[Time for an update! I've been laying ground work for the Oblivion/FO3 crossover I've threatened, but I haven't forgotten Ra'jirra. I have to complete the Mage's Guild questline at least before launching into the crossover proper.]

[EDIT: Brought the dates in line with my game.]

Chapter 15, Pt. 1. Ra'Jirra Takes a (Working) Holiday

The following morning – 18 Frost Fire – I fussed about creating restoratives before pulling on the merchant rags and taking a few bits of junk off to the Market District. First stop was the Copious Coinpurse and Thoronir, where I exchanged some silver trinkets and other clutter for a sack of spuds and melons.

"And there we are, thank you for your patronage," intones he with a sour look as he handed over the sacks and change.

"What's the long face for?" asks I.

"Haven't you heard? There's a new tax coming out soon," says he. "As if we don't pay enough already!"

"I blame Morrowind," says I, "Maybe it's a war tax, they're going to do something about all those damn daedra or whatever's rampaging there."

"I've heard stories," snorts he, "But they're all exaggerated I'm sure. Why else would Helseth and House Dres be picking apart the carcass of House Indoril? If there was a daedra problem, they wouldn't be doing that!"

And we both agreed taxes stink and new taxes stink even worse.

"Anyway," says I, "What's with Rohssan? Went to her place but she wasn't open yet."

"Rohssan? I think she was out on the town last night with some friends. I was, well, let's just say I saw her being assisted home around midnight."

"Oho," says I, "I'll be sure to talk quietly."

And we have a good laugh and away I go.

En route I saw an Imperial that I've seen hawking broadsheets around the Waterfront heading out of the offices of the Black Horse Courier – slowly. "Take it easy Vlan," a khajiit said to him from the doorway. Evidently he'd been on the town as well. Maybe I should have gone on the town.

Rohssan did in fact look a bit second-hand. "Old friends," she explained, "From long ago." She smiled then, winced and rubbed her forehead. "I didn't want to leave them... gods, am I paying for it now."

"Well, make sure you drink plenty of water," says I, "I've been there, done that myself." She just grins at me. "Still, I've got these magic greaves to get fixed, so are you up to it?"

"Making money?" She perks up and peers at my greaves, which have an agility enchantment on them. "At least there's no hammering involved. How in hells did they get in this state?"

I make up a story about seeking shelter from the weather and finding necromancers instead.

"Ugh!" says she, "Those people turn my stomach. Stealing people's souls for the gods-know-what... Did you hear that they violated the sacred grove of the Mage's Guild?"

"Certainly did," says I without going into details. "But being in the guild means I'm likely to run into them again. So while I'm here," and I fiddle noisily with my purse, "maybe some pointers on armour care? Like as not I'll be too far away to run back to you."

She actually giggled at that and waved me over. About an hour later I left with a bit more of the old smith's knowledge and about a thousand less drakes – ten septims and twenty drakes to be precise. She'd obviously not been in the best of moods when I plonked that idiot battlemage's armour, and a silver axe, on the counter; the haggle for a trade-in was a bit rugged.

All that was left was two staves. Navigating clockwise around the various hawkers, carts, layabouts and other pedestrians, taking big steps and little ones, I found myself in front of a door labelled 'Rindir's Staffs'. Since all signs pointed to this being a good to place to flog off excess staves I went in.

"Hail Khajiit!" This came almost immediately from a well-dressed and slightly overstuffed bosmer looking over the counter. "I am Rindir. You are looking for a staff. And here we are in Rindir's Staffs." He made a wide gesture with both arms. "Just fancy that!"

For some reason that made me smile.

"Now that's what I call a coincidence," says I, "since I'm looking to trade for a good 'un. What do you have?"

And Rindir takes my staves and eyes them. "They're a bit worn," says he, "but I can give you a septim or two for them. But enough of yours, let me show you mine!"

I looked over the staves he offered carefully. Rindir took good care of his stock, but nothing really made me hungry, except one.

"What's that fancy looking thing there?" I pointed to a staff behind the counter that positively screamed with Destruction energies, almost warping the gold banding about its shaft.

"Aha!" Rindir grinned as though to say here comes the big sale! "Behold Apotheosis! Smite your enemies with all the power of the atronachs – frost, fire and shock! Trust me, nothing will withstand your wrath when Apotheosis is yours sir!"

"A weapon fit for a Magician such as I," breathes I, gently jiggling it for weight and balance. I didn't have to tell Rindir I wanted – needed – this weapon. If I was of a bad bent, I would have rushed out the door then and there. "What would this be worth?"

"Not much at all," says he, "why, you'll get change out of nine-and-thirty septims."

Yes, that was with trade-in. Unfortunately, while he was interested in some of my other gewdads, I kept coming up several septims short. I just didn't have enough in my purse. Rindir was polite, but immoveable regarding a discount.

"Well then," says I, "I'll just take however many septims you'll give me for these staves, here, and go raise the cash. Maybe sweep the streets or something."

Rindir actually burst out laughing. "Oh good one! Seriously though, there's talk of scofflaws and goblins hiding in the city sewers. Maybe they can give you a loan!"

"I'll be sure to ask," says I pocketing the few coins he passed me and heading for the door. "I will return! Apotheosis," and I pointed past Rindir with a dramatic gesture, "wait for me my love!"

And so I left the Market District for the Waterfront with Rindir's laughter and a few funny looks following me.

* * *

Emerging from the fetid tunnel that links the Waterfront with the Temple District I almost walked into Raminus.

"Hail Warlock," says he, "and before you say 'What?' that's Traven's orders. He also told me to give you this letter." And he hands me a fairly fat chunk of parchment bearing the guild seal.

"Black Horse Courier," came from behind me, and I turned to see that rather second-hand looking Imperial – oh yes, Vlan – I'd seen emerging from the broadsheet's offices. "Everyone needs a copy of the Black Horse Courier," he added without any real enthusiasm.

"I'll take one," says I, and he picks one out and hands it to me as though his arm doesn't work properly and also as if holding a dead fish.

"You all right there, uh, Vlan?" asks I.

"No," mutters he, "not that we're friends, thank'eeser," then limps off half-heartedly plying his trade.

"What's the matter with him?" Raminus wondered. The answer came straight from the Horse's mouth.

GRAY FOX UNMASKED!

Vlanarus Kvinchal recently admitted to being the notorious thief, the Gray Fox. Under questioning by the Imperial Watch, he also confessed to being the reincarnation of Tiber Septim, the love-child of Lord Stendarr, a were-shark, and the mother of Hieronymus Lex. Only after he spent a night in the Imperial prisons was it discovered that Vlanarus had recently consumed a near-lethal dose of skooma.

And we look at each other then at the departing Vlanarus.

"Oh dear," chorus we and read on.

Vlanarus is now back home and recuperating from the hospitality of the Imperial Watch and from the close attention he received during his interrogation. He speculates that he might be able to work again in a month or two, so long as it doesn't involve walking or lifting anything heavier than a beer mug. The sometimes-dockworker has sworn a solemn oath never to trifle with Skooma again, and earnestly warns everyone to stay away from the Orum gang.

"Silly Imperial," says I rolling up the rag, "Skooma is for kahjiit."

Raminus just laughs and walks off, task accomplished.

* * *

At home I opened Traven's letter. As I expected it was blunt and to the point.

Warlock Ra'jirra,

About soultrap spells. You were especially disturbed by using a black soul gem. Don't be.

Soultrap doesn't. What it does do is collect the energy released when body and soul part ways. This energy bond is also revealed when you cast detect-life spells. If the times weren't as dire as they are now I'd tell you off to Delmar for a month to learn all this and more, but we don't have the time.

As per our discussion, you will use the next two days to:

1. collect as many souls as you can – you'll need them and magickal weapons in the future.
2. practice Conjuration, Alteration and Illusion. Your magickal abilities are hopelessly out of balance, favouring Mysticism, Destruction, Restoration and Alchemy. Buy spells you can't cast yet and work towards being able to do so.
3. get all your equipment into top condition and ready for your upcoming task. Expect necromancers.

I recommend going soul-hunting for a couple of days. Return by sunrise 20th. Yes, FROST FIRE. I expect you to report directly to me then. As Warlock, you don't need permission to enter the Council Chamber.

Do not make me wait again.

TRAVEN, ARCH-MAGE.

P.S. Once the emergency is over, you will be expected to attend regular lectures by our resident scholars and take workshops and assignments to guildhalls as per our apprentices.

Time to take stock, I thought. It was clear that Traven was a hard master, and worried about the necromancer threat. Something was up, and I was being used as the – well, champion, I told myself. Sacrificial lamb, another part of me whispered.

From points south came a third whisper, stuff that, let's visit S'jirra! Um, no, thinks I. Traven might not be understanding. Besides, I began to excuse myself, if some corpse-jockey noticed I was hanging out a lot at Faregyl Inn, they might put two and two together and... I kiboshed that line of thought.

Much of my equipment was already in good shape, but something I knew was that Traven was right about my skills. But try getting a battle-crazed bandit to hang fire while you whistle up another bound cuirass.

"Time to suit up," I muttered to myself, but first sat down at the table and laid out my map, using a couple of books to spread it flat. Closing my eyes, I stabbed a point at random.

Welcome back, Boxee and Ra'jirra!

Another delightful romp through the Market District!

Some things never change. Death. Taxes.

And Ra'jirra's wry take on things!

Another fun romp alright. I love how you took the in-game rumors and worked them into believable conversations. The Black Horse Courier was just perfect!

But enough of yours, let me show you mine!
Yep, that's a man for you...

champion, I told myself. Sacrificial lamb, another part of me whispered.
Correct on both counts I believe!

SPEW !!!! Your rendition of Traven has me rolling !!! Telling him not to be disturbed over using black soul gems and to take as many souls as he can - SPEW !!!! - Oh, I can't wait to see where his finger landed on that map !!!!

You'll find out. I finally replaced the FO3 disk with the Ob' one, so I'll be researching Ra'jirra's next moves.

