Yeah, that's really a problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suggestions on a PM please.

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

Chapter 21: Ra'jirra Seeks Council(lors)

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

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

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

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

Not at all, I hoped.

“You can find Councillors Jarol and Caminalda.”

Bugger.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wife...”

“Wife's name was?”

“S'jirra.”

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

He was only the first to ask that.

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

And thus it was that I made a dremora laugh.

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

“He will be avenged.” And I meant it.

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



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

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

“No,” is my intelligent response.

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

I say nothing.

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

Yep, I could agree with that.

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

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

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

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

“Remember Kalthar.”



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Caranya?” calls I, “you okay?”

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

What in the name of the Nine?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I swung for poor Jeanne.

I swung for Mucianus.

I swung for Volanaro.

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Raminus...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ROFL !!!!


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

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

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

Yep, That’s a wedding ceremony.

Thanks Grits, much appreciated.

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

Chapter 22: Something In the Water

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she leave the guild or something?”

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

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

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

“Dzonot cave eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

S'jirra just smiled and snuggled closer.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

“Know you this spell?”

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

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

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

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

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

Well I thought it was a good answer.

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

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

“Why?”

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

“How does the arrrow strike its tarrget?”

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

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

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

And we walk on until the light blinds me.

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

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

“Betterr,” and I feel deflated.

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

Ra'jirra's tongue-in-cheek narrative continues to make me smile and even laugh.

So's his 'breaking the fourth wall' - speaking directly to the reader in an aside. It's a tough nut to crack, and I think you're doing it quite well.

And I loved Abhuki's explanation of Alteration. I never thought of it that way. Thanks for a little education wrapped up in humor hidden inside satire!

Fun fact: This is actually a replay from my last full save. Before I wrote this, I had just realised that I was completely underprepared for what waited in Silorn. Spectral warriors and wolves are only vulnerable to shock, damnit. And thanks to OOO, there's always two or three as well as the necros.

Hmm. Maybe it's time to pay a visit to Bruma again...

I have to look that up, I have heard a lot of others talking about it on their game! (OOO)

@mALX: Brace yourself. It's a real challenge.

Anyhow, another expository chapter, although I'm leaving a few things out. I have a blind spot in Bruma the exact size and shape of the Jerrall View.



Chapter 23: Goosey Jossip

There were three horses parked up outside the inn and we paused outside the door. Abhuki had got into the habit of assessing what was going on inside before entering, apparently.

Fortunately the patrons were behaving themselves and lightly floured S'jirra was happily loading a large basket with fragrant loaves. “No tasting,” says she to me, “these arre only half-baked.”

Sod.

“Glathiel!” Abhuki smiles at the seated Bosmer whose nose is on the level with the counter and whose hair rises a foot above it.. “So good to see you again. And how is Salmo?”

“Busy,” says he, “And he'll be looking forward to finishing these up. Honestly,” and he looks sly at my wife, “can't you put him out of his misery and give him the recipe?”

“And let poor S'jirrra's secrret out?” My wife just laughs and shakes her head. “And will grreedy Salmo parrt with his rrecipe for his sweetrrolls? I think we know the answerr to both those questions.”

“What news anyway?” I was eyeing the sweetroll basket.

“Well, I'm just been into Bravil. You know Varon Vamori? The poet?”

“Didn't he and Ardaline break up?”

“It wasn't so much a break-up as a cataclysm, or so I heard. I made the mistake of talking to him over dinner last night, and he's composed an... um... about it.”

And the Bosmer stands up and assumes a dramatic pose.

“It'll live on in my nightmares,” and away he goes:

Ohhhhhh

It was the Third of Sun's Dusk in Third Era Four-Three-Three,
And a humble lad did pay court to the lovely Ardaline.
“My love! O fairest alchemist! Would you choose to marry me?”
But her lowered brows and clenching fists proved this was not to be.

“Oh for the love of the Gods,” my face sinks into my palm.

“You tom-fool of an ashskin!” fair Ardaline did rage,
“Did you not play a part in the loss of my staff of mage?
And thrust me into trouble dire that could have last an age?
I hope we understand each other and read from the same page.”

“O Ardaline!” did cry the lad, “I know I hurt you hard,
But let me try to make amends, and work to earn your pard
-on,
For I can think of none but you, and your pain is shared by this bard.”
“Be off with you!” the lady cried, “before on you I call the guard.”

I could feel my eye twitching. No, make that convulsing. Glathiel noticed and stopped. “I think you've suffered enough. I flogged some alchemy stuff at the guildhall this morning, and there were these pieces of broken glass and smelly stains everywhere.”

“Which is why I'm here,” says a familiar voice, and I haul my eyes off the sweetrolls far enough to spot a rattled Ayalie. “Last I saw of Ardaline, she was scrubbing the floors and getting a tongue-lashing from Kud-Ei. Oh! Did you hear she and Henantier finally tied the knot?”

“Yeah, someone told me about it in the Imperial City,” says I. “How long have those two been an item?”
“Long as a piece of string,” fair enough.

“I also heard,” I couldn't resist, “that the Arch-Mage was seen at the Imperial prison. I think we've found a way to get one over the corpse-humpers.”

The Altmer shuddered. “I've heard stories about Traven's interrogation techniques. But if it means dealing to the necromancers... is it true? They're saying Mannimarco's returned?”

“We're assuming he has. The Bruma guild was bowled by more than just a pack of morons with summoned ghosties and ghoulies. There were spectral warriors in there as well, and that takes more than mortal conjuration.” I looked around grimly. “If any of you run across what look like ghostly warriors freezing the very air about them, hit the swine with shock magicks – they're so cold fire just makes them angry. If you can't – run like Molag Bal's in love with you.”

“Maybe that explains it,” Glathiel says suddenly, “I met a Black Horseman on the road. Apparently the Count of Skingrad shipped a prisoner off to the Big Jug a few days ago – under heavy guard.”

“Big Jug?”

“Ah – I'm told that it's, um, thieves' term for the Imperial City Prison. They say 'in jug' if you get jailed, you see. But the King of Worms?”

“We don't know if it's true! Could be some smart fart using the name, but we're assuming not. Which means, once Traven pays a visit,” and I smile evilly, “they'll wish they were never born.”

“If there's enough of them left to wish with,” Ayalie says also grinning evilly.

“Well. If that's the opinion of two members of the Mage's Guild,” says Glathiel, “then it must be true.”

And I have a thought. “Hey, is Glarthir still acting strange?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I've heard he's been heading off to the chapel every night around midnight, but he goes around the back instead of going in. Maybe that's where Sheogorath talks to him.”

Yep. Glarthir was crazy. I suddenly realised he must have been doing this for months, waiting for me. Well, he could hang out behind the chapel for the rest of his life for all I cared. I had bigger fish to fry.

“What's happening in Kvatch?”

“I think it's plague,” says Glathiel, “it's the only explanation that makes sense. I had to continue to the Gottshaw Inn to find a bed. While I was there, I met a man who tells me that Altmer wizards in the Summerset Isles are leading some sort of trade boycott of magical things.” He shrugs. “I can't remember what of, probably imported potions and such.”

“Sometimes my kinfolk shame me,” Ayalie groans. “Heard anything about these rangers out of Valenwood?”

“Heard? I've seen them! They were fighting a group of heavily armoured warriors southwest of Skingrad, in an Ayleid ruin. I saw the warriors first, and as soon as the rangers popped up, it was all on!”

“As long as they stay that side of Skingrad they're fine with me,” growls I. “Did you talk with those rangers?”

Glathiel grimaces. “I hailed one. All he said was, 'This is not for you.' As he had an arrow on me, I, ah, took him at his word.”

Wise fellow.

“It feels like the carrrion crrows arre cirrcling,” S'jirra says suddenly. “What is going wrrong with the worrld?”

So I go over and embrace her. She sighs and relaxes into me and I can't help thinking that even dusted with potato flour she smells nice.

“I'll keep you safe,” I promised, and I promise still, and woe betide the silly bugger who tries to make me break it.



“I wonderr if Trraven has asked Jantus Brrolus,” Abhuki wondered over dinner.

“Brolus? As in the ones who finished off that –?” Sometimes it's good to stop while you're ahead.

“The same,” Abhuki nodded, “She was a fine illusionist. Herr parralysis spells stopped that bearr in its trracks, and herr night-eye was almost as good as Ahnissi's gift.”

I had a think. I knew I desperately needed to get my Illusion schooling up to speed, and maybe Mrs Brolus would be amenable. Not only that, but I could test the waters before nominating her to Traven.

“Where would they be now though?” Adventurers tend to move around a lot.

“I rrememberr they talked of a quiet life in the norrth, wherre things arre coolerr.” And she frowns. “Strrange, I would think Imperrials arre used to the warrmth herre, but they said it was getting too hot!”

“You arre not leaving again?” cries S'jirra.

