Lots of fun, as always. The informal tone you write it all in really makes it all work.


Interesting 3-way battle Ra'jirra stumbled upon in Sardaukar Leed. The Guardians of Oblivion? Sounds like conjurers. Very cool name. I like that you made them a cult, rather than just generic monsters in a dungeon. I take it we will be seeing more of them in the future?


you can always find the local gentry discussing affairs without resolving anything, which makes them overqualified for the Imperial Council.
Zing!

Part of my loadout is Oscuro's Oblivion Overhaul. With this installed, I find warnings at the gates and in public houses about the Guardians of Oblivion, the Order of the Putrid Hand, marauders, raiders, slaver parties (e.g. Marshpunk Camp), amazons, spectral warriors and wolves, guardians of the forest (think super-spriggans), and even more truly effing scary horrors. Ra'jirra has died at least eight times during the course of events. Honestly, compared to Cyrodiil's wopwops Oblivion is the safer place.

How did I miss this chapter? Awesome spewfest you created over here, I love your writing!!!!

[OK, here's the first part of the next chapter. I'm playing too far ahead as usual, and worse, I got Fallout 3 two days ago. I miss magic and shields. And Detect Life spells, and Chameleon spells, and...

Well, I feel I should put something up to get the story moving a bit before Ruth drags me out into the Capital Wasteland again.]

9.1. In Which Ra'Jirra becomes Apprentice in the Mages Guild

The next morning I got up and considered what to wear, like some girl on market day. I wondered about the armour I had collected and used on my travels, but dropped that idea. Clanking into the Arcane University like some adventurer might be taken poorly. The last thing I wanted was to be asked if I got lost on my way to the Fighter's Guild or something like that.

So I picked up the conjurer's robe from that chap who'd swum out to attack me so long ago. Nope, I thought to myself, I'm no conjurer and they might take offense. That went back on the pile. Eventually I settled on my usual mercantile-enhancing outfit I'd been wearing whenever I fronted up in a township. It was swanky, didn't clash with my fur and hopefully would state clearly that I was able to fend for myself.

If that sounds like a lot of farting around, what can I say? I was about to make a first impression on the faculty – last time I had done little more than look up Julienne Fanis and back out again. This time I had to look my best and give those recommendations full weight. I'd be there a lot more often.

With that in mind I trudged up the slope beyond the guard tower and around the city wall to the University, a smaller echo off to the south. Through the gate and down to the little garden that took up half the interior, then up again to the lobby. An Imperial man was in there, same as when I was visiting Fanis.

“Pardon me, sir,” I began, “I seek Master–”

“No need for the pleasantries,” says he, “I'm Raminus Polus, and you would be our new apprentice, Ra'Jirra.” And he looks me up and down while I get to grips with the fact he's already calling me Apprentice. “Good man. You're not like some of the jackasses we've had commended to us. Would you believe we once had a fool swan in done up like a necromancer?” I'm about to reply but, “Damn idiot thought he'd impress us by showing off the loot he'd taken from some third-rate corpse-jockey during his quest for recommendations. The resident battlemagi cured him of that notion quick!”

I think about this for a bit and finally say, “Unsurprising.”

Raminus just chuckles. “Well! You'll need your new robe. Let's see...” and off he goes to rummage through a dresser full of robes. “Here we are! - one Robe of the Apprentice, part of your new uniform to go with your new stature here. Now, you need your staff.”

“All right,” I say agreeably and wait for it.

“Oh, I can't just give it to you,” he says, “every staff is personalised. What you need to do is get the wood for the staff, and you do this at Wellspring Cave – got your map there? Good, the cave's just... there... But before you go, let me give you the grand tour...”

And so out the front door he goes and around to one of the great gates, me in tow, and hands me a key.

“The key to the Arcane University is yours,” he says dramatically, “You first.”

I remember being unimpressed by that key. It was just an ordinary-looking iron key except for the seven teeth and the open eye symbol on it. When I stuck it in the lock and turned it, I halfpie expected a flash of light or some other effect. What I got was creaky hinges and the momentary attention of someone in conjurer's gear on the other side.

“Oh, you must be the newcomer,” says she, and before I have a chance to speak, “Yes, yes, I'm sure you've got something exceedingly important to say. But the Apprentices do not teach themselves, now do they? Good day.”

And off she wanders while I stand there like an idiot.

“Don't worry about it,” says Raminus with a pat on my shoulder, “She's one of our scholars here, and I swear they're all like that. Listen to those two for instance!”

Those two were standing upright and wearing robes and using words, which pretty much helps separate the citizens of Tamriel from the more stupid creatures, but all they seemed to say was things like “Ooh! You were right after all!” or “I've done my sums and I was right after all!” or some other rot. But even to this day, in all my time wandering around the University, I have never learned what they're talking about!

But Raminus is leading me along the concourse and pointing right. “See by the garden there? That's the Lustratorium – Julienne Fanis's alchemy centre. Next one along, that's the Chironasium – when you have your staff go in and see old Delmar there about enchantments for it. And there's the Practise Rooms for testing your spell-slinging – now on the other side of the watchtower there is the Mage Quarters – you can sleep there, any bed you like – and now there's the Mystic Archives, our library – Tar-Meena's in charge. And finally the Praxographical Centre by the lectern here for spellmaking, just watch your back around Gaspar while you're there – and that's the grand tour. What'dya think?”

And there I am trying to think and all I can say is, “Impressive!”

Raminus just grins at me. “I was like that too when I came here,” he says, “but I swear things have gone downhill these days. Most of these scholars are so preoccupied they simply don't pay attention to anything but their research, whatever it is. Anyway, I have other things to do, will you be all right?”

“Certainly,” says I, “and thank you so much Mast– er, Raminus.”

“No problem, Apprentice,” says he, and so we part ways, he back to the tower and me to the Praxographical Centre.

[Whew! Finally posted after over a week -- what the -- Ruth! Waitaminute -- no! I don't wanna go back -- Oh NO! Not freakin' Grayditch! Not the damn fire ants! I HATE FIRE ANTS! HELLLPPPP--

I hated the fire-ants quest t... wait, that wasn't under discussion.
Another funny addition! next please

Fire ants? FIRE ANTS?? Hell, they ain't nuthin compared to Shar Pei fur getting all ground into your forearms and neck from holding a scratchy wrinkled manatee-faced dog! Ugh!

Anyway, loved this part:

Arcane University - ahh, talk about the ivory towers! This made me laugh out loud!

Also deciding what to wear in the beginning - just like a job interview!

Lots of fun as ever! I so love reading about Ra'jirra!

Would you believe we once had a fool swan in done up like a necromancer?” I'm about to reply but, “Damn idiot thought he'd impress us by showing off the loot he'd taken from some third-rate corpse-jockey during his quest for recommendations. The resident battlemagi cured him of that notion quick!”
I love this bit, because I did it once at the Anvil Mages Guild. Oh you should have heard Carahil! I had no idea that characters in the game would actually react to you wearing necromancer robes. They just ignore you in the mythic dawn ones!