Traven's actually under a little more stress than usual. Normally all he has to worry about are rogue conjurer gangs; rogue magickal researchers like Ancotar and Henantier; keeping those idiot scholars in touch with a) the reality of their teaching duties and B) reality in general; daedric cults of various sorts, including the Guardians of Oblivion; the training of battlemagi; ensuring the guildhalls don't blow themselves or their host cities up; securing funding from the Imperial coffers in the face of stiff opposition from the Imperial Treasury; and just to ice the cake, there's also all that lovely paperwork.

/me notes that ending the part-chapter on a cliffie seems to incite interest in the reader.

Here's a fun fact: about a year before Ra'jirra arrived in Anvil, a group of drunken apprentices scrawled mystic symbols and such graffiti on the Ottus residence. Said apprentices and their fate have already become the stuff of legend. Unfortunately said fate didn't alter Alessia Ottus' views on the Guild one bit.

Next part will be on hold while I code a "defusing traps" mod, or work out how to adjust the traps from "instant kill" to "maim severely".

Chapter 15 Pt. 2: Ra'jirra Takes a Working Holiday

I found myself aiming at a point roughly east of Chorrol and north of Fort Ash. I shrugged. As good a place to pass a day and a half as any.

East of Chorrol and mostly north of Fort Ash is an Ayleid ruin named Lindai. I observed gravestones near the entrance, which baffled me; why on earth had people come all this way from civilisation to bury their dead? Nevertheless it told me what to expect. There would be undead.

And there were undead, undead by the half-dozen. I stood it as long as I could before fleeing past the blade traps to the surface, heavier by silver and shields enough that I needed to repeatedly cast a fortification of strength to make it to Chorrol by the morn of the 19th.

Once inside, I went straight to the Mage's Guildhall and took a seat. A nearby book, A Game at Dinner, took my attention and I learned a thing or two about alchemy, despite bittergreen being hard to come by in these parts. Afterwards I dozed until I heard the guildies moving about.

"Ho, Ra'jirra!" It was Baldy the bosmer – what was his name? Athragaer? - "Nice to see you again. What brings you here?"

I stood up, slowly, and cast that fortifier again. "Flogging off treasure from Lindai," says I.

"That necropolis? Whatever for?"

I told him I'd been out practising my skills. This led into a helpful hour's lecture on the ins and outs of alteration, which left me a little lighter in purse before Rasheeda over at Hammer and Axe made me lighter in burden.

My purse was heavy, and it felt heavy enough to achieve Apotheosis. Three hours later, Rindir dropped a house on me.

"Ah, yes, Apotheosis," says he, "You know, I've had some offers on that staff. Very good offers as a matter of fact."

"What do you mean, offers?" says I, smelling a rat, "Is the price thirty-nine drakes or not?"

It was not. Now the gouging little tree-hugger wanted sixty drakes to give it to me! And I'll give the little bugger credit, he stuck to his story like glue. He knew he could simply have sold the damn staff outright, but he'd been so kind, there was a gentleman on order, he said, unless I changed my mind?

I said I wouldn't change my mind. He admitted that, while I was lacking in coin, a suitable trade, say in enchanted clothing, would be admissible...?

I said I'd see about it and stormed off.

I took my bad mood into a cave actually quite close to the bridge to Weye; Dzonot was the name scratched on the door. Bottles galore on the ground outside suggested either a very happy fisherman or bored bandits. And this close to the city!

Inside I crept, then heard a crashing sound and a male death cry. "What was that?" said a woman's voice from above and ahead, in the cavern that opened above me. I froze as a wet dream in boots and a battle-axe – nothing else – stalked out of the cavern mists and peered at a corpse, which apparently had walked straight into a swinging trap set up beneath a natural bridge. That's if the facts that his face was plastered across the inside of his skull, and his brains were either side of him, meant anything.

"Some male," she called with chilling indifference, "no use to us now."

She then turned and stalked away. In my night-eyed vision, blue female outlines dispersed and went about whatever it is amazons do when they're at home. I wasn't at home, so I crept forwards until I could raid the corpse's pockets.

Outside I looked at my spoils. The most interesting thing was the most recent entries in a diary belonging to one Amel Lentus, which began:

I am in love. It was sheer coincidence that brought me out onto the walkway today, mother wished me to purchase fresh slaughterfish in Weye. It was on my way home that I saw her - my glorious nymph, so full of spark and skill that she was slaughtering mudcrabs while wearing nothing but a pair of boots and her sword.

I do not know whether to curse or bless the fish mother wanted! Were it not for them, I would never have passed by to see her, but were it also not for them I might have had the time to stop and learn her name.

I don't need to repeat what followed, since you readers are intelligent types and don't use your balls for brains. Those of you who do, remember poor Amel.

I decided to go beat up goblins instead. Fat Back Cave, southwest of the Arcane University, is full of them.

While creeping through the upper levels, I filled my remaining soul gems and finally achieved an understanding of both Alteration and Conjuration that, when I informed Traven later, moved him so much he grunted and said, "Amazing. You've finally reached the level of the most stupid apprentice ever."

I didn't care since I could now unlock things with magic.

By the time I emerged to the surprise of a herd of wild horses over on the mainland bank, it was the wee hours of the 20th, and I headed back to my little abode to dump the loot fast. I didn't want to keep Traven waiting!

ARGH! I didn't know about that in Dzonot cave! Now I have to go and see for myself! Great Write!!

That's typically what happens!

Are you sure that's all you did, Ra'jirra?

Methinks Ra'jirra's the former type.

I enjoyed this. I believe the lady and the diary in Dzonot are not vanilla Oblivion.

Oh darn! I was going to go find that diary and ogle the bandit! ROFL !! Thank you for the heads up Hauty!!!

The Amazons and the late Mr. Lentus, like the Guardians of Oblivion, frost bears, mystical and crazed imps, spectral warriors and their hounds, and something very large, white and deadly I've seen wandering around northwest of Bruma [Don't remind me - R.] are all part of Oscuro's Oblivion Overhaul.

As for Foxy (the D, if I recall, stands for 'dirty mind'?), please remember that Ra'jirra was expecting hostiles. Additionally, someone had very recently died in front of him, which tends to diminish the ardour. Also please note that the lady's weapon was a) bigger than his, and b) was at the ready. [And c) she's very, very good with that thing - R.]

Another fun episode, with Ra'jirra flogging his loot, learning a few things from old baldy, meeting some Amazons (why do they only wear boots? Wait, let me guess, because the person who made the mod is male...), and earning the disrespect of the Arch-Mage. Sounds like another day in Cyrodiil!

My purse was heavy, and it felt heavy enough to achieve Apotheosis
I loved this!

Actually the other amazons spawned do wear armour. There's also an Amazon Queen somewhere with unique equipment, but at level 27 I think Ra'jirra will be keeping her off his dance card.

Chapter 16. In Which Ra'jirra Returns to Skingrad

I arrived promptly in the council chambers at half-past six and ended up cooling my heels with a couple of books. One went on interminably about some sort of conspiracy involving the Psijic Order, which I had trouble following. The other, Implements of Violence, made me gasp briefly, and made Jarol, who was also waiting, look at me.

"Ah!" says he, "I see you're reading my work. Takes your interest, eh?"

"I recall finding a staff that fits this description," says I, "in an Ayleid ruin east of Leyawiin. I ought to give it a closer look."

"Really?" Jarol perks right up. "Why not bring it here and I can have a look at it." I agree and wonder if it's still in my chest at the old lodge down there.

Traven arrived promptly at nine. After the exchange of unpleasantries, namely him grilling me over what I'd been doing, he grunted.

"Remember Skingrad? Count Hassildor wants to see you."

"Me? He doesn't want to dong me another one does he?"

Caminalda makes an unladylike noise – that's elves for you, always ear-farming! – and Traven just smiles thinly at that. "Don't ask me, ask him. He asked for you especially. Apparently he has vital information, but he's playing games." And he sighs, and adds, "Mind you, I'd be playing coy after that business with Hosidius too, if I were him."

"All right," says I, "I'll be off then."

"Good," says Traven, then adds, "Don't give him another excuse will you?"

And Raminus wondered why I was chuckling when I materialised in the foyer.

To my confusion the damnable unicorn was hanging around the Chestnut Handy again, as though waiting for me. I simply cannot understand why. If I drop anchor in the middle of nowhere, away it goes back to the grove. If I come to the big smoke, it happily waits around. Usually.

After arriving at Skingrad I made my way directly to the castle. The Argonian woman, Hal-Liurz, had apparently taken over Hosidius' duties. "Very well," said she when I explained why I was there, "Take a sseat. The Count will be with you sshortly. Sso no need for bookss thiss time, yess?"

"What happened to Hosidius anyway?" I wondered aloud to the large well-dressed Orc loitering nearby.

"Nobody knows," says he in carefully modulated tones, "But I seem to recall that he vanished about the time you were last here. Making a nuisance of yourself, as I recall." And he frowns at me as though I – well, I probably had landed the killing blow on Hosidius. But he started it.

About the time I was getting hot under the collar from the Orc's accusing stare, Hal-Liurz reappeared, followed by Count Hassildor, as usual in his full suit of armour. I stood to meet him.

"Ra'jirra the Warlock," hails he, "keeping your helm on I see."

I feel my cheeks burn and he grins. "Let us just say I don't want it to happen again, my Lord. Actually I don't think selected councillors want it to happen again either."

And he bursts out laughing before collecting himself and covering his mouth.

"I fear this time you may find the results no more to your liking than the last. Less so, perhaps," says he rather more seriously, and I realise his refined, slightly flat tones are what that Orc is trying to imitate. "The information I have for your guild will not be met with smiles and hand-shakes, I fear."

"It's that bad, eh?" says I.

"I'm afraid so, but first things first. I have called you here because from our previous encounter, I believe you can be trusted."

"What do you want me to do?" I may be a hayseed but I'm not thick. You want thick? Try old Nug. If you belted him on the bonce with a warhammer you'd have to spend an entire day explaining why he should fall down. You want thicker? Take a warhammer to Nug's bonce and look in the mirror.