“Not until tomorrow,” says I, “but I promise you, my love: I won't go playing with necromancers.”

I subsequently ducked a low-flying baked potato.



The following morning, I rousted the unicorn from Harcane Grove and set off northward in the company of a Legionnaire and a brace of pilgrims who were awed by the figure I cut in burgundy and purple, riding a creature out of myth. Eventually I arrived in Bruma and handed the reins to an ostler at Wild Eye stables.

“You wait here,” says I to the unicorn, “Where there's plenty of feed and a warm stall for you.”

The unicorn just looked disdainful.

“You're that fellow from the Mage's Guild, aren't you?” said a guardsman on gate duty, “the one who raised the alarm about the guild burning.”

“I am,” says I, looking at the Mage's Guild. It was clearly untouched since that dreadful night, timbers blackened and scorched. “Hasn't anything been done to repair it?”

“Not a damned thing. Countess Carvain won't lift a finger until she knows whoever destroyed the guild is dealt with, because if we did, what if they came back? And what if they decided the Countess was to blame?”

Oh for the love of... wonderful. No more Bruma guild until you finish your Mannimarco. Damn it.

“Anyway, I wanted to see Jantus Brolus. Do you know –”

“The illusionist? Her and Istrius live around the other side of the chapel. Right next to Bradon's house.” And he shakes his head. “Bradon Lirrian, a vampire. Who would've known?”

It's hard to believe, but I got lost in the stews behind the chapel. If it wasn't for a hard-faced Nord I'd have been wandering in circles until I got waylaid.

“Should've brought my bow or something,” I grouse, “could've shot arrows in houses as I went along as trail markers.”

“You an archer then?” and her face softens a bit. “Didn't think spell-slingers used weapons.”

“Well this one does,” says I, “and it's saved my life countless times. Besides, bows don't light up and give you away.”

That lightened her up a bit more, and after a jingle of the purse she led me to the butts and taught me a couple of tricks. Ten septims and forty drakes later she led me to the Brolus household. They were out. Sod.

I wandered into Olav's Tap and Tack, where I saw a balding Imperial man peering doubtfully at what smelled like undercooked wolf meat with a side of baked potato. “Summat wrong wi' yer meal?” That must be Olav scowling down at him. “Mebbe I should go get t' Emp'ror's chef?”

“Just thought it was a bit pink that's all,” says he a bit quickly, “but it's just juicy.”

Olav just grunted. “Iffn yer got any ot'er concerns,” says he, “keep'm t' yerself.” And away he goes to annoy another customer.

“Charming fellow,” says I as I approach the man, “did he teach Maulhand how to cook?”

“What?” and he peers at me. “He's usually better,” he adds quickly, “but recently he's been in a state after Bradon was put down. I can't get over it, having a vampire for a neighbour!”

“Neighbour?” says I, “you must be Istrius Brolus.” and I sit down and offer my hand. “Ra'jirra, husband to S'jirra – you might know her mother, Abhuki.”

“Abuhki of Faregyl Inn?” Istrius looks at me surprised and absently chews on a chunk of wolf. “I haven't seen her in years. And I do remember little S'jirra – so she's a married woman now, eh?”

“Yep – I tell you, it was a whirlwind romance!” Putting it mildly.

He just chuckles and slices off another piece of meat. “She always was the impetuous one. Did I tell you she kept saying how she was going to run away with us? And this from a wee kitten only five!”

And we have a good laugh at that. It certainly explains where our son got it from.

“Look,” says he, “you should come have dinner with us tonight. Jantus will love to meet you and learn what's become of little S'jirra.” And he looks down at his surprisingly empty plate. “Well, no rest for the wicked.” And off he goes.

“Good riddance to him,” and I realise Olav's at my side, “grumbling about good plain food... What'll it be stranger?”

“You knew Bradon Lirrian then?” asks I.

“I did,” says Olav grimly, “and he had us all completely fooled. And if someone like Bradon could fool me like that – who the hells else am I wrong about?”

“Well, you can't suspect everybody,” says I getting up, “it ruins the appetite.”

Rule number one of merchanting, any merchanting: Never keep your temper in the same pocket as your purse. You, dear reader, are welcome.



“Much better than Olav's,” says I around a belly full of aromatic wolf chunks, mixed with chopped carrots and onions and served on a bed of rice. Jantus Brolus was a fine cook and needed no illusions to improve her food.

Istrius had been waiting outside his house for me, which only made my getting lost more humiliating. All I'd had to do was cut across the front of the chapel and I'd be almost there!

I checked into the guildhall, but all that was there was detritus, smoke and ash. Nobody had done a damn thing, like the guard had said. It was a disgrace, both to the guild and to the cravenness of Countess Carvain.

However, the Broluses weren't interested in that; they were instead interested in S'jirra, and for that matter myself, and what I'd been doing. The story of how I'd met S'jirra in the first place raised laughs, and then recounting the third time we met, even while heavily censored, raised eyebrows.

“Moves a bit fast doesn't she?” Jantus says at last, “But then she always had very definite ideas about things.”

“Let's just say she didn't leave me much choice,” says I, carefully being vague about the she in question. “Anyway, Abhuki got a letter from the Mage's Guild yesterday. Would you believe they wanted her to rejoin and man the guild up here?”

“Abhuki?” Both of them stared at me. “Well, that explains it,” Istrius says more to his wife than me, “that shielding spell she laid on me isn't the sort of thing most folks go paying for. Or could cast for that matter.”

Jantus nods. “And casting on others is more difficult. Oh yes, my husband said you wanted to speak to me about the Illusionary arts?”

“That I do,” says I, “but before we do, just want to know: would you be interested in –”

“You're recruiting for the guild?” and Jantus frowns at me.

“Well, no,” says I, “I'm just asking if you'd be interested. If not, I won't even raise your name.”

And she relaxes. “I'm just good with that school. Mostly basic stuff. But it's always useful to go over the basics now and again.” And she rubs forefinger and thumb together. I understand the gesture at once.

“So you'd consider it?” And I reach for my purse and study the contents.

“And end up with a bunch of old airheads bossing me around? Besides, we're retired, our own people and we like it that way.”

Well, I'd tried. “Fine then,” says I, starting to count out drakes, “I won't tell Traven. But about the Illusionary arts...”

“What spells do you know?”

“Starlight,” says I, “I learned it ages ago... sort of by accident.”

And I invoke it at her prompting. The dim interior of their simple home was picked out in slightly greenish light. “Is everything lit up?” asks she, shading her eyes as she looks at me.

Huh? Thinks I, and “Yes,” says I.

“Wrong.” says she with a smug little smile, “the only light in here is from the fireplace and the candles.”

“There's no light in the world, you're saying,” says I slowly, “that means it's not my body, it's my mind that's being affected. But if that's so... is everything lit up to you?”

“My eyes can deceive me,” says she, “I don't trust them.”

“Illusion... affects minds, then,” says I. Istrius rises from his chair and collects up the plates.

“There may be no extra light here,” says he, “but I'm going to pretend there is since it's useful.”

“So it's affecting not just my mind,” says I, “it's affecting everyone else's around me.” I frown. “You know that feeling when you're being watched? Is that like my Starlight here?”

“If it is,” Jantus replied, “that means...?”

“Minds are connected,” says I suddenly. It made sense. The tales of mind-reading Telepath people. The queer coincidence when you think of someone and then said someone walks through your door. The way you can feel a threatening presence, eyes boring into your back. “Illusion is about altering your idea of reality – but it sort of overflows into other people's realities as well!”

“You're getting the general idea,” Jantus nods just as Starlight goes out. “What we perceive as reality is a trick of the mind. But since most everyone sees the same thing, like this table here as a table, it takes a sizable effort of will to change what people see. Or don't see. I take it you're wishing to vanish in a pinch?”

“I think I might need to real soon.”

“Well... I can't really teach you much more than that. On the other hand, I know of some books that touch on the mysteries of Illusion. Ever read volume three of The Wolf Queen?”

I couldn't remember. “Oh well. Another is the first book of the Palla series; I used to have it but then we hit lean times and I had to sell it. Book four of The Mystery of Talara is supposed to have some pointers in it too – that's what Hil the Tall told me.”

“Hil the Who?”

“Hil the Tall – he's part of the Cheydinhal chapel crowd. He knows a few things about illusions too.”

I nod and push a stack of coins Jantus' way. “If I can cobble up an excuse to visit him, I will,” says I, “but that's a big if. S'jirra doesn't like me going away.”

Both the Broluses chuckled at that. “Like we said!” cries Istrius, “she's got very definite ideas about how things should be!”

And on that note we parted and went our ways.



The following morning I emerged from the Jerrall View Inn and left for Wild Eye Stables, where a slightly bitten stable-lad was emerging from the stalls.

“You're takin' the unicorn away then!” says he, “I thought it was a wonder at first, but now all I can think is good riddance.”