[FINALLY! The quest for staffs almost comes to an end. The scenes in Wellspring were an absolute pain, but I've also realised some exploration of old AU is a bit out of sync. Also, I was caning myself about how exactly one used the spellmaking altars, but had to drop it. Oh, who cares?]

9.2. In Which Ra'Jirra Has a Rotten Time Becoming Apprentice in the Mage's Guild

The Praxographical Centre wasn't particularly interesting inside except for two unusual things which at first glance appeared to be lecterns.

“Can I help you, Apprentice?” At my left shoulder was a hood. There was a face in it claiming to belong to Gaspar Stegine. “Master Spellmaker Gaspar Stegine, at your service. New spells. Old spells. Good spells. Bad spells. They're all fun for me!”

Slimy prick.

“So, how do these work?” asks I, pointing to the lectern things.

“Ah, those are spellmaking altars!” cries Gaspar, “They look simple, but! My goodness, the effort required to wrest a concept into an actual, workable spell...” And he leans in and goes on, “These altars allow adepts to perceive the threads of magicka themselves – and wrest them into submisson! Of course,” he goes well on, “that work requires reparations...”

“I see,” says I neutrally, “So let's start with... oh... how about a spell of soul trap that you cast from a distance? You know, like you want to soul trap a wolf but don't want to drop your guard when it's biting you?”

Gaspar just looks at me. “For enchantments. I see.” So did I – Gaspar was a snob as well as slimy – but to be fair he did a good job of showing me how to use all the bits on the altar. Let's just leave it at that. Trade secrets.

With my ranged soul trap spell, I then had a brainwave, and ignoring the all too close presence of Gaspar I mixed together fire and frost damage spells along with a short-lived soul trap. It nearly went to custard when Gaspar twigged, jumped for joy and hugged me out of the blue!

“Oh, gorgeous!” cries he, as I try to extract myself from his slighty too low grasp, “Such genius! Frost and fire to capture soul energy – a double-whammy! What will you call this marvellous spell?”

I just stand there and stammer, “Uh... uh... Soul... Freeze.... Burn... I suppose.”

And I look at him and he looks at me and then he, honest to gods, squeals and hugs me again!

“Oh perfect! Soul Freeze Burn – does exactly what it says on the bottle! Magnificent Apprentice, and such modesty as well. I get tired of fools coming in and creating So-And-So's Spell or High-And-Mighty's Wonder Witchery, but you –“ oh thank the Nine, he let go of me – “Oh, no, you have style!”

I thanked him very kindly for his patience and help and fled. No wonder Raminus had told me to watch my back. Other parts might have needed guarding too.

* * *

As I recovered my composure outside and began heading to the Chironasium, I saw the apprentices getting up from a lecture and drifting off, muttering amongst each other.

“Bloody rune stones again,” a Breton girl says.

“It's always those things,” grumbles a Dunmer boy, “I swear, Elena, these damn...” and he stops as the lecturer walks on by, “...these damn scholars don't care about anything but one-upping each other. You know when I left for Chorrol with Bosco three weeks ago?”

“Chorrol? I'd have thought Cheydinhal. And whatever happened to Bosco anyway?”

“No idea, bandits I guess. Anyway, I learned more from that guild in a week than I have here in a month! And no Grasper either!”

Whatever happened to that associate you sent for it last time?

I kiboshed that line of thought and popped into the Chironasium. Nice place, and Delmar is a wise Redguard who showed me how to enchant things in a dummy run.

“Now, put the item you wish to enchant on one pan.” I pulled out a small green cloak acquired from a slightly dead marauder and put it in place.

“Now, a filled soul gem in the other pan.” I didn't have one so Delmar helpfully picked a petty one out of a bowl and put it on the altar.

“Now, Apprentice,” says Delmar, “choose wisely your effect. Remember this will be a constant effect enchantment, so it will affect you.”

I thought of shielding, then decided against it. My new robe fortified willpower, and I had learned how to fortify strength, so I tossed a mental coin and chose the fortification of intelligence.

“Good thinking!” Delmar says impressed, “Now, see the scale here?” In the middle of the altar was a sort of tube and needle arrangement. When I had chosen my effect, the needle had risen to the number 8 mark.

“I see it,” says I, “I guess that's the strength of the effect?”

“Yes, and the cost in thousands of gold.”

Eight thousand drakes! I took the cloak off the altar. “So,” says I, “when I want to enchant something I need a thousand drakes per mark, right?”

Delmar just grins. “'Fraid so mate. Just remember though, you get your staff enchanted for free. When you get the staff,” he adds. “Our sacred grove is that islet over east, which you can reach through Wellspring. It goes down and right under the lake.”

I got the hint and made my apologies and headed for home, where I changed into my work gear and set off for Wellspring.

The ride over there was uneventful except for a pack of wolves outside the entrance.

* * *

Inside the cave I saw the tunnel went down to a chamber with some cots and a fellow in robes walking around. So thinking that he was a fellow Guild member, I strolled down and called, “Hail fellow Mage!”

“Fresh flesh is here!” he cried in response and summoned a ghost. honoured user was a necromancer!

The bugger took refuge in a hollow while I launched spells at his pet ghost in between shooting arrows at any part of him I could target. It was pretty unevenly matched – as soon as his ghostie summons ended, he'd whistle up another. Eventually I had enough. Pulling out my mace, I rushed him with several blows and followed up with a kill spell. He and I sank to the floor. Kill spells take it out of you.

It took me several minutes to collect all the arrows I hadn't broken in the cave walls, and I found the corpse of one of the resident mages, her throat sliced open in a way that suggested either extreme sadism or the use of a wooden spoon. Either way I didn't like either option. The path turned right and down, the air becoming colder and damper as the cave went underneath Lake Rumare.

There was another chamber now, and I could hear lapping water. I could also see figures moving around – more necros most likely. Carefully I crept towards the chamber entrance, hugging the side. Now I could see a body of water, off to the left – I pulled off my gauntlet. The Jewel of the Rumare was there. On with the gauntlet again – a prayer – I drew my mace and ran.

The plan was to lurk underwater and wait for the necros to join me – where their spells wouldn't work and my mace and I would be waiting to either smash or drown them. The gods were with me – the channel was plenty deep enough for that. I then steeled myself for the pain that comes from sucking in water instead of air and greeted my fellow bathers.

The first necromancer was a Nord who jumped in right on top of me with a wooden mauler in hand. My response was to swing my mace into his manhood, which while not doing as much damage as I would have liked, did cause him to lose most of his breath. Forsaking my shield I grabbed a foot and pulled him down with me, attempting swings at his hips and frantically kicking leg. He managed a couple of panicky blows to my helm before he finally drowned.