Anyway Count Hassildor looks at me approvingly. "It's a minor thing," says he, "A nest of vampires has sprung up in Bloodcrust Cavern, southeast of town."

"Again?" cries I, to his obvious surprise. "Sorry my Lord, but the first time I came here I explored that cave, and cleaned out vampires – nearly became one too!" I shake my head. "How the hell did they come back?"

"You took on an entire cave of vampires by yourself?" Hassildor looks at me. "I'm impressed."

Now, the main hall of Skingrad Castle is fairly gloomy, and the Count is standing in shadow. And he's smirking at my expression as I put two and two together from that glimpse when he laughed.

"It's not just the vampires is it?" states I, "You've got vampire hunters."

"Exactly," says he, "very well done, Warlock. Rumours have been spreading about vampires in the town, and, well, I cannot let my identity be compromised."

"Do you know anything about them?" asks I, "the hunters, I mean."

"There are at least, three, under one Eridor. From what I hear he's rather good."

"Well then," says I, "If they want vampires they'll get vampires. And either they leave happy, or..." and I shrug. "I get their scraps."

Hassildor looks at me with even more respect. "You're smarter than you look," says he, "You understand what to do and why. Go now."

I go now.

Shortly thereafter I had a pleasant conversation with Falanu Hlaalu about bittergreen.

"Now there's a taste of home," says she wistfully. "You know, stewed bittergreen was a traditional dish, the perfect thing with mudcrab meat or nix-hound. Sure you could get poisoned if you didn't cook it right, but..." and she sighs again. "I don't have any, but I do have these..."

And we discussed the relative merits of volcanic glass, timsa-come-by, golden and noble sedge, and then she opens a package and –

"Faugh!"

"'Faugh' is right," says she with one hand pinching her nose and the other holding a piece of meat that's a dark green. At first I think it's rotten until I see that the green is too consistent – it's the colour of the flesh!

"Durzog meat," says she, "hunted from beneath Mournhold, city of Blessed Amalexia." She puts the meat away and opens a few windows. "They're dangerous beasts, mounts of the goblins that infest the caverns beneath. I've got a picture here somewhere..."

Goblins are ugly, vicious little beasts. Durzogs are ugly, vicious large beasts, like a daedroth gone wrong. I've never been to Mournhold, let alone delved into its legendary Old Mournhold, and with monsters like that down there I never will.

Anyway I asked about Eridor, claiming I had a message for him.

"Eridor? Oh, you mean the tree-hugger who claims he's a vampire hunter. Came in with a little speech about 'we mean you no harm' and other rot. I told him to ask at the chapel, since they'd hear about such things. What a poser!"

Sinderion didn't know anything about vampire hunters, but I picked up a few elixirs of exploration before heading over to the chapel.

I spotted Eridor right away by seeing where citizens were fleeing from. He was a Bosmer with a battleaxe that came up to his nose, leather trimming, and a topknot adding an extra inch to his height.

He saw me approaching, and as I closed I heard him mutter, "Oh, no. Not another one," before straightening up and reciting, "Citizen of... Skingrad. Please be advised that I am here on official business, and wish no harm..."

And I just looks at him. Picture the scene: a Bosmer in brown leather (except for a cuirass) and me, a Khajiit almost all in elven togs and toting the white stallion.

"Oh, forget it," says he as he realises that I could probably dismantle him unaided. "Let me guess: you're worried about what my men and I are doing here in town, right?"

"Someone told me you're looking for vampires," says I, "In the wrong place."

Eridor doesn't like that. "Wrong place?" says he nastily. "I'll have you know I'm one of the best vampire hunters in all Cyrodiil, f-Khajiit!" I think he remembered I'm in full jacket. "Not to put a fine point on it, but I don't usually head off in the wrong direction! So, where is this 'right place' then?"

"I've seen the bloodsuckers at Bloodcrust Cavern," says I, "right here." I point to it on my map. "Just go out the east gate and follow the road to where it jinks north, then go south toward Silorn and look to your right. You can't miss it – there's fires and skulls outside."

Eridor perks right up at that, and so do I. Knowing my sense of direction I'd have sent him towards Anvil without that map.

"My friend," says he expansively, "That's the information we've been seeking. We'll have to pay them a visit soon. Thanks for the tip, friend!"

And he shakes my hand and away he goes. "That got rid of him," says a guard behind me.

"Seconded," says I, "I hope he's got a decent suit for vampires."

"Are there really vampires in Bloodcrust?"

I just look at him. "I have it on the highest authority."

It wasn't until the wee hours of 21 Frost Fire that Eridor and his band appeared. "Hail Khajiit," says he from behind me, where I'm watching the cave door, "keeping vigil?"

"Yep," says I, "There's been no movement, but I heard talking. I think they're all inside."

"Tell me, Khajiit," says he thoughtfully, "you seem well equipped, how come you haven't slain the vampires?"

I turn and look at him. Eridor, and his band, are to my eye hopelessly ill-equipped, not enough armour between them to protect one man let alone four. I take a breath.

"I'm afraid of undead," says I quickly. It wasn't a total lie either.

Eridor snorts. "Big baby! Tell you what, follow us and we'll show you how it's done. If you're good, we'll leave one for you to finish off!"

And so I followed them in the wake of some unkind laughter.

The vampires had the second to last laugh. The vampire hunters' technique wasn't much more than overwhelming ferocity, with the group barrelling down the right-hand tunnel to their deaths.

And it was up to me to work hard for the last laugh, slaying the half-dozen remaining vampires and collect their precious dust. It was fearful, nasty work, and to this day their bloodless faces haunt my nightmares. And then there was that terrible incident with the skooma, which led to my wife forcing me to take a solemn pledge to never touch a drop of the stuff again. She didn't have to force me too hard.

I emerged from the cave feeling a little tired, dumped some loot on the step, then reported to the Count.

"My vampiric senses tell me," says he with some amusement, "that the animals in Bloodcrust Cavern are no more."

"That is correct, my Lord," says I, not rising to the bait.

"My guard commander also tells me," he goes on, "that Eridor and his band were seen leaving the city early this morning by the east gate, then cutting south towards Bloodcrust Cavern, followed by a Khajiit in elven armour and a purple cape."

"That would also be correct, my Lord," says I.

"And now a Khajiit in elven armour and purple cape returns alone."

"Well, Eridor and company were quite good," says I, "but they ran out of steam around their fourth bl-vampire and I had to finish off the rest myself."

"So the work is complete, and we can discuss the information promised."And he grows solemn. "Your guild does not fully appreciate the danger which quickly approaches. Hopefully when you return to them, their eyes will be opened."

"Danger, you say," says I. "This is about those bloody corpse-jockeys isn't it?"

"The Necromancers are a sign of things to come. An old acquaintance of the guild has come to Cyrodiil, and they are answering his call." He sighs, and then looks grim. "While I do not know for quite what purpose he has arrived, I believe the Guild of Mages is in great danger. Mannimarco has returned."

"Hang on," says I, "are we talking the Mannimarco? As in Galerion and Mannimarco? Not some Johnny-Jump-Up claiming the name?"

"I do not think so," says he, "and we made sure when we... asked our informant at Fort Linchal." Evidently I wasn't the only one to see the Shade of the Revenant at that fort. "Nearly invincible, he has established himself somewhere in the north of Cyrodiil. This is all that I know."

This was bad, I could tell. Some great undead necromancer – how else would he have 'lived' so long? - from the mists of time, back to finish off Galerion's legacy – the guild. And by extension me.

But Hassildor is still talking. "See to it that your leader, Traven, learns this as soon as possible. I have no love for your guild, but I have no wish to see it destroyed either."

"Neither do I, my Lord Hassildor," says I grimly, "therefore with your permission I will depart at once."

"Before you go," he raises a hand, "one more thing. Yesterday afternoon a Khajiit in elven armour was seen riding to the city on a unicorn, about two of the clock. Then, late last night, two guardsmen on the roads encountered a Khajiit, in elven armour, riding a unicorn near where the trail to Silorn meets the road. And now, I am told, a unicorn waits at the gate below for its rider, described as a Khajiit with elven armour and a purple cape." He looks me up and down, and his mouth twitches. "Is it true?"

I can't hide a smile. "True as there is daylight outside," says I, "And if it wasn't for that daylight I'd introduce you to him myself."

And Count Janus Hassildor roars with laughter! "Oh well done Warlock! Maybe you'll make Arch-mage some day. Let me know the next time you are in Skingrad, and I will commission a portrait. But," and he sobers, "go now. Traven must know what I have told you."

I go now, rubbing my eyes tiredly as I emerge into the sunlight.

I arrived yawning at the Arcane University about noon and made my way to the council chambers and Traven. "Well, Warlock?" says he, "what happened?"

"Vampires," says I, and fill him in on the business briefly. "But the Count says Mannimarco has returned, he's put out the call, and he's holed up somewhere up north."

Jarol was ear-farming and gasped in shock. Caminalda followed suit a little later.

Traven just stares at me. "Are we talking about the Mannimarco? Or just some jumped-up high priest who's–"

"They raided Fort Linchal," says I, "and brought one or two to the question. Count Hassildor himself said that it was a certainty this was the Mannimarco, like in the ballad of Horides."

Now I'm not known for sweet language, but Traven's ensuing brown streak shocked me, Caminalda and Jarol with its force, vehemence and lack of repetition.

"I thought necromancy was virtually eliminated from Cyrodill," said he, once you took the lumpy bits out, "How could I be so wrong? Now the grove's been desecrated, guildhalls sabotaged, traitors found..." He lets fly with a bellow that makes us all jump. "POLUS!"

A rather startled Raminus appeared in the chamber about ten seconds later. "Y-You called, Arch-mage?"

"He's promoted." Pointing at me. "Call the damn Council. Emergency meeting." Pointing at a startled Caminalda. "Ra'jirra, why are you yawning?" Pointing at me again

"Been up all night sir," says I.