“He's pining for his grove,” says I, “and we're off that way.”

A jubilant whinny came from the unicorn's direction.



“So that's what's happening in Bruma,” says I, “everyone's all agog over this Lirrian person being a vampire, and nothing's been done to clean up the guildhall. Oh, and Istrius and Jantus were delighted to hear of your marriage,” I finish, looking at my wife seated next to me, one hand around my waist and the other tackling dinner.

“So they did rretirre therre,” says she softly, “Maybe one day Rra'jirra will take his family visiting?”

I had a vision of the interior of the Brolus house with S'jirra and Jantus talking, me and Istrius chinwagging, and a little bundle of joy haring all over the place. It was actually quite an appealing thought – until J'dargo was two.

As it was, S'jirra's effective godparents had to make do with letters for another three or so years until the boy learned to control his assorted parts. You know: arms, legs, mouth, speed, sphincters, violent impulses, stuff like that.

But that's neither here nor there, and right now's a good time to skip over several days of nothing very much. They were pleasant, peaceful days.

And I would need them. Oh, gods, I would need them.

Ah, don't tell me climate warming is affecting Tamriel too?? Where is all their gas coming from? The Oblivion Gates?



Only three years? My three-legged barn cat is already six and a half years old and he is still like that!

Yes, but we're talking sentient, tool-using felidae here. Ra'jirra has all the tools of Imperial discipline at his disposal - let's just say J'dargo's bum near glowed in the dark at times.

I still spew every time I read "corpse-humpers," Lol. I see some foreshadowing in this chapter, so glad you had S'Jirra picking up on it, the feline ability to sense change in the air - Great Chapter !!!

[Been a long time. Had writer's block. Got the Second Life DJ bug. OK, filler chapter.]

Chapter 24: Ra'jirra Attends a Council Meeting

About a week later I was summoned to a Council meeting. There I met the other newly selected members, before Traven plunged us into one of the least pleasant tasks I had ever had to do for him.

You think your lord has too much on his plate? Traven's was overflowing. There were issues involving who was going to bore and/or teach the students about what for the next semester; issues involving disciplinary matters, in which I remained mute; and a whole raft of other stuff I would come to know all too well.

There's some folks who find all this fiddlework relaxing after an adventure, but I don't. At least you know where you are in some cave or ruin and problems are straightforward.

Anyway, let me introduce my fellow councillors. There's Raminus of course, not to happy but at least he has a head instead of a cabbage on his shoulders.

The exploding doublet encases – just – one Heraclitus Vonen, a grape and Imperial cross. He's well known for his work in something-or-other, and better known for exploding.

The lady in unflattering scarlet is Antonia Otranto, and she looks almost as pale as a vampire. She's a sorcerer of some note, and the centre of all sorts of alarming rumours.

“Right then,” Traven kicked off, “we've got a lot of little things to get rid of before we get on to the corpse-humpers, so let's knock 'em on the head first. Any objections?”

Nope.

“Right: Skingrad guild. There's been a number of complaints, especially from the ladies, regarding bedding arrangements. Apparently they lack a spare bed, so visitors have to either go somewhere else or share.”

“And now Erthor's back,” says I, “that means there's no room at the guild. I'm sure the local innkeeps will give thanks, but it's not a good look.”

“So?” Vonen looked down a bulbous bit at me. Two holes suggested it was a nose or home to fruit flies.

“So,” retorts I, “it makes a mockery of the Guild's pledge to provide a free bed in all the guildhalls. You might like to re-read the charter sometime?”

And he begins to sputter and steam a bit, before Antonia looks down her nose at him. “That is indeed listed as a benefit of membership, Master Vonen,” says she, sending bugs made of ice down my spine. “We can hardly allow guildmates reason to criticise their guild, now can we?”

The coming explosion was averted with a sound like sat-on bog beacon. (When using bog beacon, always cut off the stem at ground level to use as a handle. Make a cut on the top of the cap, holding the stem so it's pointing away from your face. Aim it into the pestle – and always work outside or with open windows. Caps should be slightly soft to the touch – if it's hard it's overripe and will stink out your pack when it bursts. Need I tell you one of the most popular pranks around?)

“Well, buy another bed,” is my intelligent suggestion. “Where's the nearest furniture maker?”

“Kvatch,” is Heraclitus' irritable response, “but as you know, they're isolated for plague.”

“Well, what about shipping one in from here or Chorrol or something?”

“Do you have any idea what the costs of cartage are? We'd be lucky if the damn thing wasn't used for firewood by bandits! Why, my last shipment of Tam– ah, alchemical supplies cost almost double what it was six months ago!”

He was going to go on, but Traven just looked at him until he shut up. “Maybe do less with more?” says he mildly, but he made an elbow-bending gesture we all understood.

Heraclitus just subsided with another squashed-bog-beacon noise.

“Ra'jirra, are you moving that we purchase another bed for the Skingrad guildhall?” asks Traven.

“Yes sir,” says I.

“Who will second that?”

“I will,” says Antonia.

And the motion was carried. Female guildies would now sleep easier and cheaper if they were visiting Skingrad now – well, when the bed was finished and set up anyway.

“Now then, the Bruma guildhall,” Traven rolled along like a siege engine, “how are we for potential staff?”
And he looks at me.

“I presented your letter to Abhuki,” says I to him, “but she says no. Oh – I also followed up a lead to Jantus Brolus, she's a dab hand in Illusion magicks, but she said the last thing she needed was 'a bunch of old airheads bossing me around'.”

Traven snorted with amusement, Vonen sat on bog beacon again, and Antonia laughed, head back and revealing mercifully ordinary teeth.

And so we spent an hour imagining who could be sent to Bruma once Countess Carvain would let us set up shop again. “It's all bloody academic until Mannimarco is dealt with,” Traven growled at some point, “but it's always good to have a plan.”



“What the bloody hell do all those scholars do all day anyway?” I burst out at one point.

Instant silence. “What do you mean?” Traven asks.

“Right. A couple times in the past I've heard the apprentices grousing about endless lectures on doomstones. In fact, some have said they learned more at the other guildhalls than here. Whenever the scholars talk to each other, I swear it's all 'I was right' or 'You were right' but never anything concrete!”

And Traven looks at me with a faint smile on his face. “There's an old saying. 'Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.'”

“But why are we subjecting apprentices to those useless lidgies?”

Traven is still smiling faintly.

I've learned why, by the way. Those that can't teach those that can't. Those that can get posted to the guildhalls. The only problem is that this results, generally, in generations of new magi without any real hands-on experience or common sense, just endless theory. Some of whom end up dead, or turning into Ancotar, or going bad, or, sometimes, turning out all right since they took the time and had the curiosity and intelligence to educate themselves.

But that's too scatter-shot for my liking. Once the new curriculum is completed, well, the screams will probably be heard clear to Mournhold.



All through this Traven had gradually started to sport a grin like the cat that ate the songbird – you could almost see a cloud of feathers surrounding him.

“Finally,” he's smiling evilly, “we get round to our number one problem. I've been chatting with a few people, and Count Hassildor's provided some useful information as well.”

I suspected Traven's 'chats' had involved more red-hot pokers than tea and tiny cakes. Actually, I hoped so. Everyone else seemed to agree with me.

“I take it we've got the drop on them, Arch-Mage?” Vonus asks.

“Definitely. They've been rather busy making black soul gems, in fact one or two got rather caught up in their work. So... we asked them why.”

I had the vivid image of Traven asking some hapless corpse-humper: “Now, one poker or two?” But I kept that to myself.

“They've been working towards making a unique black soul gem, hiding out in Silorn.”

“The Ayleid ruin south of Skingrad?” I butted in. “I've been there months ago, but it was sealed up. I take it I'm to retrieve it?”

“You're quick, Master Wizard,” says Traven, “but you shouldn't have to risk your neck this time. A contingent of battlemages has been sent to the site. I would like you to oversee their actions on my behalf.” And he grimaces. “Don't worry, these chaps are more skilled than the idiots we sent to Nenyond Twyll. Besides, we know now how tenacious the scum are in a fight. But your job is to get that gem. Understand?”

I understand.

“Right. There's something else. A little bird tells me that the head of operations is one Falcar.”

My ears went flat. Vonus growled, and I spotted Otranto flexing her fingers like claws out the corner of my eye. Word of Falcar's treachery had evidently got around.

“I know. If you want to kill him, fine. After you get that gem. Because whatever that gem's for –” and he gets in my face – “Us having it will spike Mannimarco's wheel hard.”

“I'll get my gear then,” says I, “and be off.”

And Julian asks Why in 'blivion did this not get done until after she visited the place, damn it! Actually, the language she used was far more befitting an old DI - I had to clean it up a bit to make it PG 13. You know how it goes.