A blow to my back nearly sent me into the wall and I saw two more: a woman with a dagger and another man with a two-handed club. I swung at Mr Club – more accurately, at his hand. I missed however and hit his elbow instead. Out came a howl of bubbles and his next swing went wild – unlike Miss Dagger, who found a weakpoint where my elven cuirass met my chainmail greaves.

Of course, I'd dropped my shield when grabbing that damn Nord. Miss Dagger was coming at me again, so I grabbed the first thing I could find – that damn Nord. I don't think he minded getting it in the bum from her.

Anyway, Mr Hammer was still in possession of same and after me. I decided the best thing to do was give a good kick upwards, then over and down again with a king-hit on the bonce. There's worse things than blood in your eye and bits of bone are some of them.

By now the water was a mass of flailing bodies and weapons and gore and confusion. Some of it was mine. Most of it was theirs. After that bath I would need another one.

I found a tunnel leading out of the drink and staggered up it, then doubled over as I coughed up all the water I'd been breathing and wiped my face and eyes clean. Water breathing spells are a literal pain like that.

And so I picked up all the light stuff I could find and continued on. A tunnel led upwards to a door, which I assumed led to the grotto. As it was locked, I didn't expect to be greeted by necromancers. How in hell had they got in?

Not that it mattered. By this time I was tired and angry and not really in the mood for gloating conversation from some jumped-up ashskin umbrella seller. It was on this time, and I chased the corpse-shaggers up and down the grotto, virtually ignoring their summoned horrors. I just wanted to stick my mace in their faces and shut them the hells up. Which, eventually, I did.

When the sense returned to me I counted the dead – three necromancers and two members of the guild whose forms I didn't look at too closely. Apparently they were guarding some sort of stone chest, which appeared to be both a container and an altar of very great age. There was writing on it, but eroded to the point that I could only make out “Galer”. “Galerion”, I guessed. Perhaps this altar had been consecrated or something by him.

Inside was a fresh turd which had somehow missed an old and gnarled length of oak; I looked more closely and realised that it had been carefully shaped and prepared. This then was to be my staff. Tired, I slung the staff to be on my back and slogged back to the guild. All I wanted to do was sleep but I needed to tell Raminus that the grotto had been violated.

To my surprise, even in the small hours he was awake and fussing about in the university lobby. Didn't the man ever sleep?

“Hail, Ra'Jirra,” says he, “Aren't you supposed to – what's happened?”

“Necromancers,” snarls I, “at Wellspring Cave.” And he steps back a bit and goes to sit down on a bench that's about three inches too far away and doesn't notice!

“Eletta and Zahrasha?” asks he.

“Anybody who wasn't a necromancer they killed,” says I.

“What's this?” asks a Bosmer mage coming in.

“Wellspring Cave had necromancers,” says I.

And she goes all white and says, “Oh my”, and looks at Raminus and says “Oh my,” and looks at me and says “Oh my,” then looks at the door and totters out. She may have said “Oh my” but I didn't notice because Raminus was muttering while rising to his feet again.

“They've never been so bold before now. Always hiding in the shadows, staying away from the guild. What could have prompted this?”

“Whatever it was they're so mad about it one of them shat in the altar,” says I and sends him sitting down hard again in a near faint.

“Those swine.” He says it very softly and clearly. Then he says it again, repeatedly, with more and more ornate elaborations, which seems to help him get back up again. “I'll need to speak to the council about this,” says he with grim and anger, “Thank you for relaying the information. Now, tend to your staff, and your wounds, if necessary.” And off he goes to the teleport pad thing while saying something I didn't catch. But it was clearer than ever to me that someone or something – maybe several – had it in for the Mage's Guild.

Clearer still that I'd ended up right in the flaming middle, just like the hero who overthrew Jagar Tharn, or the Nerevarine.

I went straight home, feeling like I was full of lightning and at any moment I would burst into a great scream of pure force that would level everything.

But that night all I ended up doing was sitting in front of the fire, drinking. It helped calm the storm atronachs inside me.

* * *

As I said previously, most of the scholars in the Arcane University spend their time apparently one-upping each other or talking down to the apprentices. If they're doing anything useful, they're hiding it from everyone – including me, the Arch-Mage.

So I've been taking steps. You may have heard the screams.


Let me give you an example involving a scholar called Mucianus Polentus. This is a copy of a letter I wrote after his interview.

- - -

Guild Master Dagail

Leyawiin Mage's Guild

Dagail,

I'm sending down a scholarly twit called Mucianus Polentus. I've just been grilling him over what exactly he's been doing for the last five years here.

Apparently he's found a relationship between the appearance of a capital-C Champion of the sort that overthrew Jagar Tharn, was central to events in Daggerfall and was the Nerevarine, Dragon Break events, and counter-temporal daedron flows (ie. where daedrons go back in time.) Apparently these events and people are heralded by these daedron flows flooding or something.

However, the silly bugger doesn't appear to know what the counter-temporal daedron flows are like in normal conditions. Nor has he managed to answer the question of which comes first, the daedrons or the Champion or something else.

See if you can give the poor guy a hand with these. He's on to something big here that could revolutionise the school of Mysticism but he can't see it because he's all dazzled by Dragon Breaks.

Also getting him away from the other airy-fairies at the University should shake the cobwebs out of his head. Give him little jobs to do and stop his head getting in a rut like it is now.

He'll be getting his marching orders in about two days, so he should arrive down your way by Sundas.

Hope the sheep are doing fine.

Regards,

Ra'Jirra

PS. His research is relevant to recent events. See the sealed YOUR EYES ONLY section for more details but don't show it to Mucus – I'm not sure of his loyalties.

Hilarious - as always. MORE please

Tons of fun. I liked how you explained the spellmaking and enchanting altars. Especially how you described the spellmaking altar as allowing you to see spell threads, so you could grab hold of them. I never understood the cost of either. Do you have to put money in a slot in the altar before it will work? Or does it consume your gold when you create something?

fortification of intelligence.
For a moment I thought you said fornication...

Enjoyable as always!

The crap in the altar is an especially effective touch - it brings home just the kind of punks these necros really are.

The conversational style works very well for Ra'Jirra - it suits his purrsonality well the way Rales Serethi's narrative conversation fits his.

@HEC: Thanks for that. It's one of those last-minute ideas: "OK, I've bust into the shrine of our enemies, what can I do to spite them?"

Then I thought of having it land on the staff to be, but felt that would be overkill.

Next up, some unfinished business and Ra'Jirra forgets something.