"In a vampire cave? Think, damnitall! Go get a cure. Then go warn the Bruma guildhall. Then expect my summons. Dismissed!"

I left, I thought, I chugged a cure disease potion I had on me.

Damnitall! Actually, the my preferred term was For the love of the Nine NOT AGAIN!

Loved the Count of Skingrad in your story! A vampire with a sense of humor! Ah, yes, sometimes humor's the only thing that keeps one going after so many years.

Ra'jirra's assessment of the vampire hunters cracked me up. Oy, vey! Who ever thought the leader of the vamp hunters ought to be a male Bosmer is genius - it adds just a hint of tragic comedy to this quest. You picked it up and just ran with it.

Keep 'em coming!

Lots of fun again!

After the exchange of unpleasantries, namely him grilling me over what I'd been doing, he grunted.
I love how you are portraying Traven. In the game he is this kindly uncle type character. But in the RF he really seems like someone mean and ruthless enough to run a megacorporation.


“Me? He doesn't want to dong me another one does he?”
*rawr* Hot vampire on khajiit action!

Reading your story is like reading Rachel's - your characters become so marked that everyone will envision them as you have written them! I will never look at Arch Mage Traven the same again, nor be able to write a good love scene with Hassildor again! Lol. - With Rachel it was Jauffre - amongst numerous others. Awesome Write !!!!!!

Great. September and something in my computer is dying. Hopefully just one thing and not several. Will resume once I can either a) get at my files or get the damn game going again.

Aw, bless your heart! Sorry to hear about your PC! ARGH! Good luck to BOTH!

[Strap your forehead to the monitor and hold onto your pants - here's over four thousand more words about everyone's favourite guildie! (All right, 'except Mannimarco's'.)]

Chapter 17. Ra'jirra Makes Unexpected Discoveries

I decided the best thing to do was saddle up for Bruma first. I arrived after nightfall and made my way into the guild. Turning towards the downstairs dormitories I ran into Volanaro.

"Ra'jirra!" says he, "Long time no see." And he looks me up and down. "You've been doing well for yourself – obviously."

"All hard work and drudgery," says I in a put-upon tone, and we have a good laugh.

"I wish I could travel the lands," says he wistfully, "but I'm stuck here in this dank little icebox." And he sighs. "Still, what can I do for you?"

"Pass on some news," says I, and I quickly fill him in as we head downstairs and park on a bench. His cheerful face gradually bent out of shape with surprise, then shock, then alarm. By the time I'd finished, Jeanne Frasoric had parked herself on the other side of me and was looking very distraught.

"But are you sure this is the –" she starts.

"Absolutely certain," snaps I, "and if you don't believe me you can bloody well ask the Arch-Mage, and Count Hassildor, and any corpse-jockeys you run across. So keep an eye out, and sound the alarm if anything happens. Speaking of anything happening," and I turn to Volanaro, "Traven said as I was leaving, 'Get that prankster to teach you his special.'"

And Volanaro goes red and Jeanne harrumphs. "Well! Well... I know how to summon a dremora lord. It's a complex spell, and it requires a great deal of magicka. On the other hand..."

With most of my gold in Volanaro's pocket and my head full of conjuration magics an hour later, I went to bed. He hadn't been lying. Dremora are dangerous and fiddly summonings, and their lords are worse. However Volanaro had also taught me how to summon a skeleton for practice, "and," he'd added, "it'll help a little in combat."

You might wonder about Apotheosis. Well, I'd had a think and given up on it. No doubt if I fronted up with nine-and-sixty septims, the price would have gone up again. Screw Rindir.

The following morning I got up early and was watching the sun climb the peak the locals called Gnoll Mountain, waiting for a store called Novaroma to open, when I hear "Good day," from behind me. The speaker was a well-dressed, middle-aged stomach attached to a Nord.

"I'm Tolgan, herald to Countess Narina Carvain here in Bruma," he introduces himself, "She requests your company at your earliest convenience."

"She does?" and I blink at him in confusion. "What for?"

"Countess Carvain would prefer if you speak to her in person," says he. "She also said to present you with this stipend as a taste of things to come."

Said stipend was a quarter-septim. Hardly enough to whet my appetite, but the door behind me was unlocked and I turned to see an altmer giving me a funny look. I put the 'stipend' away. "All right then, when should I go to her?"

"Now would be a good time," says he, "My Lady Carvain holds court from eight bells in the morning until six in the evening each day." He paused and cocked a meaningful ear at the obvious tolling from the chapel.

And so I tell him I will be there soonest and he's all very well and good day and away he and his stomach go.

"What was that all about?" I ask nobody in particular as I enter the store.

"I bet it's something to do with the Countess' collection of artefacts," says the altmer, eyeing where I stashed that little purse. "Our tax drakes at work."

"Well, never mind that for now," says I, "I've been waiting on you first, so you take priority."

And he laughs. "Oh, let me introduce myself. I am Suurootan, proud owner of Novaroma, a little piece of Heartland Empire here in the lofty Jeralls."

And we have a little dicker and I offload some excess salvage. "Now remember," says I at the end, "I expect you to curse me up and down the town about how I ripped you off on those enchanted axes – with any luck it'll get word to the Countess and she'll pay me properly!"

And we have a good laugh at that and off I go to the castle. I would just like to mention that I enjoy feather spells very much. So you know.

The countess was easy to spot: her throne was in the middle of several display cases, mostly holding swords of an oddly light and appealing blade and round, elaborately decorated shields.

"Milady Carvain," says I with a bow, "I am Ra'jirra, Warlock of the Mage's Guild–"

"And that stipend Tolgan gave you whetted your appetite," says she quickly. I caught her eyes as she scanned me up and down; a very sharp, analytical stare. She was up with the play, no doubt about that. "You've noted the Akaviri relics I'm displaying."

I couldn't exactly disagree with that so I didn't.

"Well, it's safe to say I'm a collector of sorts. I've invested a great deal of time and money acquiring these bits of ancient history," says she with great pride, "In fact, I'd be so bold as to proclaim my collection the most complete in all Cyrodiil; perhaps even beyond." Her eyes go sharp again. "Except for one thing."

"Which you want me to find," says I, "what is it?"

"I'd heard you were blunt and to the point," says she, "I'm of course referring to The Draconian Madstone." And she looks at me expectantly so I play along.

"That's a relic I haven't heard of before," says I truthfully, "What do you know about it?"

And she beams at the chance to play scholar to my apprentice.

"The stone is a fine bit of Akaviri craftsmanship. Worn like an amulet, this talisman is said to protect the wearer from poisons of any type. The Madstone appears as a snake coiled around and encircling itself. The eyes of the snake are supposed to be precious gems or some such. Through my sources, I've learned that the last reported location of the Madstone was the ruins at Pale Pass."

"And why would they be there?" asks I. Now you might think that history lessons are boring, but I ask because there is no knowledge without power. History is always helpful in explaining why you'll find undead here and not over there, or why Sheogorath has an obsession with cheese and evisceration, or something totally unexpected but no less useful.

"Back at the end of the First Era, raiders from the continent of Akavir attempted to gain a foothold here in Tamriel," she explained, "At that time, the Empire was broken into smaller factions. Reman Cyrodiil decided to unify them and form an army to repel the Akaviri raiders – the Army of Reman. The two armies clashed in what's now northern Cyrodiil. The Akaviri were strong and well supplied, but they went through Morrowind on the way to their objective," and she smirks, "and dismissed the response it would garner from Vivec."

Ouch. You don't tick off gods. Even the local gods.

"He attacked them from the rear, right?"

"Exactly!" cries she, pleased at such an apt pupil. "They didn't count on Lord Vivec forming an alliance with the Trident-Kings of the Dreugh. From Morrowind, he struck at their rear flank," she made a chopping motion with her hands. "Not only did this make the Akaviri fight on two fronts, it also cut off access to reinforcements and supplies from the sea."

"And that was them all done," says I.

"Not quite. The Army of Reman knew that the organized Akaviri forces were commanded from a hidden post in the mountains. Ah, you guessed it, Pale Pass. And that's where Reman focussed his efforts. As his forces fought their way across the Jerall Mountains, the Akaviri suddenly surrendered. It was assumed they were overwhelmed and gave up." And she frowns. "The only strange part was that the command post and Pale Pass were never found. It was dismissed as rumour and the Army of Reman celebrated."

"Except it's not rumour is it? You know where it is."

"I certainly do," she says all smug. "It's come to my attention that the post did exist and it happens to be the last reported location of the Draconian Madstone." She leaned forwards, giving me an interesting view of her north face. "If you retreive the Draconian Madstone for me, I'll be happy to compensate you by rewarding you with another Akaviri artifact I already have an example of. Are you game?"

Now I was interested; it was a change from corpse-jockeys and besides Traven would probably like to pay her a visit once this Madstone was in her possession. "I'm up for it," says I.

"Yes!" and she bounces in her seat with excitement before getting control of herself. "I had a feeling you'd accept. Good. Then let me tell you how you're going to find the Madstone," she says happily. "I've come into the possession of a diary written by an Akaviri messenger. I suspect that the text within can lead you to the ruins." And she jabs a thumb over her shoulder to a mouldering book in a case. "Tolgan!"

Tolgan's stomach appeared, followed by the man himself. "You called milady?"

"Tolgan, fetch the diary translation and the key please." And as he trundled his stomach away, the Lady Caravain turned to me. "I'll give you a translation of the passages we could still read, since I doubt they teach Akaviri at the Arcane University. I've also included a rough map that was drawn in the diary as well, and a unique key that was supposedly found with the diary. I'm assuming it will prove useful when you arrive at the site."

And so Tolgan reappears and hands me the documents and key, and I make my polite farewells and away I go.

Being the day was still young, I emerged from the northern gate and looked at the map provided. It was actually more a graphic. Dragonclaw Rock had an arrow pointing left from it to a statue, 'The Sentinel', according to the diary except, which in turn aimed upward to a door. So once I found the rock, I guessed I had to go west to a statue, then north. Fine.