Loved it all! Especially your description of Traven as the meeting ground on:

who was going to bore and/or teach the students
Now that is higher education!

issues involving disciplinary matters
Involving a certain snow white khajiit no doubt!

I loved the bit about the bog beacon! Remind me to steal that for the TF!

Don't worry, these chaps are more skilled than the idiots we sent to Nenyond Twyll
No they are not...

ROFL !!! You're Baaaack !!! WOOOOT !!!! Awesome Chapter !!!!

Antonia Otranto is a recurring character I've previously written fanfic about before. She's not very nice.

Originally she was a Dunmer orphan who was adopted by the Breton Otranto family and inducted into their worship of the One. Unfortunately she ended up slaying the entire family and a cross-section of servants before being captured and sent to the Lady of Merciful Repentance prison.

Then some idiot decided she was perfect to fulfil the Nerevarine prophecies, but instead she -- well, my game fell over and died.

I tried again, with a different rollout, but by now I'd had a gutsful of Morrowind.

The third time she was an ill-favoured Breton in jug for a case of mistaken identity (if you do yourself up in the raiment of a bandit, folks think you're one!) However she couldn't manage to keep Martin alive on the final lap so her go at Champion of Cyrodiil came to an end.

Now she's a bit part actor. Probably Breton again, but creepy in a stereotypical way.

ROFL !!! Oh, Martin died so many times in the Battle for Bruma in my game - I saw the words "All hope is lost" till I could have choked Martin with my bare hands - what a mess !!! Finally did make it through though, lol.

What a fun Council meeting. Very entertaining as it wound its way toward dealing with the necrodudes at Silorn.

[Sorry about the delay. I've been fixated on FNV and one or two other things, and also I've been pretty much stymied by the difficulty in Silorn. It's taken several goes and I only today finally managed to chase Falcar to ground. So a short chapter.]

Chapter 25: The Silorn Operation

I wasn't a pretty sight when Traven finally got out of bed on Loredas – 10 Sun's Dusk, to be accurate. I'd ridden hard from Silorn, my armour was still dinged and dented, my greaves were shattered, and to be brutally honest, so was I.

“Well? What happened at Silorn?” asks he.

“It went tits-up from the start,” says I disgustedly.



“Traven sent you?” Thalfin was not pleased. “We're still going to be outnumbered, I'm afraid. Follow me. I'll show you.”

So while the other two battlemagi waited, Thalfin led me towards the entrance to Silorn. Unfortunately, as he rounded a corner, he nearly ran into a corpse-humper who'd snuck off to take a crap. The guy managed to let out a yell before Thalfin and I recovered from our surprise and silenced him.

“Damn it!” he cried as the battle got underway, “Falcar's getting away! Stop him!”

Sure enough, I saw a familiar Altmer charge up the steps and disappear down into the bowels of the ruin. It was up to me, apparently, and in I went!

There's not much to report, except that some of the corpse-humpers and their little spectral friends are still there, no doubt. Unfortunately the lidgies tended to clump together in little groups of four or more, making careful sniping next to impossible. At one point I saw what must have been Falcar dash across a bridge, before gates crashed shut, but as I was racing around dodging summons after a trio of his mates, I didn't stop to ask. So, naturally, I ended up having to take the scenic route through the damn place to open Falcar's route again.

On the other hand, I had carefully selected as many shock-inflicting weapons as I could tote, and mixed up several shock damage potions, and kept the raging atronach as close to the front of my mind as I could. The result was several very surprised and soon very dead necromancers and, a little later than I liked, dead spectral warriors and wolves.

I like shock damage. Shock is nice. Done to other people.

When I finally reached Falcar, the treacherous criso had his fan club with him. By this time, all of his spectral friends had been lured away and dealt to – while almost dealing to me – and for some time I paused, looking over the Bow of Jolts, waiting for the chance to drop one of the swine without alerting them all.

Eventually I gave up and just skewered the Keeper of the Dead in the group.

This tactic was then followed up by charging in like a Nord, waving a Mace of Jolts and guess who I ran into!

At first Falcar was happy to just hang back and shout encouragement, but as his mates weren't up to the task, he pulled out his own weapon and said something about getting a job done properly. I didn't give a damn and just kept laying into him and anything else in range with my mace hand and chugging health potions with the other. Honestly, Traven would have had a fit if he'd seen it.

So I didn't mention it.



“So the murdering spurius' been dealt with,” says he at last, “good. So did you get that gem of theirs?”

I didn't reply, I just extracted the huge blackened misshapen gemstone from my pack and handed it over. The damnable thing looked like several soul gems had somehow been melted together in the shape of a turd.

“Dedicated to the last,” Traven breathes, touching the horrible thing carefully, “I cannot thank you enough for getting the bloody thing. I have need of it immediately.” And he looks grim. “We have much to speak of, and very little time. If I'm right, a new task awaits you, and... it is by far the most important you have been entrusted with.”

“Task?” asks I.

“Ra'jirra...” Traven says, still looking grim, “Look at you. You're not ready, and I need to make sure my fears are justified. But if I am correct... it will be the last task I ever assign you.”

Then he shakes himself and wrinkles his nose.

“But before that, for all the gods' sakes get yourself patched up! Those greaves are one thread away from being indecent. And go jump in the lake or something. You stink!”

I began to laugh a little hysterically at that.

“And get some sleep as well!” Traven wasn't as amused as I was. “I'll summon you when we're ready. Now move!”

Silorn was a tough one. I usually end up having to run Falcar to ground. Only once did I manage to nail him at the front door. The SOB is just too damn fast for my slow reflexes and lousy aim.

And so you leave us hanging waiting for the inevitable. I was stunned - stunned - the first time I played this through. WTF??? What did Traven just do?

[Technically, I suppose I could have run these two together. The cameo was an impulse thing.

I'm feeling more enthusiastic about Ob' again, and I'll see if I can complete the questline soon. (Oh hooray - R.)]

Chapter 26: Ra'jirra Rests and Goes Home

The next coherent thought I remember having after that was Rohssan shaking my shoulder and calling me to wake up.

“What?” was pretty much as intelligent a response as I could make.

“You were having a nightmare,” says she, and I notice a pair of Bosmer women, one with unnaturally red hair, the other remarkably short, staring at me like I'd grown an extra head. “Should've got some sleep before you came here.” And she sniffs. “Not to mention a bath!”

The two start giggling at that and I can feel myself blush.

“I don't know what you've been doing in this armour,” says Rohssan as she returns to her forge, “and after that little performance, I don't want to know. Try to stay awake and not frighten the other customers, okay?”

And I just pull the loaner robe around me a little tighter and try not to doze off again as Rohssan resumes her smithcraft and the Bosmeri resume their discussion about bows, poison and clothes.

I must have been dozing because when it hit me I know my eyes popped open.

The last task I ever assign you.

There was something wrong with that statement. Did Traven mean it would be the last task concerning Mannimarco? If so, that meant the polished turd I'd left with Traven was somehow crucial to the plans of the King of Worms. Or did he mean that after this final job, he'd never require tasks of me and I'd be free to explore magic any way I chose? I tried to imagine myself standing at the lectern inside the Arcane University walls, lecturing away on some abstruse principle or other. No, that was a ridiculous idea.

I began to suspect that Traven knew something about the future that I didn't. Which was scary. Did he think he was going to die or something?

No, that was ridiculous. It was the sort of thinking that led to defeat by stupid decision-making. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense that we had Mannimarco cornered, and that Traven's “last task” would be completed over Worm-boy's body.

Yes, that was it. Mannimarco was going down for the count. Maybe Traven wanted me to hold his pack while he put the fear of the Nine up him.

I could imagine what he looked like: nine feet tall, dressed in black and red and skulls and bones, evil glowing eyes – and Traven pulling out all his tricks and reducing him to dust. Yep, that would be a fight to see, put the Arena to shame.

Rohssan jolted me out of my reverie by presenting me with newly repaired armour and thoroughly repatched greaves. “You know,” says she, “you really oughta stay away from stand-up fights, or learn s'more about smithing around enchantments.” She was right and as such I left with a head full of almost, but not quite, understood concepts and about ten less septims.

That was the annoying thing. I could almost grasp what smiths said about weaves and warps and how that had to do with the price of fish, but the details eluded me.

Anyway I ended up in the Elven Gardens sewers. I don't know why, but it was oddly relieving to go up against enemies that weren't so life-threatening, nor spellcasters, nor undead. Picked up some nice bits here and there, but I also found something odd.

In one chamber, there was a table and chair, fresh candle lighting the scene. It looked like an odd place for a meeting, and there were gates that were locked. The locks looked new and fancy enough to foil lockpicks.

So I look around, and get the impression I'm being watched. Casting Watchfulness didn't help identify who, but I got the willies strong enough that I fled.

With most of the day gone I retired to my little shack on the waterfront and ran before the nightmares until dawn on Sundas.