Incidentally, the conversation between the apprentices reflects something I noticed when digging in the CS: Every single one of the lectures is about the damn runestones! Guess the apprentices have to teach themselves after all

Chapter 10. In Which Ra'Jirra Finishes Old Business and Forgets Something

Anyway, getting back to my epic life story, the following morning I decided that I needed a holiday. I also needed, I thought, a bit of a crash course in combat and using my new spells. After some thought I decided that the most sensible thing to do was head back to Anvil and locate Bjalfi the Contemptible – gods only know why Maeva got hitched to a dork with a name like that – and have a bit of a chat about his marital duties to his wife and knock his head off.

Along the way, and I wasn't really paying attention, I did find out Soul Freeze Burn works a treat on deer, wolves, skeletons and eventually ghosts. And so I made my way to Fort Strand again. And got the attention of the bastards standing watch again. And went in again.

Unlike last time, once inside I hooked a right, carefully felling felons as I went. A large double door led almost directly to the chamber in which Bjalfi and his buddies were milling about, just around a corner.

Now, consider this. You're in a stone chamber underground. Your mates are wandering about in earshot. And then one cries out in alarm and hares off to deal with an intruder. Then another hares off. And another. And they don't come back. A sensible bloke would lend a hand. And I'd not be here writing this.

Instead, it was a white-knuckle business of attracting the attention of one or two, dropping them, recovering, then luring more over to their deaths. Finally, eight corpses later, I got the attention of Bjalfi – it must have been him, he was waving a dwemer mace fair crackling with shock magicks.

“Bjalfi!” shouts I, “Your wife sent me!”

“Tell the...” starts he, and I refuse to repeat what he called Maeva, or what he suggested she do, or what else he said. Mainly because he started screaming and I lost track what with him swinging at my head and all.

So we fought. I backpedalled and slung spells and mace blows. He just charged and flailed away and screamed Nord curses until I finally wore him down enough that the kill spell finally did for him. I sank to my knees exhausted – trust me, casting the kill spell knackers me almost as much as the victim. I took a look at the battered visage of Bjalfi the Contemptible, a face that showed the marks of dissipation and no sense of responsibility. Not the sort of face you'd expect to see working in the farmyard.

Grimly, I looted the corpses, and even more grimly pulled out some feather potions before heading back to Anvil see Maeva – fortunately outside.

“I haven't seen you for over a month,” says she, “Well? Did you find my husband?”

I just look at her and wish I could have escorted Bjalfi back. With Rockshatter Maeve would have made his life pure, well-deserved hell.

Instead I silently handed her Rockshatter.

“Dead huh?” Not a question. “Well, good riddance I guess. Heh. He was so besotted with me, I thought I was gonna be the one to make an honest man outa him.”

No lady, thinks I, he was besotted with your tits. While I'm not that interested in smoothskins hers argued for an exemption, but that's not important right now.

“Well,” she goes on, “here's your reward – my damn dowry. Looks like my father was right when he said I was a fool to marry him...” And since then whenever I've seen her she's always had that mace by her side. Can't say I blame her for keeping it close.

So afterwards I took off as fast as I could for Morvayn's Peacemakers before the potions wore off, took a breath, and carefully stepped inside, trying to keep my guts reined in.

“Varel Morvayn,” he recited, “Been making weapons and arms here in Anvil for 30 years. People say I do good work, and I don't aim to argue with them.” Evidently he didn't recognise me from all that time ago.

“Good day sir,” I declare, “I have some salvage from Fort Strand.”

“The marauder base?” says he, “Many casualties?”

I think then say, “About a dozen. Uh, including Maeva's hubby,” while extracting as many of the cuirasses and weapons as I can.

“Bjalfi? Oh yes, I'd heard he'd been seen around there. Then again, I always knew he was a wastrel. Nobody good could be called 'the Contemptible',” and he just taps his nose and nods knowingly. “This is a good haul, hmm...”

And he dawdles over each item, and he's good, eyeing every ding and nick, and I can feel pressure building.

“I left some items outside, let me get them,” says I and shoot out the door, around the corner, and frankly I tried to keep it discreet but felt like half of Anvil learned why Mazoga calls me Trumpet-Tail.

What? Best to get it out in the open under my control.

That embarrassing nickname I mean.

And then I took a pair of silver maces out of my pack, went back inside, and acted as if nothing had happened while impoverishing poor old Varel.

“A pleasure to do serious business,” says he, “By the way, did you hear anything strange outside?”

I just shook my head and bolted.

* * *

With extra coin and filled-up soul gems I felt ready to get my staff done. So I returned home to the Imperial City and then to the Chironasium, where I checked the cost (still too high) of enchanting my staff.

“Whatever are you doing?” Delmar had snuck up behind me.

“Prepping my staff for enchanting,” says I.

Delmar just looks at me like I'm an idiot. “Well there's no need to bankrupt yourself! Give it here, didn't Raminus tell you you get your Mage's Staff for free?”

Yep, I'm an idiot. Sheepishly I removed my gem from the altar and handed the staff over to him.

“Right then,” says he, being very diplomatic I thought, “you'll need to decide what sort of staff you're looking for. Something that fits you, and your abilities. Enchanting staves can be a tricky business. Only certain spells will be truly useful to you, so I'll narrow it down some. Destruction, Illusion, or Mysticism?”

“Illusion,” says I, as my skills in that school were lacking. Destruction goes without saying, and I tended to cast life detection spells almost non-stop. Even Dagail, once she got her marbles back, complemented me on my skill in that school.

“Right then!” says he, “Since staves launch spells at people, your choices are Charm, Paralyze, and Silence. Which would you like?”

And I has another little think and decide that being able to slow down attackers some is a highly recommended thing, and so “Paralysis,” says I.

“Uh huh, so with your staff you'll be able to stop attackers in their tracks for a little while. And that's definitely what you want?”

Yes, that was definitely what I wanted.

“Right then,” says he, “come see me tomorrow and your staff will be ready.”

And so I thanked him very kindly for his time and went home.

Now by all rights I should have spent the time delving and having adventures. Well sorry to disappoint, but I spent my time doing some alchemy, housework and my laundry, and meditating on the fact that it had been over a month since I stepped off the Coy Carp in Anvil, three-and-forty days ago.

exactly my playing style!

Still:
That's something about the game mechanics I could never figure out, especially when my sneak skill is practically zero!

Aye, that she would have!

Yay, more Ra'jirra! I wonder if Julian will encounter him during her travels in the Mages Guild?

gods only know why Maeva got hitched to a dork with a name like that
To quote the movie Angelheart- "It's always the bad-asses who make a girl's heart beat faster."

I thought I was gonna be the one to make an honest man outa him.
And that is what they all think. And they are always wrong. Nice portrayal!

I usually go with the Paralysis staff as well. It works against most everything. Silence is only really useful against spellcasters, and Charm is easy enough to do on your own (I discovered that you can create a 50 point touch charm spell at Novice level of Illusion.)


nits:
“Tell the umbrella seller to...”
Zinged by the board's swear filter!

And since then whenever I've seen her she's always had that made by her side.
Looks like a typo on mace.