My map of Cyrodiil showed that the road to Bruma actually also extended a short way north, then broke into a little dotted line marked as an old trade route to Cheydinhal, ominously marked "UNPATROLLED". There be bandits, thought I, so I strode northward with bow ready.

As it was, the only menace I encountered was a wolf that never saw me coming. But from its movements it was a young wolf, and like all young 'uns dumb enough to think an armoured khajiit was a tasty snack.

Approaching the statue – it wasn't that far away after all – I felt a sense of being watched. As usual, the watchers were beyond the range of Watchfulness, my long-range life sensing spell. I quickly found out they were trolls. They quickly found out I wasn't going away.

Inside the cave, I nearly brained myself on a trap before pulling up. Of course the Akavir would have trapped the damn place, there was no way they'd just let the Imperials waltz in! With that in mind, I crept into the next chamber and paused. There was a skeleton nearby, with a slate under its hand. And it wasn't making the ogre noise I could hear.

The ogre ahead wasn't interested in coming over, so I carefully slid the slate out from under and had a look at it. Despite the incomprehensible swirls I decided were the Akavir language, it looked like instructions. I looked at the translation again.

The slate rock that the orders have been carved upon for safety weighs me down; it is a constant reminder of the more than physical burden that I carry.

The Countess would like it so I pocketed it.

My skeleton wasn't a match for ogres, which tended to smash it even before it finished summoning. However, I had my mage's staff, which tended to lay them out long enough to slam two Firestarters and a Flare to see them off. I had quite a collection of teeth by the time I reached the far end of what was, really, a twisting tube into Pale Pass.

Pale Pass would be quite a nice place if it wasn't for the ogres. And the cold. I snuck past those I could sneak past and killed those I could not. My goal was soon in sight: the wreck of a fort, one great tree growing in the middle of its stone ring. Two more ogres fell before I could enter.

Inside the fortress I was almost at once attacked by a fairly tough skeleton waving the ruins of a slender sword, and the ruins of an intricately decorated, round shield. Undead. I should have known.

For hours I slogged through the dungeons, several times finding myself going in circles and avoiding traps that I had already avoided. I was rather pissed off by the time I penetrated to the last chamber.

A shade waited, bedecked in the memory of armour I had never seen before. His eyes, what I could see of them, appeared oddly uptilted, and he had one hand on his sword.

"You have made a long and perilous journey, but there is no time to rest," says he, "The Army of Reman is at our doorstep, and our supplies have dwindled. We have awaited your arrival. Tell us, what news do you bring from Akavir?"

It struck me that the restless dead I had been stalking and slaying were the shades of the long-dead Akaviri forces, still waiting all these long centuries for their instructions. I pulled out the slate. "Here are your orders, sir," says I.

The chill of the ghost's hand went straight through the slate into mine, as it took the ancient, and now very out of date, orders. "Well done, soldier. Your mission is complete, and you have my thanks. Now we may rest. Long live the Akavir!" said the ghost. He turned and walked to the far wall, then through it, the slate shattering on contact.

And then the wall sank into the floor, revealing a hidden chamber with a small plinth. The ghost was nowhere to be seen, but on the plinth was a remarkable amulet. A snake, biting its tail. The Madstone, I presume.

It wasn't until 23 Frost Fire that I finally emerged back into Cyrodiil, having carefully evaded the remaining ogres and made my way back to the cave the ancient Akavir had called the Serpent's Trail. Scanning the night-draped snows, I saw no more trolls or anything else, so I made a run for the road and the Bruma Mage's Guild.

I woke the following morning and thought for a bit. I was definitely getting smarter with all the practice in magic; not to mention nimbler with all the sneaking and bowplay – and the odd breaking and entering didn't hurt either. As the rest of the guildies broke their fast I considered patching up my gear, then decided against it. Better to appear travel-stained and prompt than raise questions about what I'd been doing for the past two days.

"So what were you doing for the past two days?" Volanaro asked a little snippily. Something to do with me crashing in his bed, so totally unconscious I couldn't be roused.

"Been seeking an Akaviri artefact in Pale Pass," says I.

"There's our taxes at work again," J'skar said sarcastically, "And how many millions did she pay you?"

"Twenty-five drakes," says I.

There was a short silence, then: "Is that all? – I heard she was paying scouts two hundred for something or other – You'll never earn a living at that rate! – Did you give her a discount or something? – Don't you know we have a reputation to maintain in the Guild? – Didn't you show her your axe?"

"J'Skar!" Jeanne yelled, and the young khajiit shrank back into his shoes. "Sorry Ra'jirra, but twenty-five drakes is far too small. It was an advance, surely?"

"Yes," says I, "and I'll get my reward for the Madstone shortly."

"The whatstone?"

So I dig out the Madstone and hold it up, and away we go again! "The Draconian Madstone! – Good gods, man, do you know what that's worth? – That should be in the Imperial Museum! – And you fetched it for twenty-five drakes?" and on and on until I pulled out my mace and thwapped the table for silence.

"Once the Madstone is handed over," says I, "and when I return to the Arcane University, I will inform Arch-mage Traven of this discovery. I'm sure the Countess will be agreeable to his suggestions that the local Mage's Guild will be only too useful in examining this artefact. And the next fetcher to second-guess me or tell me to welch on the deal," and I raised my mace, "gets the Skingrad Special."

That either cowed or confused them enough to shut up and let me eat breakfast in peace.

Next stop was the castle, where the good Countess Carvain was holding court. As soon as she saw me, she rather peremptorily dismissed the two courtiers or whatever they were and approached me, demanding, "You have the Madstone?"

I just smiled and handed it over. Her eyes went wide as she closed her grip on the thing, holding it up to the light.

"I never thought it possible. I mean... I had hoped... but to actually hold it in my hands. It's more beautiful than I imagined it." She stared at it for a long while, then remembered I was there. "Congratulations. I had a feeling you were the right person for the job. And it seems I owe you a reward." She fished something out of her belt pouch, which was a blue velvet matching her dress. "This Akaviri ring was found with the messenger's diary. It awards the wearer with increased agility and resistance to harmful magic. It's known as the Ring of the Vipereye. As I said, I already have one of these, so this is your reward."

I pulled off the ring of agility I'd been wearing for so long and slipped the Ring of the Vipereye on. It fit a little snugly, but the additional wards would complement my Spelldrinker Amulet. I thanked the Countess profusely and managed to drop hints about using the skills of the Mage's Guild. I'm not sure if they took root but I tried.

* * *

From Bruma I headed southward, stopping at last at Wawnet Inn. I doffed my helm and entered.

"Rra'jirrra!" S'jirra cried, making my name into a cry of pleasure that still makes my knees weak to this day. Not a good thing when a pretty young she throws herself at you before you even clear the doorway. "Wherre have you been? Did you find yourr frriend? Yourr bed was so empty!"

It takes me a while to become coherent again because, well, the sensation of her face against mine, and despite a dusting of potato flour she smelt quite nice, and I was juggling a slender waist in one arm and my helm in the other.

"I... well, it took me longer to find him, um, than I thought," says I, which is half right.

"Oh, S'jirra!" Abhuki had hands on her matronly hips and an exasperated look. "Let the poor man come in and sit before he tells his tale!"

S'jirra just rubbed her face against mine before letting me go. I counted out ten drakes for a room which I definitely intended using this time and prepared to land on a stool, but both Abhuki and S'jirra directed me to a nice chair in a corner instead.

"Now then," Abhuki said once I was seated, "tell us all about it."

I didn't. I simply mentioned that my friend appeared to have taken shelter in a nearby Ayleid ruin that turned out to be a necromancer lair, and exaggerated from there. To tell the truth, I found myself enjoying the experience: sitting like a lord, my audience hanging on my every word, foes and mace-blows increasing tenfold, and my cup neither running over nor dry. Which might explain why my audience increased twofold when I wound up.

"And I 'eard," I remember saying, "Tha' th' Mage'shesh Guild'sh worr-worr-shcared o' theshe corpshe-humpumpumpersh 'n' doin' all th' can t' wipe th' fetchersh out."

"Trruly?" One of Abhuki said (I think it was the top one) while both of the S'jirras gasped. "We live indeed in trrying times. S'jirrra dear," and both look at one or both of her daughters, "help ourr honourred and rrather drrunk frriend to his bed?"

I did my best to help her but not one of my four or five legs seemed to want to work.

* * *

The following morning I woke to the unpleasant scents of vomit and piss, which acrid smell made the ogre in my head either angrier or breed. To this day I have never drunk even half as much in a night. I'm a Khajiit, not a Nord. To make things worse, I'm the Arch-age now, so I can't afford to in case something explodes. Yes, even Bravil.

The door opened like the gates of hell and S'jirra entered, bearing a covered plate and a jug. "Rra'jirrra needs waterr," says she in a voice that alternately stroked and stabbed, "since so much drrink takes much out of one."

And so I carefully sat upright, trying not to let the back of my head fall apart and my brains roll out and under the bed. S'jirra was almost saintly, making sure this hungover, soiled mess of a khajiit drank his water and ate his ham and eggs. After an hour I felt sufficiently alive to get up without the floor trying to escape, and another hour later I paid my rather large bar tab with laundering fee and left.

I swear the unicorn was sneering at me and took pains to walk as loudly as possible.


I arrived at the White Stallion Lodge after sundown and dismounted. "Wait here," says I to the unicorn, "we'll be heading back past Harcane Grove shortly."

The unicorn just snorted, did a neat little pirouette and almost crapped on my feet. I made a mental note to buy a proper horse. See how this snotty beast liked that!

Ignoring the unicorn – which I was sure was still smirking at me – I went inside. Mazoga was out, which wasn't surprising, so I had time to check the chest at the foot of my bed. The Molag Stava was still there. I hefted the thing, black iron and blue-white welkynd housing deadly magicks. Jarol would love to see this all right.