In dawn's early light, I walked, armour and all, into the cold waters of Lake Rumare, until the water tasted sweet, and sat there on the bottom, playing with Starlight. Now there was a set of concepts I could and eventually did get a better grasp of.

Underwater was quiet, cleansing. The dark memories of Silorn – memories of pale stone framing hateful faces lit by hellish magics – began to fade as though the water was cleansing my mind as well as my body and armour. Truth be told, it was quite a peaceful experience.

At least until the local slaughterfish became curious about the bathing beauty and came over to investigate!



“Go on, off to your grove,” says I that afternoon to the unicorn, “I'm not intending to leave for quite a while.”

The unicorn whickered happily and trotted off southwards, head and tail high, while I stepped into the inn, my head and tail also high.

“Rra'jirrra!” S'jirra's welcoming cry was music to my ears as she almost knocked me over with her hug. “Oh my husband! Wherre have you been? You said you werre going to a council meeting and would be back days ago! Oh, we've been so worrried...”

“Daughterr mine,” Abhuki said from behind the counter, “Perrhaps if one werre to loosen one's grrip, one's husband could tell you why he has been so long. And also, think of the babe!”

S'jirra absorbed that and I was once again able to breathe, to the amusement of the patrons. She steered me to the chair in the corner and fetched some Dibella's cookies, then basically interrogated me.

I left little out. Alix joined the now quiet crowd as I described the small war of attrition I'd endured chasing down Falcar, and why I'd taken such pleasure in beating his brains out.

“So the corpse-humpers are enjoying a major setback,” says I, “and I have it from Traven himself that there's just one more step to take, and –” I made a chopping motion. “– they're done for.”

“And you will rreturrn and stay?” S'jirra asked me.

“Oh yes,” says I, “that's what I'm going to do.”



I spent the next few days in domestic bliss, Faregyl style; I learned more about the making of potato bread than I ever wanted to know; I learned about the arts of brewing; and S'jirra and I spent hours just enjoying each other's presence. Not carnally, just revelling in the other being near and alive.

S'jirra also had the dubious pleasure of morning heaves and other effects of pregnancy, and she complained about those with an almost ritual air, railing against the inevitable.

Sometimes I would invoke Awareness, and marvel at the tiny but very distinct separate life growing in her belly.

Unfortunately this idyll didn't last.

[/me makes race car noises]

Chapter 27: The Final Task

There have been all sorts of rumours concerning the way in which I was elevated to Arch-Mage, and most of them aren't even wrong. There's one wild conspiracy theory – I'm looking at you, Ottus – suggesting I'm some sort of sleeper agent and that Wormboy is still... well, well, and waiting my signal to turn Tamriel into a necropolis or something. Others say I took Traven on in a magical duel that to judge by even the most sober accounts should have been seen clear out to Anvil.

I do like the ones where Traven sneaks out to deal to Mannimarco under cover of invisibility, and loyal muggins here spots him and hares off to finish what he started.

The official lie is that Traven was affected for the worse by Mannimarco's magic, eventually becoming bedridden and dying, while Master-Wizard Ra'jirra took up the slack and championed Galerion's cause.

But it's time to come clean. The truth is worse.



“Councillors.” Traven's face was grim as he regarded the revolting gem before him. “I've called you all here today to bear witness to my last actions as Arch-Mage.”

There was almost an outcry at that, but he looked up. His gaze silenced us all like we had been muzzled. Then he spoke to history.

“Master-Wizard Ra'jirra delivered this thing to me on the morn of 10 Sun's Dusk. As of today, 13 Sun's Dusk, I now know, and have altered, what it was meant to do.

“As you all know, soul gems normally capture only the energy released when body and soul part ways. But this gem was different. It was intended to literally capture a soul, like a surrogate body, but one that could then be... manipulated... by Mannimarco.”

None of us spoke. The very idea was revolting. It was the worst allegations of Alessia Ottus or some similar damn fool made real.

“More specifically,” and Traven gave us all that look again, “this gem was made to capture me.”

I don't know who screamed first, but the general consensus was that the filthy thing should be destroyed. Traven just drew the gem to him and stood up straight, and I swear he... growled... with more than mortal voice. All our tongues fell silent as he just... more than... stood there.

“So. Three ayes in favour of this gem's destruction... and one no. The noes have it.” He looked down at the gem. “Who recalls the theme of The Prayers of Baranat?”

We all looked at each other, but it was Vonus who finally spoke, querulous, thoroughly bewildered. “Um... Baranat finally gets his reward... but doesn't like what he gets?”

Traven smiled. It wasn't nice.

“Exactly,” says he, “and Mannimarco's going to enjoy the same experience when Ra'jirra fronts up and kicks him in the nuts.”

And I can only sit there and stare. After about a million years I was able to squeak, “Me?”

“You,” confirms he, “Since you're the most two-fisted of all of us. I'm too old,” and now I realise he's right: for all his clanking about in daedric his hair's silver and his face lined; Vonus is a sot; Otranto is more suited to a laboratory than – hang on, what's this? Otranto's glaring hard at Traven, and Traven's the same.

“Was there something you wanted to say?” Traven asks mildly, but his eyes promise hell. And Otranto gets the message and drops it, whatever it was.

Raminus, being the headmaster, is totally out of contention.

“Now, effective immediately, Ra'jirra is by my authority Arch-Mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild. His first act as Arch-Mage will be to confront and destroy Mannimarco, the King of Worms, in his lair – which is Echo Cave. Map!”

I just stare at him until he snaps his fingers and there's my hands handing him my map. As he marks a point northwest of Bruma, he continues to instruct me.

“With this gem in your possession, once it's prepared, you will be impervious to his attempts to enthrall you. When the arrogant Lord High Corpse-Humper fails, that is when you shall strike.”

A little snicker went around the table; evidently my term for our enemy had got around.

“Right then. My last duty as Arch-Mage will be to prepare this gem. Once I have, only Ra'jirra is to touch it.” He looks around, then at me, and his eyes...

I saw resolve, kindness, and was that fear?

“Lead your fellow mages, Arch-Mage Ra'jirra, and lead them well. The future rests on your shoulders.” He stood up with the gem in one hand. “Farewell, my friend.”

Friend?

I was so surprised by being called 'friend' by Traven that I completely failed to comprehend the meaning of the red and purple magics that enrobed him until the other councillors had been shouting for about a full minute, gathered where Traven now lay.

“Quiet!” Raminus yelled with all the righteous wrath of a headmaster demanding order from a rambunctious class. “This is getting us nowhere! Arch-Mage! What do we do?”

Traven didn't respond. Raminus came over to me and shook me by the shoulder.

“Arch-Mage!”

And I just stare at him and say, “The Arch-Mage is over there,” in a dopey voice.

“Traven's dead!” Raminus yells at me, “You're Arch-Mage now!”

I stood up, pushing him away, and tottered over to where Traven lay. Vonus was wheezing like a bellows and pumping a surprising amount of healing magics into him, but I could tell even from here it was too late.

“We should lay him in state,” Otranto said in a dazed voice, “shouldn't we lay him in state?”

And I have a think with those parts of my brain still operating and she's right. It wouldn't look good to have Traven found laying on the floor like... like a common bandit.

“Yes,” says I, “let's get him in his bed. If...” and another part of my brain wakes up, “if anyone asks to see him, just say he's indisposed, all right?”

And that's what we did. The worst part was removing his armour (“Sick men don't wear armour,” Otranto said) and putting it away. Without any obvious wounds, Traven looked as though he was, indeed, merely sleeping – except for the traditional coins on the eyes.

There would later be another little conspiracy regarding retrieving his body and getting it to his tomb. We kept his coffin closed, citing the state his corpse was in. And to be honest, by the time I got back, he was getting a little ripe.



Back in the council chambers, I regarded the gem, which lay where it had fallen from Traven's hand. The thing didn't just glitter blackly with energy, it fairly glowed; but nevertheless I swallowed hard and picked it up.

About time, a familiar voice said in my head, good thinking about a cover story. Shouldn't we be getting along?

And I just kneel there catching flies.

Knock it off, furface! We haven't got all year. Make sure Raminus swears everybody to silence until you come up with a good cover story. Sneaking out during guard changeover? Seems to happen in all the popular trash.

And I blink at that and realise Raminus is speaking: “...until the threat is over. Once we know Mannimarco's done for, we'll formally recognise Ra'jirra as Arch-Mage. Until then, I can keep the Guild on an even keel.”

“You?” It sounded like Otranto. “Why you?”

“Because I've served the Arch-Mage directly far longer than you have,” he was clearly angry. “But I am not going against Traven's wishes, and –”

I gave my opinion of that. It was a fine, blunt, earthy opinion, and everyone dropped their knitting to stare at me.

“The Arch-Mage,” says I carefully, “is alive and unwell.” Which wasn't entirely untrue. “He's made his intentions clear, and we should stand together against the necromancer threat. If we don't, we fall. Got it?”

