for us. “Before we part, I'd like to propose a toast. To Kud-Ei and Henantier, may their lives together be happy and full.”

It took me some time to get my brain around that. I finally managed to raise my glass and chorus, “To Kud-Ei and Henantier,” and drink their health. Evidently the Bravil guild's open secret was no more!

“And then there's the matter of young Ardaline,” says Traven, “Apparently she and Varon, ah, broke up.”

“Why am I not surprised,” says I. Traven just laughs and empties the carafe into our glasses.

“Well, a toast to her, and may she find happiness and love elsewhere.” Raise, clink and drink. Gods know she needs it.

“Well, I think we both need some good news these days,” Traven stood up, “But now it's back to work. Count Hassildor tells me he's got a promising lead as well... poor sod.”

And we part our ways: I heading for the Three Brothers, Traven making a beeline for the outer gate and the grim tower beyond.

I finished what business I had in the Imperial City, idly wondering how Traven's 'little chat' was going. With a heavy burden of belongings, I arrived back home at Faregyl in the twilight of 5 Sun's Dusk.

“It's coming to a head, I think,” says I that night in our bed, “pretty soon it'll all be over and we can really be husband and wife.”

S'jirra just smiled and snuggled closer.

-o-o-o-o-

The following day my wife was doing important things with her potato patch and I was alone with Abhuki, who was doing important things with a broom. I went back to our room and fetched her mail.

“Abhuki...” says I uncertainly as I come down.

“Yes, oh son-in-law?” asks she, straightening up from her sweeping.

“Traven asked me to give you...” I was feeling thrown for a loop the same way I had when Traven had mentioned it. I silently handed her the letter and watched as she read it, her ears and brows shooting up in amazement.

“As a memberr of the Brruma guild?” and she shakes her head. “No, Rra'jirrra, please tell Trraven that I cannot. Farregyl is my home, and I would rratherr not have to trravel forr days to visit my grrandson.”

And I just take a seat. “I never knew you were a mage,” says I.

“It was a long time ago,” says she softly sitting down beside me, “when I was young and seeing opporrtunity like yourrself. Even so, Gasparr the Grrasperr was still lurrking in the Prraxogrraphical Centrre, although...” and she looks at me sideways, “yourr telling suggests he has pulled both his heads in these days.”

The idea of Gaspar Stegine being even slimier than today makes me shudder. Her smirk doesn't help.

“The Univerrsity was wonderrful at firrst, but soon it palled. The lecturrerrs werre often obsessed with otherr matterrs, and I will be honest: Forr magickal learrning, seek the guildhalls.”

That jibed with what I'd seen. The Arcane University seemed to be more like a Home for Unworldly Magi than a seat of learning.

“So, one day I went to the City forr potion ingrredients, and this fine he catches my eye.” Her face goes softer, as though she is ageing backwards. “His name was Ja'zaddha.”

Her eyes went luminous as though seeing him again, and there was a purr building in her throat, making her accent thicker. (Obviously Quill-Weave and I already gave it a scrub.)

“Ja'zaddha... we spoke as he walked me back to the Univerrsity about magics for explorring, and I explained about the usefulness of Alterration. Shielding like extrra arrmour. Walking on the waterrs, orr brreathing them while yourr foes flounderr and drrown. Opening locks and lightening loads... And Ja'zaddha listens.

And too soon arre we at the Univerrsity gates! And I rrememberr how Ja'zaddha... such a fine, courrteous he, bid me farrewell and...”

And she trails off with a moony look on her face and twirls the broom absently.

“Afterr months, I was sent to Anvil. But Abhuki by herrself is too vulnerrable a trravellerr, and therre is little waterr for poorr Abhuki to hide in the middle of should bandits orr bearrs decide to...” and she shudders. “And poorr Abuki detests the school of Destrruction so. Why arre people so obsessed with killing and burrning?”

Now her expression became angry. “What turned you against it?”

“Therre was an idiot. He wanted a spell of... firre shielding, I think. But such is the domain of the Destrruction school. And does poor, gentle Abhuki know these things? No, but she knows good shielding spells. But this idiot is so upset that he scrreams abuse, and starrts strriking poorr helpless Abhuki, and what can I do?”

Idiot, all right. There's an incredibly persistent idea that keeps surfacing now and then: that every mage knows every spell from every school and can use them all. It's an annoying misconception that no matter what I try, I can't seem to shift. I bet that Ottus woman's behind it.