I sat for a while and reflected on just how far and wide I had come. I certainly hadn't expected to travel the entire country to get into the Arcane University. Nor had I expected to become a knight, certainly not for just one day's work. Then again, I hadn't –

An hour later I was chuffed to find the unicorn waiting. For some reason I felt an urgency to head back to the Imperial City and I didn't know why. "Sorry," says I as I mount, "Things are coming to a head. I can feel it."

The unicorn must have agreed, as it almost immediately broke into a gallop and nearly threw me off!

We flew past beasts, past bandits, past Bravil – and close to Harcane Grove the unicorn finally slowed down to a slow walk, then stopped, ears pricked. A tiny light had appeared just ahead and off to the side of the road.

Carefully, I dismounted with as little noise as possible; bow in hand I approached the flame.

There was one figure bent over a white candle, bare back to me. It was a she, and she appeared to be trying to write something on a... a leaf? Anyway she sat up on her haunches – they were very nice haunches – and if it wasn't for her feathered hairdo giving her away I'd recognise that voice anywhere.

"May this flame of passion burrn within your hearrt," S'jirra sang,
Frrom me you will not parrt,
With harrm to none,
So mote it be – it is done!"

And she held the leaf in the flame until it caught.

"Sweet Dibella," she intoned, "Let Rra'jirra declarre himself to me trruly, I mean him no harrm and can contrribute to his life of sett – kchhttt!"

She immediately hunched over and put her fingers in her mouth.

I immediately rose and walked over to her. She looked around sharply and went all red when she saw who I was.

"Give me your hand," says I, and she just looks at me at first, then gingerly takes her hand out of her mouth. The flesh was a little pink, and some hair was scorched; it didn't really need my casting Convalescence at close range but I did anyway.

"Back home," says I, "you'd always know who was in love, because they'd buy a little pink candle."

And she just looks at me.

"And what they'd do," I go on, "is write their name, and that of their lover, in a circle, and while the candle burned down, they'd say:

"Our fate is sealed," and I gently kiss her hand.

"We are one," S'jirra starts to smile and pull close.

"So mote it be," and her other hand tugs on a wing and removes my helm.

Neither of us said much after that.

And I never got around, obviously, to telling her she didn't have to strip off to do all that other rubbish either.

Maybe her improvised love spell worked after all.

Let me catch my breath from choking with laughter.........


right- done.

Loved the part of the unicorn. S'jirra is some piece of work in your story too.
And his retelling of his adventures in pale-pass was priceless.


MORE!

I thought it was a Spriggan! - but S'Jirra! SPEW !!!!! ROFL !!!!!!!!! I sprayed coffee everywhere !!!!!!

Aww, S'jirra is soo cute!

This four thousand word offering was worth every laugh and guffaw and chuckle!

The Stomach, aka Tolgan.

The mages at the Bruma Guild.

Her Highness the Countess Narina of Bruma.

Ra'jirra's hangover and the unicorn making fun of him all the way down to Leyawiin.

S'jirra is just the icing on the cake! And the cake was very delicious! Hmm!

And a good description of the shade of the Akaviri commander, still at his post.

The scenes at Wawnet were a joy- though perhaps not to Ra’jirra’s head.

He senses something is afoot and it turns out to be aKhajiit casting a love spell!

Just one question- Is Gnoll Mountain grassy?

Heh, thanks guys. I could have broken this chapter into one revolving about Pale Pass and another short one where he finds S'jirra mangling three or four quickly Googled love spells, but I decided against that. Let's just say the morning is likely to be awkward for one or both of 'em [I claim fate - R.]

@treydog: No, Gnoll Mountain isn't grassy; it's the huge peak where you learn about the Udifrykte [sp?] Mother quest. I'm not even sure why it's called Gnoll Mountain since I've never seen any in game. [Good. - R.]

As for the other points:

1. I was influenced by Wells' Mrs Skinner from The Food of the Gods and assorted characters of Dickens, where a trait is exaggerated to the point it dominates their entire being.
2. Sure, Ra'jirra's a hayseed, but old Maro [for once - R.] taught him something useful there. [And it bloody hurt - R.]
3. This was less to do with being lecherous and more to do with modern dress design [And that's my story and I'm sticking with it - R.]
4. Fun fact: These days Ra'jirra can now tell the difference between ogres and trolls, unlike at Shadow's Rest Cave. [Shut up - R.]
   

Showing my age there- look up conspiracy theories in re: the JFK Assassination to get the reference.

Grassy... Gnoll... *smacks forehead* WHY DIDN'T I TWIG!

Still, you couldn't see the motorcade from up there anyway.

ROFL !!!

No, you find out about Uderfrykte Matron on dive rock (Horror of Dive Rock quest)
Ans I also distinctly remember trees on Gnoll Mountain. Sound like our favourite Khajiit mage needs to get his facts straight

Isn't Gnoll Mountain where you kill that big guy on that Dark Brotherhood quest? I know it is right around the corner from the Frostcraig Spire - (Wizard's Tower DLC)

I've checked my map, and I'm absolutely certain that the peak in question is Gnoll Mountain. It's in the right place.

However I'll admit I've evidently got my memories scrambled. I been to the camp up there, and I could have sworn there was a book about it near the fire.

In other news I tried running Ob' on this thing and just crashed out. Phooey. Let's try some settings twiddling...

The place with the book by the fire and a camp is Dive Rock (NNW of Cheydinhal) . Gnoll Mountain is just NE of Bruma.

On your game crashing - GAAAAH !!!! Bless your heart !!!

*

[I has new video card - 1GB of gorgeous sexy Radeon 5670. The specs-for-money ratio has been giving me nerdgasms. Making sure Ob' and FO3 has been giving me eyegasms. So have the first part of Ra'jirra's ongoing saga... now that he has been able to return to Bruma without getting killed.

If anyone can think of a better way to work this out, drop me a line.]

Chapter 18. Ra'jirra Makes Promises

I was woken by a unicorn's nose. I wasn't pleased with that, since I would have rather been woken by S'jirra's nose, among other parts, and glared at the beast in the pre-dawn light.

When the drake dropped I could have kissed that unicorn.

“S'jirra!” I shook her awake where she lay in the cup of my body, “Wake up! It's nearly dawn!”

She squirmed momentarily, then blinked at me in confusion. “Wha–?”

“S'jirra,” says I urgently, “You have to get dressed, it's nearly dawn, they'll be waking at the inn soon.”

She blinked at me some more, then reality registered. “Sweet Dibella, Marra and Zenitharr!” Out she squirmed from my arms (alas) and scrambled into her clothes. “Motherr will kill me! I mean, you! I mean... oh, hells.”

I reached out with the hand I wasn't pulling my greaves up with and stopped her.

“You can ride with me,” says I.

Which is the reason behind S'jirra returning to the Faregyl Inn on 25 Frost Fall in style, upon a unicorn, in the arms of a warlock adorned in Ayleid armament. Having the Molag Stava on my back didn't hurt either.

We were greeted at the door by Abhuki, who gave us a rather cool look.

“And where,” she asked quietly, “has my daughterr been?”

S'jirra tensed.

“Strrangely,” she went on, “I find myself lacking not only a daughterr, but also a candle, and a quill.”

S'jirra's ears were starting to redden and droop. I got the impression that the unicorn was enjoying our discomfort.

“And now she rreturrns with a warrlock she is morre than fond of,” and Abhuki steps forward and plucks a twig that had become tangled in S'jirra's hairdo. She twirls the twig and gazes thoughtfully at her, then me, ears down but for a different reason.

“Motherr, I–”

“Love charrms?” and Abhuki puts a wealth of contempt in those two words. S'jirra doesn't look at her, head down and twisting her arms.

Abhuki looks at her and then looks at me and I feel three foot tall. “You will be honourrable,” it wasn't a question. She knew.

And I had no choice. I didn't know if philandering would get me expelled from the Mage's Guild, or strip me of my knighthood, or both. But I was beginning to suspect that –

“Rra'jirra's name appearrs in the latest Black Horrse Courrierr,” relentless as a siege, “Mayhap it appearrs again...”

“It will do,” says I at last, “When the necromancer menace is no more.”

S'jirra stares at me, and Abhuki's brows and ears slam down.

“Then I will return,” says I before Abhuki can tear my throat out, “and I will take S'jirra as my wife.”

And she just looks at me, but at least her lip isn't curled now.

“S'jirra,” and I turn to her while fishing a ring out of my pocket, “I had made up my mind before now.” I went to one knee – yes, just like in bad romances – took her hand and gently slid my old ring of agility on her finger.

“With this ring,” says I, “I vow to marry thee, once my greater task is done.” Yes, the whole 'thee' business is like a bad romance again, but at least it defused Abhuki and better still it made S'jirra cry out with joy and throw herself at me.

After all, she'd not only seen, but accepted me at my worst, and also I had a reputation to uphold. Besides my parents would kill me if they found out their son was a rake.

I rose to my feet and almost at once fell back to my knees, clutching my head. We're still working on that form of communication. Just not very much.

“Rra'jirrra?” chorused Abhuki, S'jirra and an odd mixture of the two. “Your nose...” went on S'jirra, dabbing a finger on my honk and showing me a spot of blood.

“I've... I've been summoned, I think,” says I as I carefully stand up and turn to where two-and-a-half unicorns are merging together, “And I don't want them summoning me like that again.”

To be Continued once nerdgasms cease and he gets on with the writing

I like to ride the unicorn. It hates Martin and Jauffre and will attack them on sight - also hates the Countess of Leyawiin and her bodyguard, most Legion...

Makes for an interesting game !!

[Aand here's the second half of Chapter 18. I was going to name a certain name in the history lesson but Treydog might kill me.]

Chapter 18 (continued)

“Ra'jirra.” Traven looked worried. “Go to Bruma and find out why I've heard nothing from them for the past two days.”

“Sir?” Despite a nice refreshing trot, I was still not quite over the summons. My nose smarted and a pair of hedgehogs were trysting in back of my head.