They got it, some slower than others.

“Traven chose us as councillors for a reason. And I suspect that each of us, alone, couldn't govern our way out of a wet sack, but together we can. So stow the knives until I return with Mannimarco's head, or his balls, whichever he thinks with, all right?”

“His head, I think,” Vonus says suddenly from around the contents of a wine bottle.

“Come again?”

“His head,” Vonus says again, “Since we don't know if he still has balls after all these years, do we?”

It wasn't much of a joke, but we needed the (slightly hysterical) laugh.

[Almost done. Unfortunately now I'm running to spectral reavers, who can knock your weapon out of your hand. I think I'm going to have to cheat to get to Mannimarco - I'm sick to the back teeth of frigging corpse-humpers...]

Chapter 28: The Road to Echo Cave

Some wit once wrote 'getting there is half the fun'. Well, it might be on a pleasure-boat with plenty of septims and good company, but not when you're on a mission.

My initial intent was to simply find Echo Cave and charge in, but as the unicorn and I rounded the north side of Bruma, the sounds of fighting came to our ears. The unicorn actually stopped dead, and I could feel it trembling.

Then I saw a flying Khajiit.

Shortly afterwards I saw the reason why: an immense white minotaur, nine feet high at least, and it was looking at me. With a warhammer being held in just one hand.

The next thing I knew, the unicorn screamed, reared and spun, throwing me off, before bolting away, and there I am on the ground with this big thing stomping towards me!

Well, it made sense to hang fire on Echo Cave until this minotaur was dealt to, but first I had to get up before it stomped on me. What followed was a desperate backwards scramble, as I tried to extract my Mage's Staff out of my pack without getting bailed up against a tree or something.

Once before I'd downed a minotaur with staff and spell, but that was months ago, and just a regular common or garden sort. This beast was a lot tougher, and soon I was juggling my staff in one hand and magicka potions in the other. I'd paralyse the monster, then let fly with two Discharges before it got back to its feet, then either keep running like hell or swig another potion.

And just to add to the fun, arrows started whizzing about.

One of my Discharges missed the monster – at least I think it did – and I heard an outraged yell of “I'm on your side!” Legion! Great. Now if only he'd hit this damn beast instead of me.

And so the three, then four of us, made our mad parade along Bruma's north wall, until the creature finally lay still. Both Legionnaires (actually one was a forester) put their weapons away and we all regarded the foe.

“Never thought I'd see a frost titan this close to Bruma,” says the legionnaire thoughtfully, “You're lucky we were dealing to bandits.”

“Yeah,” says the forester.

“Maybe it thought I was after its food,” says I thoughtfully.

“Nine!” shudders the legionnaire.

“Yeah,” says the forester matter-of-factly.

“Well, it's quite the tale to tell eh?” says I.

“I could drink off that for a week,” the legionnaire grins.

“Yeah,” says the forester unenthusiastically.

“Anyway, I need to find Echo Cave,” says I, “Any pointers?”

“I'm not sure where that is,” says the legionnaire.

“Applewatch,” points the forester, then he adds, “Westward. Rock arch. Stendarr Peak. Right into the dead trees.”

“Man of few words, huh?”

“Yeah,” says the forester.

“I want a few with you,” the legionnaire says to the forester, pointing at an arrow jutting out of one pauldron.

“Yeah?” says the forester pugnaciously.



I found some bandits before I found Applewatch, and next to the gate I found a couple of sprigs of wormwood. Contemplating it, I remembered one of its essences appeared to be invisibility. It had killed me that I'd been unable to identify another ingredient way back then –

“Tinder polypore,” I said into the cold night, breath steaming like my irritation. I'd plucked one days ago, more out of idleness than anything, and of course, now I was miles away from my alchemy gear, I realised what its third essence was.

And then there was the tremendous drain on not only my nerves, but my staff, that the frost titan had caused. I already had enough potions in my pack that I clanked if I didn't watch my step. I needed to think through what to do once I found Echo Cave.

It didn't take me long to decide to press on, find the cave, then decide what to do.



Just past the unmistakeable rock arch – actually more like a dolmen – Stendarr Peak rose to my right. So did a highwayman, of all people. How on Nirn anyone could make a living in banditry up here baffled me. It wasn't as though there was daily traffic between Bruma and Skyrim these days.

Beyond, I could see the dead trees, a whole valley's worth, as the forester had stated; presumably this was the valley to Echo Cave. A cold wind – yes, even colder than the rest of the Jerralls – was blowing from the north. I've been told that this valley somehow manages to funnel extremely cold air down itself, freezing everything within. Makes sense – not even the King of Worms would want a big stretch of blight appearing out of nowhere and pointing him out.

I watched the lone guard wandering about below me as I carefully withdrew the Bow of Jolts, and equally carefully primed an arrow with poison.

Screw invisibility. Losing Falcar and the giant crystal turd might make Wormy decide he had nothing to lose. And since I was already here...

I introduced myself to the guard, and he was kind enough to provide a key and let me in.

So that's how the feud between those two guys got started! It's all Ra'jirra's fault! If he hadn't shown up in the area, they would never have started fightin'!

This was great - a belly laugh here and there. And yes, that thing about wormwood! Why can't you use it at lower levels? You've got to get insanely high in alchemy before you can combine it with something else and make a damn potion! Sheesh!

[I'm unsure that I'll bother writing up a fight until I'm able to survive the bloody thing. In any case, here's the wind-up.]

Chapter 29: Mannimarco

There was only one corpse-humper in the huge, water-filled cavern, for which I was grateful. I could see four braziers keeping him warm, a fancy throne, and a table with some stuff on it. Then there was the décor, giant bony fingers poking out of the ground and necromancer banners everywhere. Evidently I had found Mannimarco's lair.

So I creep closer, and see that Mannimarco looks like an ordinary Altmer, picking his nose with one hand and spelling me with the other.

I felt my knees almost buckle under my weight, so I do my best to stand as the King of Bogies ambles over.

“I'm surprised Bolor was unsuccessful in delaying you,” sneers he, flicking his wriggling pickings at me, “Oh well; I shall reanimate him once we are done here.”

“He and his mates had a bloody good go though,” says I grudgingly.

And he gives me a look over and regards my battered gear and equally battered person. “I suppose they did,” says he grudgingly, “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your nauseating presence?”

I think for a bit and “Something to do with the late Arch-Mage Traven,” seems to be a good answer.

“Late?” Mannimarco's eyebrows rise. “Oh, yes, you must be his star pupil. I am disappointed to see that he could not face me himself.”

“Being dead does that,” says I.

“I have met so many of his predecessors over the years, you know,” and one of those huge gems emerges from his robe, along with a powerful odour. “I developed a particular fondness for Galerion, ill-preserved though he may be.”

And he strokes the gem in a way that made my hackles rise, like he was skinning a deer.

“But here you are instead.” He puts the gem away again. “Skilled enough to make it this far, which speaks volumes about you. Perhaps you'll be as useful to me as Traven would.”

Skilled, to be honest, I didn't know about. Stubborn was more like it. I had, by my count, slaughtered my way through about twenty corpse-humpers and about thirty of their dear departed friends; chewed through all my varla stones and almost all of my loaded soul gems; and finally run out of repair kits for my armour. All I wanted to do was knock this swine's block off and go home.

As such, my response was a quite intelligent “How?”

Bet you thought I was going to say what, didn't you?

“Oh, I will make you another in a long tradition of Worm Thralls, and take my time in studying you,” says he airily, “Your very soul will be forfeit to me.”

Now I exclaimed, “What?”

“Power, my dear friend. I seek power, and so I acquire and study those who have some degree of it.” And Mannimarco smiles as if that explains everything and if I say 'what' again like that I'll regret it.

“We are after the same things, your guild and I. Yet you worry about 'good' and 'evil' and do not accept they are manifestations of the same thing. So you brand me a villain, and make vain attempts to destroy me. I watch, and I wait, and I collect you when you come for me.”

And he clasps his hands and looks smugly at me and I look stonily back at him. Now I know he's two cups short of a bottle.

“Instead of drawing Traven out, I have received you instead.” His disgust was obvious. “Perhaps I shall personally go and collect him when we are done here.”

“No need,” says I, “He's in my pack.”

And Mannimarco looks at me like I'm the mad bugger.

“The work at Silorn?” hints I.

“Silorn?” And Mannimarco perks up. “The special gem worked?”

“It certainly did,” says I, “he's up near the top, if I can get to him...”

“I'll do that,” and Mannimarco comes closer, and he's not only smelly, he's cold. Almost as cold as one of those damnable thrice-accursed spectral beings. His rummaging knocks me finally to my knees, then he cries out in pleasure as he extracts Traven's crystal home.