I'm afraid the way I've played him won't let that happen. Not without some incredibly hairy rewrites - or rewinding over twenty hours to a previous save!

[several hours later]

Looks like I could. My last full save was 8 Heartfire - before I took the plunge and visited the Dragonfires, which launches the main quest with Indigo's mod.

So in my mind, he _might_ do so, if the dates match. And of course he won't spot any Oblivion gates on his travels.

[several more hours later]

Right! Leave the Dragonfires alone and off we go the the Vati - Vahtacen!

[OK then! Thanks to "Bob"'s School of Time Control, I was able to prevent Ra'jirra from getting suckered into the MQ - definitely not on my todo list for him. Actually, I almost got quests out of sequence...]

Chapter 11. In Which Ra'Jirra Has a Nasty Surprise in Skingrad

I popped back into the lobby of good old AU and greeted Raminus, who was chirping on to one of those square-faced bosmers about the latest fights at the Arena. I can't understand the impulse to regularly risk one's neck for gold in front of a crowd. Mind you I tend to risk my neck going on quests, but usually those are private affairs.

“Journeyman Ra'Jirra!” says he, “I have a task for you!”

“Certainly, Raminus – hang on, what did you call me?” says I.

Raminus just grins at me. “The Council are no slouches with recognising those who go above and beyond for the Guild. Such as you.”

“Well, then,” says I slowly, “What's this about a task?”

“The Council is investigating what happened at Wellspring Cave,” he explains, “Many of our resources are devoted to the task, leaving our ranks spread thin. There is a related book that needs to be recovered. It was recently loaned to Janus Hassildor, the Count of Skingrad. I'd like you to retrieve it.”

“That's all?” says I, and here I am thinking it's a cushy number as long as I don't run into Glarthir again.

“I understand this may not seem the most important of tasks, but still...” shrugs Raminus, “It needs doing, and you are one of the few available to do it.”

“And while you're over there,” interrupts Mrs Square Face, “you can help me with the orrery.”

“Sorry Ra'Jirra,” says Raminus all embarrassed, “This is Bothiel. She maintains the Orrery here.”

“That's what I would do if it wasn't for bandits,” she jumps in irritably, “and they stole parts I was waiting for. Here,” and she hands me a paper, “this explains the situation. If you could get those parts back, you'll help get the Orrery working again.”

I looked at the paper and noted the location of Camp Ales on my map, more or less north of Kvatch.

But Ranimus clears his throat with an angry noise, and gets my attention again. “I think the issue of necromancers is a bit more important than retrieving parts...” Whoops! Bothiel's face goes all thunderous, but he charges on, “A note of caution: Skingrad is an... unusual place. Be prepared for the unexpected. The Count is a reclusive man, and sometimes difficult to see. Hopefully, your status as a representative of the Guild will aid you. Speak with the castle steward when you arrive.”

And I acknowledge that and am all yes sir and away I go before the fight gets underway.

Frankly, Skingrad was fairly strange. There was Glarthir, the crazy bosmer, Erthor, the crazy mage, and now I had to deal with a crazy count? “Fuggnell,” I muttered as I left my little home and started along the way.

It was late in the day of 6 Frost Fall when I arrived in Skingrad, gussied myself up in my Mage's Guild finery, presented myself at the castle, and spoke to his steward, one Mercator Hosidius.

I shouldn't have bothered.

“Yes? The Mages Guild, you say?” and he gives me a look like I'd come fresh from the hog pen. (Funny that, I've never seen pig farms anywhere.) “Oh, the Count is quite aware of your presence here. He simply has no interest in granting you an audience at this time.” And he looks me up and down in a way that sets my ears back. “Now that I've seen you myself, I can't say that I blame him.”

“Charming,” says I in my most sarcastic tone, “Does the Count know you make his decisions for him?”

There was an Argonian bird nearby and she looks at him and looks at me and slowly backs away.

Mercator just smirks. “Nevertheless,” says he most condescendingly, “I shall endeavour to change his mind on the subject. Return tomorrow - perhaps he will see you then.”

And he turns on his heel and stomps off.

“What the hell was his problem?” asks I of nobody in particular.

“No idea,” says the Argonian suddenly, “I've never seen him so rude to anyone from the Mage's Guild before, and he doesn't like the guild that much already. Tell the truth, I thought you two were about to start swinging. Um...”

And she looks to the door and I do too and see the guards putting their swords away. Bloody hell.

“I'd best leave,” says I and so I do. I didn't stop leaving until I was past the graveyard and accosted by a minotaur.

My nice new staff worked a treat, but you had to think fast because by the time I'd drawn a weapon the damn critter had got back up again. Eventually the beast fell, and I got some minotaur horn for my efforts.

I spent the night mooching in goblin caves, including the Derelict Mine on the road to the Imperial City, scoring, among other things, a nice silver axe. The following morning I went back to the castle – the tension wound up as soon as I entered and Hosidius saw me.

“You again!” He struts right up to me and gets in my face. “Has a day passed?”

“You said 'come back tomorrow',” says I, folding my arms, “Well – it's tomorrow.”

And we just look at each other.

“I have nothing new to tell you,” he says at last and turns and struts away.

“That's all right,” says I, and he stops and stares at me as I plonk myself in a handy chair and pull a couple of books out of my pack, “I'll wait.” And then I smiled at him and started reading The Collected Plays of Crassius Curio. Lovely fellow. Penned some of the lewdest and rudest farces ever to come out of Morrowind. Or anywhere else for that matter.

“Haven't you got some muck to brew?” says Hosidius about Act II Scene I of Dance of the Three-Legged Guar.

“You're unwelcome here,” adds he just as I'm about to turn the page and start on Act IV Scene IV of The Lusty Argonian Maid.

“Oh all right!” he finally says just as I'm getting to the good bit of The Real Nightmare of Castle Xyr, “The Count will meet you at 2am tonight, in the High Pasture west of town. Don't be late!”

“All right then,” says I, and I take my time plucking a leaf off a bunch of grapes for a bookmark. Then I put the books back in my pack. I didn't even need to start on Fool's Ebony.

I had several hours to kill, so I wandered over to the Mage's Guild, where nothing of interest happened. However I did notice a new altar I hadn't seen before, so I had a fiddle to pass the time. But you can only fiddle with an altar for so long, so I went off and had a look around the proposed meeting place.

The High Pasture is west of Skingrad, but east of the so-called Cursed Mine, where the road turns south towards Kvatch and Anvil – you know, where that little tree is in the middle of the road. I paid the Cursed Mine a visit and found some extra alchemical gear which the bandits inside didn't need for some reason.

And so I went back to the High Pasture about midnight, dropped off some of my loot in a handy byre, and waited a bit more. The longer I waited, the more disturbed I became. Why here? Did the Count fear a spy?