“Normally Jeanne writes me daily.” Traven made a wry face. “Nothing of consequence usually, but I checked. The daily courier was riding as normal, and no, he hadn't received anything for me from the guildhall.” His face goes hard again. “Jeanne never misses a chance to write me. Get equipped and get to Bruma and find out what the hells is going on!”

It took me the rest of the day to ride up the road to Bruma. Personally I suspected that Volanaro and J'skar were playing silly buggers again by stealing Jeanne's mail before it reached the courier. It sounded like something those two would do, and wouldn't be too hard to sort out.

Better still, the crisp cool air of the Jerall Mountains might soothe my nose and cool the hedgehogs' ardour.



Little wisps of smoke were rising through the roof.

In a town of wooden, half-buried structures, that was bad. But I didn't know if the situation inside was under control or... what?

Inside the door was chaos and smoke. One of the guildies was slumped before a burning bookcase – Selenia Orania. A sound like a gargling cat alerted me and I dodged as a ghost launched unpleasantness my way. Then I dodged right back as a skeleton charged me. Molag Stava had me blessing those bloodthirsty sadistic Ayleids as I dropped my dear dwemer mace for the skelly's silver one.

“Watch yourself!” a woman shouted from where Jeanne's chambers were. I couldn't hear very well over the fire and through the wall. Someone was still alive!

Volanaro was on the stairs, most of his vitals smashed and frozen. Thank you for teaching me your special, I said to him and risked a peek into the living quarters.

Five seconds later I barrelled out of the guildhall with a spectral warrior in pursuit. Molag Stava's fire didn't even slow the horror down – but lightning and the good offices of the Bruma watch made short work of the dread thing. Pulling myself together I headed back to the hall where a spunky young guardswoman turned another skeleton into bones, its immense battle-axe crashing to the stoop.

“All right,” says she, “what's going on? What was that thing?”

“Necromancers,” says I, “they've attacked the guild. And it's on fire. Someone's still alive in there.”

“Fire!” the guard cried, “I'll rouse the watch, and the Fighter's Guild! We can't...” and away she runs.

Out came Molag Stava, the bane of the undead. Zombies don't like burning, nor do wraiths, and I stumbled through the choking smoke and out the other end. I hadn't seen J'skar, so maybe two were left alive.

I clambered up the stairs and almost ran into a woman I didn't recognise. Her wearing corpse-humping gear probably explained it.

“You're far too late,” and I see her teeth flash, “the guest of honour has already–”

Molag Stava works quite well on necromancers too.

I walked forward into Jeanne's chambers; I could see her lifeless body; a bell was ringing outside.

Then a closet exploded.

I had Molag Stava out and aimed before I recognised the dirty blue of mage's robes wrapped around J'skar. The young Khajiit scrambled to his feet and was about to unleash a spell before he recognised me.

“They... are they gone?” His eyes were huge with sheer terror and from the smell he'd had a thoroughly understandable accident. “I was too afraid. I just couldn't move...” well, he could move now, just like a bewildered, hysterical young Khajiit. “I could hear the screaming, but I just couldn't move!”

“J'skar!” calls I and I grab him and spin him to face me. “Who did this? That woman?” Pointing behind me at the roasted smoothskin.

“No...” his mind was staggering all over the place. “He killed them all. Just... slaughtered them.”

“Who did? WHO?” I almost screamed. I needed to know. I needed to know so I could kill. I needed to know so I could kill the honoured user.

“I... I saw his face,” screams J'skar, and I smell his bladder giving way again from the memory. “I saw the King of Worms!”

I think I went a little strange too, or maybe it was a billow of smoke. J'skar staggered and I propped him up.

“Hello!” Someone yelled from below, praise the Nine! “Anyone still alive?”

“YES!” yells I back, “BREAK DOWN THAT FARGNAXING BOOKCASE AND GET US OUT!”



The guildhall was a total loss. Jeanne, Selenia, Volanaro – they lay shrouded in the Chapel of Talos. The fire, once the Fighter's Guild had been extracted from their precious beds and beers, was well under control. J'skar, Primate Falvius told me, was mainly suffering from shock.

“It perhaps would be best if he was to stay here the night,” said that worthy priest, “as he has had a grievous encounter with evil, and it would be best to let the gentle presence of the Divines heal his soul.”



“What a pompous cloon!” Caminalda exclaims when I repeated that in the Council chambers ten hours later.

“Damn waste,” Traven says, “Falvius was a damn good sorceror, then he goes and gets himself all happy-clappy. Don't think I told you he taught Volanaro about Conjuration?”

No, he hadn't. J'skar just looked down at the table at the mention of his friend, his eyes only shining because of tears. His colour, to put it nicely, was terrible. The journey back to the Arcane University had been silent and awkward, and I knew I'd find tears staining my cape.

“Anyway,” Traven says, parking himself next to the young kit, “J'skar, I need you to tell me what you saw. So we know what to do to send these scum back to hell.”

“I couldn't believe my eyes,” J'skar said slowly, “I think the only reason I'm alive is because I was invisible... but even so, I think he saw me.” Makes sense, thinks I, life-detecting magics see through illusions as well as walls. I was smart enough to keep that thought to myself.

“We thought he was just some Altmer visiting, maybe after a spell or potion, then... He killed them, one by one.” J'skar stumbled and limped through what I'd seen: the appearance of powerful shades, the chaos, the desperate attempts at defence. “Volanaro was last, I think. He was trying to run away, but he didn't make it... The King of Worms stood over him, right before he died, and he...”

J'skar looked as though the surface of the council table was a portal into Oblivion. “It – it looked like he... he – he sucked out Volanaro's soul! There was a light... and his open mouth it – it went right in his – his horrible mouth...”

There's nothing nice about watching a grown man reduced to tears from horror. Jarol was looking at J'skar with actual concern, which either meant Traven had been talking with him or the seriousness of the situation was quite clear. Caminalda was listening raptly with an expression that I couldn't decipher. Then again she didn't like me, so maybe she needed one of Traven's little talks herself.

“J'skar.” Traven shook the weeping Khajiit gently, or as gently as you can when wearing daedric armour. “J'skar. Did... he... say anything?”

You think humans look bad when crying? Try having fur all over your face. J'skar lifted a matted, dull example up to meet the Arch-mage's concerned gaze.

“He said something about Echo Cave... and destroying the Mages Guild.” His eyes, already swimming in tears, dove away from the terrible memory. “Then he looked right at me, even though I was invisible, and... and just grinned!

“He knew I was there, he... left me alive for...” J'skar was beginning to shake again. “I – I can't – Please, don't make me go back there...”

Traven just looks at him with compassion, and then says to me, “Ra'jirra, will you please take J'skar here and make sure Polus gets him settled in?” Then to J'skar, “You'll be safe here lad, we won't be sending you back to Bruma.” Then to me, “Once he's settled in, Polus has a spell for you – Wizard. Then take some days off and recuperate. I think the area around Faregyl Inn is nice at this time of year.”

There was a small smirk on his mush, I'm certain!



“I've never seen a man more pathetically grateful than J'skar for a bed and a sleeping draught,” says I to Abhuki three days later. I'd arrived at the inn about midnight, after dropping thirty-odd nirnroot at Sinderion's. To say he was overjoyed was an understatement. To say I was overjoyed that all it would take was grubbing up another forty of the miserable and, frankly, pungent roots to make the ultimate strength Exploration Elixir or whatever it's called was an overstatement.

Abhuki just looked at me in dismay. “So many dead... Rra'jirrra, when will this all end? Does the Legion do nothing, see nothing? Therre is talk of horrrorrs in the old Lorrikh Village, and amazons up in Cahrrcoal Cave, and Rrobberrs Glen lives up to its name again!” Where? Oh, right, the cave east of here, just before the switchback down to Bravil.

I decided that telling her about the necromancers closer by in Pot Hole Cave wouldn't help her agitation.

“Things just haven't been right since the Emperor's illness,” says I sadly. Gods, that was a bad patch. Some loonies had started a riot in the Imperial City itself, claiming the heirs apparent were actually simulacra, and things had become so bad that back home the local Legion garrison had been prepared for recall to Cyrodiil.

Mercifully the Emperor had recovered, thanks to a daring young Legionnaire who'd brought a cure all the way from Morrowind, and the would-be usurpers nowadays rested in two or more pieces.

“But for now,” says I, pushing some drakes over the counter, “I intend staying for a night or three. You have a room free?”

And she looks at the drakes and then looks at me. “Perrhaps,” says she, eyeing me intently, “But I ask you firrst...”

ARGH !!!!! A cliffhanger !!!!! Will she ask him for... ARGH !!!! I love this chapter, you're back in Cyrodiil !!!

The “morning after” scene with Abhuki was brilliant- no surprise there. And good for the rogue to have a ring handy.

a

Now that is an image that sings! (Or stings?)

The destruction of the Bruma guild and the council afterward really capture the emotions and the uncertainty of the situation. Wonderfully descriptive.

The chaos that stalks Cyrodiil is also expertly conveyed by Abhuki’s catalog of worries. And an interesting cliffhanger-

[Oof! So much research, so much spinning of whole cloth, so much polishing of turds. But everyone knew this was coming, it was in Ra'jirra's personality. Therefore:]

Chapter 19. Ra'jirra Takes a New Title

On the morning of 28 Frost Fall at eight of the bells, we three set out to the Chapel in Bravil. I led, the long legs of the Steed meaning I had to wait for my bride and her mother to catch up every so often.

I already knew the answer to Abhuki's question. I'd known the answer ever since that morning a million years ago – hells, since that evening encounter. I'd been dead serious when I'd given S'jirra that ring as a promise of my engagement to her.

It was cowardice or cravenness that made me add the qualifier – that I'd marry only when the necromancer threat was gone. After all, the best way to kill a snake is to cut off the tail right behind the head, but this one we hadn't found the head of yet.

And will I or nil I, I'd been chosen as the knife. Constantly ending up thrown to the corpse-humpers was a mighty clue about that.

But 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.