“My dear chap,” says he delightedly, “please accept my apologies! When I heard about Silorn, I honestly thought that I would have to move openly – Bruma's lovely this time of year, or so I'm told – and a castle would be so much nicer than this blasted cavern. All this time I though you were Traven's lapdog, and you've been biding your time!” And he looks fondly at Traven and prattles reekingly on.

“It's a pity about Falcar and Caranya, I guess, but frankly they were too arrogant for their own good. Not in the same league as Lien Valeth and his Putrid Hand rabble, but too arrogant. And you did what I was going to do anyway. No, wait, I would have reanimated them as Worm Thralls. Serve them right, keep them as reminders to my followers to stay in line.

“Anyway,” says he as he regards me again, “I think you and I will work splendidly together. There's just one act to seal the bargain, so –”

And he steps closer, Traven still in his grasp, claps one icy hand on my shoulder and opens his mouth.

And opens it wide.

Impossibly wide.

Inside was a sight – a hellish mixture of rot and magic – I had never seen before and never, ever, want to see (or smell) again. Volanaro saw it. Saw the things inside – that only looked like worms – as they started to emerge – towards me.

And it was about then that Traven made his move.

There was a flash of light. Bright, white, warm, clean light that pushed away the worms in the meat, that sent Mannimarco's jaw slamming back up into his head hard enough to knock a couple of teeth loose. Better still, he almost somersaulted as he went flat on his back.

And suddenly I could stand up again.

I swapped my bow for the Mace of Jolts as I closed on the not-an-Altmer, but he'd already lurched to his feet, rotten blood dribbling from his mouth as he spluttered “You – you –” and various unkind terms. Gobbets of Conjuration were already depositing – Nine help me, I counted five! – undead horrors.

To make things worse, a ring of giant skeletal claws had risen out of the ground, blocking any escape. There was only one thing for me to do.

Fusozay Var Var, as we say.

However short it was going to be.

To be continued...

Ya know, for all the trouble I had with that damned Falcar at Silorn, that was actually the most difficult part of the whole MQ for me. Mannimarco was nothing - pfft!

But I can't wait to see the rest of this! May Ra'jirra kick his royal british boat!

one with unnaturally red hair, the other remarkably short,
Sounds like Teresa and Buffy got together a little earlier than either Acadian or I expected!

But it's time to come clean. The truth is worse.
I loved this! It always is worse!

All I wanted to do was knock this swine's block off and go home.
This was exactly how I felt when I finally got to Mannimarco.

Alright, now we are down to it! That was a wonderful description of Mannmarco's Worm-Thralling. Not to mention of Traven's stopping it. The game really needed something like that to make Traven's death make any sense.

[I finally gave up and cheated after about six incidents of what appeared to be instant-kill spells and getting swarmed by summonses.

Incidentally, OOO's spectral warriors seem to use the dremora voice set, which resulted in an unexpected exchange, but I'm not changing it.

Now I need to write the epilogue...]

Chapter 30: Mannimarco's Funeral

Traven was there. I've no idea how I knew, but the old ratbag was there. It was the only explanation for why the lich sort of twisted from the waist, as though somebody grabbed it by the shoulders, and zapped the spectre, who didn't approve at all.

That left the ghost, the skeleton, Wormy, and me.

The scum's wearing powerful robes, I distinctly heard Traven's voice between my ears, with strong reflection enchantments. I – then he shouldered me aside as the dead elf fired off a nasty looking spell that blew the skeleton apart like a cobweb of bone.

So I charge in with my mace ready and Mannimarco's eyes widen as he realises he's getting bailed up in a corner. I manage to get a smack in on his shoulder, but like Traven said, I ended up briefly joined to the sod by an arc of lightning.

And my matching shoulder didn't like it either.

Moving a bit fast are we? Traven asked sarcastically. Perhaps we should have spent a year working on our spellcraft instead?

I didn't answer, since the King of Worms had smacked me with one of his spells as he fled. I collapsed to the floor under paralysis magic, unable to even take a swing at him as he passed, raising a hand filled with red.

Then he yelled in pain as Traven's spirit grabbed his ears.

I didn't bother laughing as Mannimarco flailed at his head; I grabbed the old Mace of Jolts and went to take a swing. Since he was dead, he tended to need a lot of tenderising.

As I swung, he managed to forget his ears long enough to try and kick me. So I altered my swing; it hurt, but his knee was more bung than mine now. As he tried to right himself, I chugged a health potion and turned to the approaching spectre.

I wasn't expecting the creature to halt and lower its claymore though.

“I've seen you before, haven't I?” it asked in decidedly daedric tones.

“Markynhaz Gadaz'tor?” replies I, “I didn't recognise you.”

“I'm not surprised,” says he, “oh, and there's a few Kyn who're grateful to you.”

“Wait a minute...” one moment I'm fighting the King of Worms, now I'm talking to a dremora in a ghostly shell. “Are you saying all those spectral warriors are trapped dremora?”

“Yes,” replies he, “we don't know how, but sometimes the Kyn find themselves imprisoned in these cold bodies in the mortal plane. It's bearable if there are others with you, but eventually the Pull becomes too much... defeat in battle is the only way.”

Well bugger me! Traven said in wonder, live and learn.

And I sneak a glance over my shoulder; Mannimarco's got to his feet but he's catching flies. Nine know he has the gob for it.

“Well, you're not spontaneous,” says I, “and that thing in the robes is the one who summoned you. Want to help me kill him?”

Spectral teeth flashed as he cried, “Sounds like a plan!”

What followed was ugly. Gadaz'tor charged in with absolutely no regard for his safety while I attempted to juggle getting my own blows in, swigging health potions, and keeping out of the Markynhaz's way.

Between my mace and the dremora's claymore, Mannimarco was in trouble. So were we, unfortunately, thanks to the reflection powers of his gear. Every time we landed a blow or a spell, it bounced back on us. Soon I could feel my sweetbreads screaming, backed up by my arm joints, accompanied by the shaking of weakened legs, and there was a wetness inside my helm matching where the Mace of Jolts had ripped away a chunk of his scalp.

Gadaz'tor bellowed in triumph as he raised his claymore for an overhead strike guaranteed to split the King of Worms down the middle; Mannimarco himself was wobbling on his knees, staring concussed up at the Markynhaz.

So of course the bloody summons wore off right then and there!

I didn't hesitate to finish the job. Up comes I and down comes the mace, sending chunks of face flying. My vision clouded with reflected pain and blood but I kept swinging until I simply fell where I stood, twitching as the shock magics dissipated.

That, Traven remarked, was the most bloody disgraceful exhibition of macecraft I have ever seen.

And I said nothing. I was too busy trying to work out if I was dead or not.

Maybe you should join the Fighters' Guild? You know, learn how to actually kill people without getting killed yourself.

The shock-caused quaking subsided, but the anguish in my face didn't. Several of my teeth felt loose, my eyes were filled with blood, and I suspected my nose was broken. That sort of thing makes it difficult for a man to remember his healing spells.

Then again, Traven went on, I know you didn't ask me, but maybe you should think about introducing some warcraft classes into the curriculum. Nine knows I've dragged my heels on that.

I spat out a glob of bloody spit, coughed a prayer to Stendarr, and felt his mercy wrap about me and take away some of my pain. Now I could see, through a red fog, a lump of cloth surrounded by dark fluid.

Maybe I was too impatient, Traven spoke again, maybe I should have let you develop your skills more. Gods know you need to, since I won't be around to hold your hand from now on. But hang it all, this was a crisis! Hey – are you listening to me, fur-licker?

I wasn't. Instead I was fumbling for a vial in my pack, scattering potions of shielding and poisons of all sorts as I groped for a particular sort; deep pinkish-red, with a meaty scent. I finally found it, jerked out the stopper, and somehow managed to put the bottle to my lips – which hurt – and swallowed the contents – which also hurt. Silver relief spun from my stomach to my skin, and I was finally able to open my eyes and make sense of what I was seeing.

The cloth was the robes and hood of Mannimarco, but now they cloaked a shapeless mass of bones and decomposing flesh. My nose still being pretty stuffed up, I was grateful I couldn't smell anything. As I watched, the unnaturally fast disintegration of the corpse finally concluded in dust and ugly stains. From inside the hood, the caved-in skull of the King of Worms goggled crosseyed at its jawbone in front of it.

My legs finally agreed to support me again as I managed to pick myself up. “We did it,” I said thickly, then hawked up more bloody phlegm before groping for another potion. “We bloody did it.”

Bloody's right, Traven remarked, seeing as if it wasn't for me and that dremora –

“What's done is done,” snarls I, anger shoving aside pain. I stomp over to Mannimarco's corpse and yank off hood, robes, his staff and also a daedric dagger still in its sheath.

I still have them, trophies of my, Traven's, and Markynhaz Gadaz'tor's victory over the King of Worms.

Well then, Traven said almost sadly, this time from a point in front of me and to my right, one last thing I need you to do.