The moons were waning; I finally saw Hosidius walk past outside, accompanied by two figures in dark robes. My time sense said it was almost two; I loosened my mace in its sling, cast a detect life spell – nobody else in range – and followed them to a point outside, where they stopped. And stared at me.

I stared at them, until Mercator finally spoke up.

“Just in time, Mage. We've been waiting for you.” He looked disgusted, but that didn't surprise me, since we didn't exactly get on well. “I'm afraid I misled you. The Count won't be arriving - in fact, he doesn't even know you're here.”

“Don't tell me you're one of the corpse-humpers,” I said in contempt.

And that pretty much started the fight.

At first I wasn't doing very well. Against one, I can survive; two, it's a matter of fending one off while beating on the other. Three I was struggling with, until someone in some very fancy shining armour came charging in, grabbing a necromancer with one hand and smashing him in the face with another.

Mercator sort of lost his concentration then, gaping at the newcomer, and I took great pleasure in swinging my mace into his jaw. I could hear the bones break and watched his head snap back, then I finally loosed off a kill spell that stuck. Death wrapped him in red and black.

The other necro staggered back past me, glittering with ice, breath frozen in his lungs, dead before he hit the ground.

Then someone took my helmet off from behind. “Excuse me,” said a cultured voice, then a small mountain landed right on my noggin.

* * *

I returned to the Arcane University later that day – 8 Frost Fall I believe – and I was pissed.

“Hail Journeyman!” cries Bothiel, “Have you-”

Khajiit have this ability to hiss volumes. And I hissed an entire library's worth at her. I'm not happy about it, but maybe her ill-advised greeting let Raminus live.

I stalked over to where Raminus was slowly backing away from me.

“The Count Janus Hassildor,” I very carefully say, “says, and I quote, 'Tell your Council that the next time they want something from me, they come themselves. They don't send someone under false pretences.'”

Raminus started to splutter, but I didn't let him.

“Before he told me that, his steward, Mercator Hosidius, attempted to lead me to an ambush, claiming a secret meeting with the Count. If that worthy hadn't suspected, I would most likely be dead, and I would not be nursing this lump from where he knocked me down for 'my' stupidity afterwards.

“And he also added, and I quote, 'Despite what your Council may think, I've not thrown in with the Necromancers, and would never do so. You may pass along that message.' Well – I consider it passed on.”

By this time my blood was down a bit, and Raminus actually looked contrite.

“Ra'jirra, I... I must apologize. It was never the Council's intention to put you in harm's way.”

Either Raminus was a bloody good liar on a par with Marobar Sul, or he was being honest.

“Now, I know you've had a rotten time, but I can... I believe you deserve reward, Evoker Ra'jirra.”

“What?” was my intelligent response.

Raminus straightened up and rummaged under his robe. “As far as I am concerned, from this moment, you have gained the rank of Evoker. There'll be someone complaining about your meteoric rise in the ranks, I guess, but you've gone well above and beyond your duty to the Guild. And along with your new rank, please take this amulet. May it help keep you safe in times of danger.”

And he handed me this self same Spelldrinker Amulet I still wear to this day. All right, unless I've got a more suitable one.

“Did you find the missing parts for the orrery?” Bothiel asked then, killing the moment stone dead.

“No ma'am,” I said in a lofty tone, “I'm afraid I got distracted with necromancers trying to kill me and all.”

“Well, really!” She actually stamped her foot at me. “Don't you understand how important my work is? The orrery here is the only one in Cyrodiil. There's one more in Hammerfell... the old one at Stros M'Kai. Finding those parts is essential to unlock the secrets of the heavens – including, if my research is right, access to celestial powers! You get right back there and – men!”

Maybe Raminus and I shouldn't have burst out laughing. Mind you, the way she stormed out would have set us off anyway.

You should see the orrery, by the by. It's a truly amazing sight, and Bothiel's forgiven me for my lapse of memory there.

Oh! Oh! Oh1 I loved this version of the quest for that damned invisible book!

You have portrayed Assidius so well! (And no, that's not an inadvertent typo).

And Bothiel the Square-Faced Breton? Does that mean she's a blockhead?

You had me rolling with the Collected Plays of Crassius Curio! I've never played Morrowind, but I"m familiar with the character from several stories set in MW!

It's a good thing I had already had my beer, or it'll be all over my keyboard! You have the kind of warped humor I enjoy so much. Kudos for another hysterical installment of Ra'Jirra!

Whoehahahahahah ROFL

Ra'jirra is back! Tons of fun. I loved "Mrs Square Face"

“Don't tell me you're one of the corpse-humpers,”
I love this line!


h.e.r.: Bothiel is a wood elf. For some reason Bethesda gave them all lantern jaws, making them all look square-headed.

[Finally! I had enormous trouble writing this quest up. At one point I delved into the secret files of the Mage's Guild, of which WORM FARM pretty much covers Ra'jirra's career. However WORM FARM and other influences from Charles Stross were successfully repelled, so...]

12. In Which Ra'jirra is Bored in Vahtacen

“Anyway, Evoker,” Raminus then said to me, “I'd like you to meet Irlav Jarol. He's got a task for you, and just so you know, no necromancers.”

“Sounds fair,” says I, “Now where would he be?”

Raminus just points upwards. “I'll go up and let them know you're Evoker now, then I'll bring him down.”

And so I waited. Two hours later, Raminus and an older man in white quilted clothing popped into existence on the little dais that Raminus told me led to the council chambers and Arch-Mage's quarters.

“Councillor Jarol,” Raminus says respectfully, “Here is Evoker Ra'jirra.”

“Evoker?” says Irlav, eyeing him and me suspiciously, “I was under the impression that this cat was a Journeyman.”

“Councillor,” Raminus says carefully, “Ra'jirra did risk his life in Skingrad for the Guild. As I told the council, I declare him to be Evoker now in recognition of his services to the Guild against the necromancers.”

Irlav just looks at me as though I brought the corpse-jockeys in myself.

“I don't know he's that trustworthy. Or,” and suddenly I realise I'm still in full armour and look nothing like – “that much of a mage. What good is he going to be?”

I can feel a hiss coming on, probably followed by expulsion, so I try to put a lid on it.

“Councillor.” Raminus looks like I feel. “Ra'jirra is a member in good standing of the Guild and--”

“May I point out that we did not have this necromancy problem until this cat turned up?” My jaw near falls off and Raminus tries to speak but on goes Jarol. “Now, all of a sudden we have necromancers in our most venerated shrine, necromancers uncovered in our guildhalls, and necromancers in Skingrad! What next? Will we discover a secret shrine on the University grounds?”

“Well put him to the test and find out yourself!” Raminus snaps.

“What?” is again my intelligent response.