It was better that I did the honourable thing, so our litter be born to a widow, knowing his father loved them even unborn; that my family did not become shamed should news of my raking reach them and their neighbours.

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 thanks to some corpse-humper's dumb luck.

And so the Faregyl Inn was closed and locked – the sign on the door citing family concerns – and away we went beneath overcast skies, that swordsman Alix something-or-other standing guard.

Both Abhuki and S'jirra were clad in their Sundas best, my bride looking utterly radiant. I was reminded of something old 'Rotten' Maro had once sermonised – how the Nine judged by what was in one's heart, not by what was on one's back. S'jirra may have been wearing a simple white blouse and brown skirt, but to me they were finer than the Emperor's robes.

I myself wore red. Why I had plumbed a necromancer's lair, on a whim, without my usual clobbering clobber I myself didn't understand; however in the back of my mind something suggested the events of Bruma may have driven me slightly mad.

I just hoped I wasn't still slightly mad today.

“Hail travellers!” a pilgrim called to us from the shrine to Tiber Septim past the Inn of Ill Omen and Worse Cuisine. “Where you be bound?”

“Bravil,” calls I, “I get married this day!”

By the time S'jirra and Abhuki reach us they find themselves surrounded by well-wishing pilgrims. It was all a bit much, and I seemed to have a lumpy throat, and so we finally extract our southbound selves from the northbound pilgrims and continue on.

And we run into a preoccupied Khajiit woman coming in the other direction. “Dro'Naharahe,” says she in a posh accent, “just getting my air, clearing my head before... heading back.” And she jerks her head Bravil-ward. Judging from the bags under her eyes and the flat grey tint to her fur, she needed it.

“We're going that way,” says I, “what's the road like?”

“If you hurry, you'll hit the switchback down to the... county gates, before the bandits wake up,” says she. “Me, I might wait for them to put me...” and she shakes her head and groans. “Sorry.”

And away she goes, shoulders hunched like she had a great load on her back. I would later learn that Dro'Naharahe was steward to Count Terentius, and that risking her neck every day was the only thing that kept her sane.

Let's be blunt. While Bravil will probably always be the jakes of Cyrodiil, at least Zul gro-Radagash has made attempts to clean the place up. Pretty two-fisted attempts, but sometimes desperate measures are needed.

And so the road bent east. I deliberately slowed my pace to keep in range of my bride-to-be and my imminent mother-in-law.

“Wolf!”

I saw the movement after the screams, off to the left, drew the Bow of Jolts I'd brought along with me, and took aim, backpedalling full speed. The wolf staggered as the arrow delivered pain, then charged for me again.

Muzzily, I remembered I had soul gems in my pack, flopping against the red silk I wore; I racked my brains and tore the animal's soul energy away in burning ice.

S'jirra and Abhuki rose from where they'd hidden behind a bush and approached the cold yet smoking animal, where I was already busy with my knife preparing to skin it.

“Hail the brrave herro,” Abhuki says drily, “Trruly this is a blessed day forr a marriage. Now, S'jirrra, you take those legs and I will take these...”

Skinning and butchering game is a lot easier with help, and while the meat didn't survive the noonday meal, it kept us going as we happily burped our way toward the switchback that dropped down to the lowlands of County Bravil.

The first bandit I saw mooching about, I raised a hand and gestured to the women; they got the point and sought concealment again. Despite being better armoured and armed with a battered mace, the scofflaw didn't really see me until my arrow shocked him into attention.

What?

After that, another jolting arrow, followed by a spell of killing, sent the Redguard crashing to the ground. While the ladies amused themselves looting the corpse, I advanced. I saw movement stage left – some fool waving a claymore around. I sent a jolt his way and he nearly dropped the thing.

Almost immediately I heard a snarl and instinctively ducked out of the way of a low-flying axe wielded by a Khajiit charging from stage right. Backpedalling frantically, I nocked and fired another arrow at the axeman while trying to think – and think fast!

We weren't dressed for beating up bandits, but we didn't have a choice; we weren't dressed for creeping through the forest undergrowth either. I enrobed myself in a shielding before flinging another arrow into the scowling bandit, skewering the swine in the sweetbreads to judge by his scream.

I invoked the killing spell again; again, I experienced a wave of fatigue – the bandit sank lifeless to the ground. But the other bandit was still racing for me with that dirty great claymore held high.

I was relieved that the same tactics worked on him too.

“My herro!” S'jirra purred, eyes aglow, as she and Abhuki approached the newly-deads. She looked at me, then pointed and cried out.

There was another bandit, and this Dunmer should have stuck to selling umbrellas instead of attempting to skewer Wizards with arrows.

As it was, her third arrow got me in the left shin. I snarled and loosed one of my own. Dunmer may be fireproof, but they ground the lightning like ordinary folks. The same tactics I'd used on her three friends did a nice number on her as well, and she went to the ground.

Our Champion of Cyrodiil might huff and snort, 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.

“What a fine dowrry!” S'jirra exclaimed, puffing slightly under the weight of some leather cuirasses and the weapons of the bandits, and rhapsodised about how much the loot would go for once they got to Bravil and what “we” could buy with the money.

I'll give you, the reader, one guess who got to exercise their Alteration knowledge on the rest of the way!

As it was, we did our shopping, discussed after-match functions, and finally got to the Chapel by three bells in the afternoon, and spoke to the Primate, an elderly Breton hight Chana Mona.

“A wedding?” Her lined face creased into a smile. “One moment, my children, let me gather my sisters.” And away she swished, while I took the chance to genuflect at the altar and ask a simple question.

Am I doing the right thing?

I wasn't certain, but to judge by the healing magics that caressed me like warm sunbeams, I was outvoted eleven and more to one.

But Chana Mona had returned with three other women in tow. 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. She didn't do much as I recall, but I vaguely noted she moved away to speak at one point with someone I didn't see.

Another was Marz, who bestowed blessing magicks on us. I think she also stopped me from fainting on a regular basis.

And there was a Dunmer with the finest speaking voice I've ever heard. She delivered, off the top of her head, an unbelievably lyrical sermon on the subject of marriage, something to do with making different mistakes, and a swirl of words that gave me the impression of a storm of flowers just before a great precipice.

I'd be more detailed but I was a bit preoccupied at the time with not either passing out again or screaming.

I remember a ring being taken off my finger; I remember putting a ring onto S'jirra's finger; I remember her hand placing a ring back on my finger.

I remember Primate Mona's voice smoothly blazing a trail through the vows that my own voice tripped and stumbled along.

I remember S'jirra's eyes positively glowing as she spoke her vows, as immense as the star-filled sky.

I remember the world coming back into coherence as the smiling Primate spoke, saying, “And with these vows, and with these rings, and with all the blessings of the Nine Divines, I pronounce you husband and wife–”

And S'jirra gave a cry that shook the roof and flung herself into my arms and it took me about five days to realise that if my wife was kissing me, who on earth was making all that hooting and hollering?

S'jirra got curious herself, and we both looked around to see the entire Mage's Guild had turned up sometime during the proceedings!

Ayarie stepped forward. “I came in earlier,” says she between grins, “and imagine my surprise when I saw you before the altar, and our living saint here explaining you were getting married!”

“She asked me not to tell you,” Olava said turning the colour of sunset on the Jeralls.

“And she asked me to keep silence,” Abhuki was grinning mischievously.

“Which I think hass been broken,” Kud-Ei attempts to frown at her guild, who just beam right back at her. “May I offer the newlywedss the hosspitality of the Mage'ss Guild?”

And we look at each other, and decide, why not?

I remember a swirl of well-wishers, someone producing a lute and another a recorder, and was it Ita who used a barrel-lid for a drum? The guild was decidedly lighter by several bottles of wine the following morning, and Henantier of all people knocked himself out cooking up a storm, and he and Carandial and I near wore our legs out since all the ladies insisted on taking the floor with us before S'jirra gave me a look – one that Kud-Ei noticed.

“Pleasse,” says she, “usse my room at the top of the sstairss tonight,” and she looks at Henantier. Ohohoho! – that was the general consensus of not just me, but apparently most of the other guildies who'd overheard her – and of S'jirra, who promised me wickedness in the gleam in her eyes.

I'd wondered why there were two beds in Henantier's house.

“Ladiess,” Kud-Ei spoke with firmness, “the hour iss getting late, and we are all tired after the eventss of thiss happy day. Wizard Ra'jirra and his family will sstay here tonight, and–”

“You'll be with Henantier again right?” Ayalie and her chin were a bit over the limit.

Kud-Ei just gave her a look, then laughed. “I guess you all already know then,” says she ruefully, “but don't you dare try to drag us to the altar!”

The idea was considered uproarious, and the laughter of the guildmates lifted S'jirra and me – and another bottle of Surilie Brothers' finest – up the stairs to our room for the night.

I closed the door behind us and looked at my wife and kissed her long and hard. As I did, I thought I heard something outside.

As I was busy kissing my wife and she was giving me the tongue, I lifted a hand and cast Watchfulness. Yep – there were at least three silhouettes crouched outside the door, and two more downstairs – one was probably Abhuki.

I pulled the key out and locked the door, then said loudly, “No giggling!” as S'jirra hauled me towards the bed in the corner with one hand and attempted to tear my clothes off with the other.

“Who carres if they do?” she breathed in my ear as we – well, you know.

If you don't, ask your mum.

Having never been married myself, I'll leave the assessment of accuracy of the ceremony up to others who have been there, but I will say that I enjoyed it very much!

The Mages Guild being there was wonderful, as well as their methods of celebration!

The last two sentences were perfect!

I love this chapter !!!! The inner dialogue in the first 6 or so paragraphs was huge, rich - an insight into Ra'jirra I haven't seen before, Awesome !!!

The image in my mind of the wedding party trooping in their finest clothing - then skinning the beast on the way to the chapel - ROFL !!!! I loved it !!!!

Awesome Write - as always !!!!!!

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


QFT!



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.

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



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.

[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

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 !!!!

@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 !!!

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 !!!!

[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.

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