“What?” is my intelligent response.

Take that club of yours to that big soul gem. Just in case someone gets ideas about stepping into Mannimarco's shoes.

“Not to mention the rubbish said about trapping souls,” That made sense. I placed the gem on a handy rock, braced myself, then let the revolting artifact have it.

Bards are encouraged to embroider on the fact that the gem basically shattered with a loud crunch.

Righto, and Traven's voice was more distant now, and now we part. Well, until you fall off your perch anyway. Don't hurry.

“What?” is my intelligent response.

Mannimarco was the only reason I stayed around, you idiot, says he, and now he's finally finished, there's no need for me to hang around, is there?

“But what will I do about the Guild?” asks I, “I've no idea what to do, I –”

Oh, stop whining! Traven's voice was getting fainter. You can read, can't you? Here's a hint: speak to Carvain about all this. Polus too. I'm not sticking around, I'm not allowed. Besides, adds he with his old irritation, I told you to lead the Mage's Guild as you see

And his spirit left.

Slowly, I retraced my steps through the caverns until I found a bedroll, then passed out for a little while.



Later in the day, I arrived at the walls of Bruma. It occurred to me that I should let the Countess know that the necromancer threat was gone.

So later I'm in the throne room waiting my turn to address her ladyship when I recognise the voice of the mage addressing her.

“...thus at the very least, the building should be repaired to save face and,” and here Raminus pauses, “prevent unkind allegations against your rule.”

“I am sure you have my reputation in mind,” the Countess Carvain responded waspishly, “but seeing as it was my city that was violated, and that it was my guardsmen who risked their lives to –”

Which I took as my cue.

“What about me?” says I striding up, “Here I am, the poor bloody Arch-Mage, nearly getting killed a dozen times over, not including about five minutes before the King of Worms finally bit the dust?”

And the two stare at me.

“Which was about five hours ago,” finishes I, “so how's about you get your people to refurbish the guildhall while I get my people to fill it?”

And the Countess does a pretty good imitation of a landed slaughterfish while Raminus manages to get his brain into gear.

“Arch-Mage! Mannimarco is defeated?”

“Am I dead?”

“No?”

“Well in that case, he is. He was still dead when I stripped his bones and left.” And I have a little think, scratch my nose as casually as possible and add, “Setting a good example for the other lidgies I offed in there as well.”

“Where's 'there'?” asks the Countess.

“Echo Cave,” says I.

“Well, not that I... don't believe you...” and she looks my battered self up and down, “but I think I'd best send a party out to investigate for myself before I decide.”

“Suit yourself,” shrugs I, “me, I'm going home and having a well-earned collapse.”

“I've a better idea,” says Raminus, “have you tried the Jerall View?” And he blinks and adds, “My apologies, Countess, by your leave?”

She waved us away and the last I heard she was calling for a bird or something.



“Got another room free?” asks Raminus to the innkeep. The Jerall View was a homely place, warm and cozy. And as it turned out, he did have another room.

Raminus escorted me downstairs into a well-appointed room and quizzed me about what had taken place as I divested myself of my gear prior to diving into bed for another nap.

“So,” says he at last, “that's the end of the King of Worms. Stay as long as you need in the morning; I want to go on ahead and prepare for the ceremony.”

“Ceremony?” is my enquiry.

“You'll need to be formally sworn in as Arch-Mage,” says he, “I've been doing some research into the matter. As far as I can tell, the Emperor will ask you a lot of traditional questions, and you just say 'I will' or something like that. Then I'll send messages to the other guildhalls letting them know you're the new Arch-Mage. That's another formality,” grimaces he, “since the Black Horse Courier will get there first.”

“Then can I go home?”

“I can't stop you. Just be there by noon tomorrow, all right? We don't want to keep his Imperial Majesty waiting.”

“Fine,” says I, about to remove my greaves, “but before that, if you don't mind, I have a meeting with some nightmares.”

“If you need anything just scream,” says Raminus and leaves before I can heave a boot at him.

With the greaves off I finally crawled into bed and passed out for the second time in one day.

Welp, that was certainly more exciting than my experiences with the Monarch of Fish Food!

The interchange between Ra'jirra, Polus and Carvain had me laughing. Especially about her calling for "bird" at the end!

It must be your mods that make it difficult. When I faced Mannimarco it was a big letdown. He summoned a critter. I summoned a critter to keep that busy. Then he pulled out a dagger and attacked me with it. *yawn*.

I see Traven remained his most irritating self as well, even after his death!

Since he was dead, he tended to need a lot of tenderising.


So its finally done. Mannimarco is slayed, and Ra'jirra is the Arch-Mage. Congrats on a very fun and lively tale!

I have enjoyed Ra'jirra’s exploits so very much. They have been the source of many, much-needed laugh out loud moments. And some very touching ones as well. I still laugh over the charging in like a Nord/don’t tell my boss episode. Here’s hoping Ra'jirra gets some restful time in his chair bouncing various offspring on his knee.

Oscuro's Oblivion Overhaul tends to cause creatures and hostiles to spawn in groups. The end result can look something like:

1. Keeper of the Dead
2. Another Keeper of the Dead
3. Necromancer
4. Another necromancer
5. Spectral Warrior
6. Spectral Reaver
7. Ancient Ghost
8. Spectral Wolf

And if the corpse-humpers start summoning that brings the enemy total up to 12. So, yes, things can get more than a little impossible.

I may have to look for another mod that removes levelling, since I had a Khajiit archer hight Barassa, who embarked on the KotN quest. However, after getting stuck against overwhelming odds, I gave up in frustration. If it wasn't for TGM I would have done the same here.



Slain

And I'm not quite finished yet. As I stated, there's still an epilogue to write. As soon as I figure out how.

[Well, one house move, one corrupted autosave and about four false starts later, I finally tie it all off.

Now I can resume the FO3/Ob' crossover, and also get on with an Ob'/HP one I started as a laugh and seems to be popular.

Thanks for all the constructive feedback, folks!]

Epilogue

“And so the next day I left Bruma, got formally sworn in as Arch-Mage, and came home.”

The subject of my work shrugged, skipping over what was a well-described ceremony in which Ra'jirra, most importantly, knelt before the Emperor himself, swore undying fealty to him and the Empire, and was officially recognised before the entire faculty of the Arcane University as Arch-Mage.

Afterward, there was a memorial service held for the late Arch-Mage Hannibal Traven, who had, officially, been struck by a long-acting curse of some kind while examining an artifact retrieved from a necromancer stronghold. It had taken me a long while to regain my composure after learning just how Traven had really succumbed. Indeed, there were issues raised that led to me spending more time at the Chapel of Dibella than I usually did.

What Ra'jirra also skipped over was several months where if anyone wanted to speak with the Arch-Mage, they had to make the journey to Faregyl and its inn, where the Arch-Mage and his increasingly pregnant wife provided an often cool reception. Ra'jirra was, after all, more at home on the farm than in the council chamber, and for the first two years of his regime would only visit the Imperial Isle if there was no alternative – and make those trips as short as possible!

One reason for his reclusiveness was his family, one of whom was sitting on his lap with a predictable expression on his face. J'dargo is a rambunctious five year old kit, and his parents and I agree that, assuming he doesn't get himself killed, he's a sure recruit for either the Legion or the Fighter's Guild.

Sure enough, J'dargo asked the question that all bedtime storytellers dread. “And then what happened?”

“And then,” his father looked solemnly down at him, “you were born. And now...” he paused dramatically.

J'dargo stared at him, breathless.

“It's time for you to go to bed,” Ra'jirra finished in a firm tone.

In between J'dargo's birth and his far more recent bedtime, Ra'jirra had decreed a number of remarkable and in many cases disruptive changes in the way the Mage's Guild was run. The SCARE Act was passed through, which, while sometimes violently objected to by the more hermit-like of wizards, managed to reveal knowledge that would otherwise have been lost with its discoverers. Apprentices are now more likely to be found rounding out their skills at the guildhalls instead of sitting through lectures at the Arcane University. Similarly, the scholars are now able to educate at a more elevated level – although, as Ra'jirra said to me, “I've still no idea what they're blabbing about.”

I was most surprised to be approached by the Arch-Mage about writing his memoirs, not only to his satisfaction, but while still capturing his basic character as he insisted, was a great challenge. “I don't want to be remembered as a stuffed suit of armour,” were his precise words.

Ra'jirra is often earthy – far earthier than I dare put down on paper – blunt to the point of outrageousness, but at the same time has a fierce loyalty to guildmate, kin, the Nine and Empire. I for one wish him a long, happy and prosperous life both in and outside the Mage's Guild.

-- Quill-Weave

4 Heartfire 3E438

Perhaps Castia Scribonia would have been racy enough to dare capture Ra'jirra's - ahem - earthiness? Nirniess?

I can totally see Ra'jirra being the reluctant Arch Mage!