“Very well,” says Jarol, who then turns to me. “Journeyman Ra'jirra, I want you to go to the workings at Vahtacen at once. The last report I received from Skaleel indicated there was some sort of problem. A blocked passage, or something, that they couldn't get past. I'd investigate it further, but I'm needed here with the Council. Raminus says you've got a good head on your shoulders.”

“Right then,” says I, “Tell me where it is and I'll be off. Councillor Jarol.” (I almost called him a smoothskin but thought better of it.)

“Southwest of Cheydinhal, at the mouth of the Reed River,” snaps he, “Look for it almost due west of Swampy Cave. I expect your report at the earliest.” And with that he stomps off.

“Ra'jirra,” starts Raminus uncomfortably.

“What?”

“I'm sorry, I... I wasn't expecting that. Irlav is a bit... intense... and I think he's torn between keeping on top of the necromancer problem and his Ayleid studies.”

“Don't make excuses for the honoured user,” says I, “He's probably been a racist all his life and now it's come out. Well – I'll show him what us cats can do.”

And out I stalk.

My trek took me to a local landmark known as Longman's Barrow, which unfortunately was blocked off by Imperial orders. Actually it's probably a good thing as I really didn't need the distractions, besides I ran into goblins on the way there and once more at the ruins of Arkved's Tower. From there I had a brainstorm and swam the rest of the way up the Reed River to its mouth. Swampy Cave was easily spotted, but Vahtacen had me flummoxed. It looked just like a regular cave, not an Ayleid ruin.

But in I went, expecting some sort of resistance, but instead to my relief found a hole leading to an Ayleid chamber containing an Argonian woman who turned out to be Skaleel, and mightily grumpy and frustrated.

“Don't tell me Jarol sent you,” she starts.

“He bloody did,” says I, “and called me a cat to boot.”

At this her eyes go all wide and she actually softened a bit. “I'm not surprised,” says she, “In fact I think he deliberately sent me here to fail. That damn pillar will be the end of me!”

“What pillar?” asks I.

“Through that gate,” and she hands me a key, “There's a room with a huge pillar in the middle. Denel and I have almost been killed trying to solve it. I don't know, you have a look and let us know if you have any bright ideas.”

Through the gate a hallway dipped to the left and down. Halfway along I got a nasty feeling; casting a detect life spell revealed ghosts to my right. However if there was a secret entrance I couldn't find it, so I ignored the spectres and approached the bosmer who was around the next corner.

“I'm Ra'jirra, Evoker of the Mage's Guild,” says I, “You're Denel, if Skaleel tells me right?”

“That I am,” says he, “and it's great to meet you. Let me guess, Jarol wants a progress report?”

“Looks like it,” says I.

“Well, the only progress we're making is staying alive, and the only reason we're doing that – follow me, I'll show you.”

And so he leads me through the gate and off to the right is a chamber with an immense pillar in the middle, about twenty feet wide.

“The pillar responds to magic,” says he, “but so do the black crystals,” and he points to a corner of the room, where there's a black crystal above a sort of stone and metal stand. Then I look closer and realise the crystal is actually hovering in place. Beside it, a small plaque I couldn't read.

“When I cast this spell,” Denel says, “run!”

So Denel casts a lightning spell at the pillar. The pillar seems to shiver slightly, then the black crystals glow with a red light. I know all this because I'd followed Denel through the gateway and was watching.

The crystals let go of their energy – straight for us! If it wasn't for the metal grating and the wall we'd have been hit!

“See what I mean?” says he, “Come here and listen.” He walks back to the pillar without a qualm, picks up a pickaxe and raps it against the pillar. “Hollow,” he explains, “so there's something in there. But how you get it out has us stumped.”

“No levers, no buttons?” asks I.

“No, as far as we can tell, it's magic, maybe a series of spells. But we've no idea what spells, and frankly we're too scared to risk our lives experimenting.”

“What about these plaques?”

“Well... I think Skaleel might have a reference... Yes, ask her, see if she has one.”

“Why don't you?”

And I look at him and he looks at me and I realise that he's afraid. Maybe he's afraid of the pillar, or of Skaleel, or what might be waiting inside the pillar. I don't care. Back up the hall I go.

Skaleel didn't hear me return, as she was hunched over the desk nibbling on a quill and staring at a blank sheet of paper. I tapped her on the shoulder and she spun round and punched me in the guts.

“Oh!” She goes to help me up. “I'm so sorry, I thought – um – oh hells.”

I say nothing, I'm too busy trying to start breathing again. But Denel had best keep his hands to himself in future or I'll pass that punch on.

“Do you have a reference for the Ayleid tongue?” asks I – eventually. And painfully.

“What for?” asks she.

“To stick it to bloody Jarol,” says I, “show him what we beastfolk can do.”

And she just stands there with this look on her face.

“Oh, all right!” And into my hands comes a book entitled Ayleid Inscriptions and Translations. “Here. Denel can knock himself out with it. I wish he would. And when he does, you can–“ well, let's not go there, but it was an entertaining thought involving Jarol as a bookshelf.

Ayleid ruins are great for light, so I had a read. One phrase – Garlas Agea – jumped out at me. I'd been to Garlas Agea when I first set foot in Cyrodiil – the Caverns of Lore. But for now I parked up next to Denel. “Care for some reading?”

“Oh, you got it did you?” says he as he takes the book and opens it, “Good for you. I've given up trying to deal with her for now. I'll tell you what. If you can read me the inscriptions, I'll see if I can find translations for them.”

Sounded fair to me, so into the chamber I went, warily eyeing the black crystals of death. I decided the best thing to do was turn left and work my way around. “The first one's av molag anyammis,” calls I.

“According to this, it translates to 'From Fire, Life.',” calls he back, “Fire it is, then. What's next?”

“Av mafre nagaia, looks like,” calls I.

“What's that?” calls he.

“Get in here! I'm not throwing spells around!” yells I.

And in he comes, looking like he expects the pillar to sprout teeth and bite him.

“Oh, stop that,” says I, “I said, the inscription on this one's av mafre nagaia.”

“'mafre'...” and away he goes flicking through the pages, “...seems to translate to frost. So a spell with frost damage should work for it. Anything else?”

I walk across the room to the facing plaque. “Says magicka loria.”

“Aha!” Denel cries, he's getting excited, “It means 'Magicka Darkens.' Or 'magicka wanes'... a spell to damage magicka would fit the bill there! Last one!”

I'm already heading over to it. “I'll bet anything magicka sila means a magicka restoring spell mate!”

Denel makes a rude noise. “You can't restore magicka with a spell! On the right track though. The plaque translates to 'Magicka Shines.' Sounds like a fortification spell to me!”

It all made sense. Heating up the pillar and cooling it down; reducing the magicka levels and building them up.

“Right then, Denel,” says I heading back around the corner, “All I need are spells to reduce and build up magicka.”

“Let me have a look,” says he, and he goes to a chest and starts a-rummaging and out come two scrolls, and a copy of Observations on the Love for Nature. As I have a copy of this work I can well understand why Skaleel's fist and Denel's guts can't be friends.