“I rraise my hands to prrotect myself, and next thing I know is a daggerr in my arrm.” Her voice breaks off. “If it werre not forr good Ja'zaddha rreturrning frrom the hunt... I would not be herre.

“And I ask herrself: Is this the life forr poorr Abhuki? To offerr serrvice to ingrrates and fools? I said No, and Ja'zaddha agrreed.”

“Hold on,” says I, “what was Ja'zaddha doing there?”

“Did I not say?” Abhuki looks puzzled. “I needed an escort.”

Oh.

“Anyway,” says she briskly, “Afterr we burried the fool, Ja'zaddha and I came to Anvil, and therre I worrked underr Carrahil.” And she shrugs. She shrugs a library's worth of indifferent days.

“Ourr courrting lasted a full yearr,” she gives me a look. “Then I rrecall, Carrahil came into the rroom where we werre talking,” and she gives me another look, “and Carrahil says, 'Forr the love of the Nine, the Chapel is rright next doorr! Just do it alrready!'” And she grins. Evidently they did!

“And so Ja'zaddha and I trravelled for a time, but an adventurrerr's life was not forr me, norr ourr child. So dear Ja'zaddha's steps turrned this way, wherre this inn stood empty. Therre were... unpleasanttrries... with the Brravil authorrities... until good Drro'Naharrahe stepped in.”

And she trails off again, gazing at the chair in the corner. Ja'zaddha's chair, I realised.

“What... happened to him?” Fair question right? I mean, I'd never seen the man around.

“Bearr.” Her eye went dull, her fur went flat and her ears sank.

“If it was not forr Istrrius and Jantus Brrolus, vengeance would have been lost.” We both looked up to where S'jirra was standing in the entrance. “Fatherr died two months beforre I was borrn.”

“Alix has been a godssend,” adds she, “but nobody can rreplace fatherr.”

There's a sniffle, and I see Abhuki surreptiously wiping her eyes, then her nose. The silence began to scream.

“Well then.” My voice sounded lumpy. “Your grandchild is going to see his father, and that's flat, no matter what all the corpse-humpers in the world might decide.”

And the two women look at me. I just look at Ja'zaddha's chair. A chair that I intended to, and still do, sit in with my children at my knee.

“Is that so?” Abhuki is looking at me. “S'jirrra, I must borrrow your husband. I have matterrs to discuss.”

-o-o-o-o-

S'jirra wasn't pleased to be left tending the inn, but Abhuki was as adamant about that as she was leading me up to the spring-fed pool outside Charcoal Cave. Not that we got close enough to alert the creatures outside it; Abhuki invoked a spell and walked out onto the water furthest away from the waterfall.

“Know you this spell?”

“No,” is my intelligent and truthful response. I don't know any water walking spells. “Just Buoyancy.”

“Waterr brreathing and featherring,” says she in a clinical tone, “they arre rrelated of courrse.” She walks back onto land. “How arre they rrelated?”

I wrack the great Ra'jirra brain. It's not just water, it's – “They affect your body,” says I, “and how it responds to the world around it.”

Abhuki just looks at me hard as she heads back toward Faregyl. “Why?”

“Because... if water breathing affected the water and not me... there'd be a lot of dead fish.”

Well I thought it was a good answer.

“What about Ondusi's Unhinging?” I look blank. “Spells that open locks, Rra'jirrra. Do those affect you and not the worrld?”

Damn. I hadn't thought of those. Minor Latch Crack works at a distance. “The world.”

“Why?”

“I don't know,” is my second intelligent and truthful response of the day.

“How does the arrrow strike its tarrget?”

What? “I... draw the bow and... well... release,” is my scrabbling response. I was starting to sweat.

“Prrecisely,” says she, and we walked in silence for a while.

“Alterration affects you, and only you,” says she at last, “It changes how yourr body accepts the pull of the grround. It crreates a sheath about you to hold back the waterrs. It swaddles you in powerr to soften the blow. So answerr me this: wherre does the arrrow fit in?”

And we walk on until the light blinds me.

“The arrow is an extension of me,” says I excitedly, “Like a... a long-reaching claw. When I cast, um, Latch Crack, I'm pushing an extension of – of myself into the lock – and repelling all the pins!”

“Now you understand,” says she and I feel proud.

“Betterr,” and I feel deflated.

The snorting of horses reached our ears and we picked up the pace back to the inn. We had customers.