“Here we are,” cries he, “scrolls to damage and fortify magicka. Right then! Time to start flinging spells eh?”

You know who had to risk his neck, right?

I launched that fireball with butterflies the size of the Imperial Dragon in my stomach. What happened was that the black crystals did nothing and the pillar's sections began to slide, some up, some downward.

Swallowed hard – snowball this time. Another success! The pillar was definitely unravelling now. If I continued to follow the sequence around the walls like I had when translating...

“Skaleel!” The bosmer's yell nearly made me jump through the ceiling. “The pillar's opening!”

I didn't hear what Skaleel said as I was trying to remember what came next. Oh, yeah, damage magicka – which was a touchy-feely one. Imagine trying to read a scroll while in arm's length of something trying to take your head off. Now imagine trying to read a scroll surrounded by objects which will trash you with magickal energy if you choose the wrong scroll.

I chose the right one. I know that because Skaleel walked past me and stood on tiptoe to peer into the now very large opening in the obviously hollow pillar.

“There's a doorway down there,” she notes. “One more spell?”

One more spell. Magicka fortified, the pillar finally opened up to reveal a stair descending to a door with luminous leafy patterns on it.

“Vahtacen Lorasel,” Skaleel read. “This place was a tomb.” She looks at me. “Be my guest.”

“What?” I was being intelligent again.

“You solved the pillar,” she said patiently, “You get to have a look around first. There must be something really important to be locked away like this.”

And I look at her and she looks at me and I finally say “all right,” go down the stairs, through the door, which closes behind me, then listen at the gap where the door meets the jamb.

“Why him?” Denel.

“Because he's too damn smart, that's why! He'll probably get eaten on the way back.” Skaleel.

“You'd want that, wouldn't you?”

“Of course I would, you little pervert! We've been here a week and making no progress – how's that going to look to fargnaxing Jarol?”

I decide to ruin Skaleel's day.

In front of me, a gate, in front of a ghost. Open the gate. Bow of Jolts does that to the ghost, then a spark spell finishes it off. Along. Chamber. Trap in the middle. Blackies, four, near the ceiling. Put away the bow and book it for the far side. No hits. Floor pad. Detect life shows two ghosts either side. Sneak forward enough to trip the pad – side walls open, then forward. Jolt and spark one ghostie then the other. Can't touch me. Yay. Another death chamber, but the trap drops, not rises to ceiling. Beyond, swinging axe trap. How in hell did I get through it?

Beyond the rigged chambers, evidently designed to distract and destroy tomb robbers, was a huge chamber, in which was a raised platform. Beyond it was a set of stairs leading to a ledge which hid a switch that raised steps towards it. Back down, up the newly raised steps – how did those Ayleids make them? – and I hear things summoned. Zombies. Tough buggers. Sensibly I break off and drop the bastards.

Back to the dais. There's a cage thing on a central pillar. One of the four pillars around it has a switch that raises to reveal – an Ayleid helm? Look at it – seems safe – just incredibly old and engraved. Take it – nothing happens – time to piss off.

Up the steps. Woah! Skeleton. One silver arrow drops the filthy thing. A secret gate hath opened. Go through – caskets offer nice things. Ghost at the top of the stairs – arrow. Again. Spark and there it goes for some ectoplasm. I keep moving. Another secret door opens and I now know how the builders got out of here.

I emerged from the Lorasel and Skaleel was nowhere to be seen. Turned out she was in the entry chamber, and looked surprised to see me.

“Oh, Evoker! Uh... did you find anything?”

“Just this helmet,” says I, “but it was at the end of three – no, four traps.”

And Skaleel peers at it. “Never seen markings like that. I think you've really found something!”

“I have?”

Skaleel looks at me doubtfully. “Is something wrong?”

“Well,” says I, looking her in the eyes, “Just after I went in, I heard some Argonian saying I'd get eaten on the way back. Makes a man leery.”

And she jumps and looks guilty.

“Evoker...”

“Skaleel... I don't have time for this. I've already had necromancers on my tail and I don't need members of the Guild joining in as well.” She jumps again. “Or maybe you're thinking of heading east and joining the Telvanni?”

Oh, you should have seen her face! She flaps her jaw a bit and nothing comes out and her eyeballs almost fall out of their sockets and do laps around the room.

“Can you keep a secret?” Very quiet, very panicked.

“All right,” very quiet, very measured.

“I'm... I'm out of my depth here. I thought this would be a doddle, just poke around, find some nice bits and I'd become an Evoker too. I don't know enough about Ayleid lore to do anything, all I could do was throw spells at that pillar, I didn't know what the hell was going on. Denel suspects, but he's just an Apprentice, he can't make any accusations stick – except that... well, you know?”

“Oh, I know all right,” says I, “and here's what I'll do. I'll take this helmet to Jarol and tell him that I found it with your help. Because that's pretty much the truth.” I grin evilly. “Besides, that way he'll be beholden to not one, but two beastfolk. See how he likes that!”

And Skaleel has a think and likes the idea and grins. “Oh, the poor baby.” She starts chuckling. “That poor man... beholden to a lizard and a cat.” She starts laughing evilly. “He dumped me here to fail you know! And I'd be out! How's he like how things turned out now?”

I don't answer. I'm off to find out.

By the time I returned to the Arcane University it was the morning of 10 Frost Fall. I was lucky enough to find Jarol heading for the teleport platform.

“Master Jarol,” says I, bringing forth the helm, “We appear to have found something.”

“Well where is it?” snaps he, “All I see is an Ayleid helm! If I wanted a damn helm I'd go molest marauders!”

“Sir,” says I, ever so patiently, “This particular helm was under a cage past no less that four trapped corridors and rooms. Whatever those markings represent they really didn't want looters to sieze it.”

“Markings?” And I find myself being pulled by the arm towards a candelabra. “Let me see,” and he takes the helm and turns it this way and that. “Now then... If my suspicions are right these... yes...”

I wait patiently as he gets more and more excited about this old helm.

“Well done,” he says at last, “Raminus was right–”

Unfortunately, I can tell–

“Suggesting you to me,” he finishes.

“I couldn't have cracked it without Skaleel's help,” says I truthfully.

He just looks at me, and I can see volumes in his gaze. Volumes I don't want to open.

“Well, I'll put in a good word for you,” says he, then ruins it by glancing at me and saying, “Evoker” grudgingly.

I go all amen and thankee and get the hells out.

Later, I was to find out that there was a pattern of racism in Jarol's activities, but that's neither here nor there given what happened.

Another enjoyable take on an otherwise dull, scholarly quest.

Never occurred to me to wonder why those two (Skaleel and Denel) were so fed up with each other! Thanks for clearing things up for me! Poor Ra'jirra - he had to find out the hard way. Ouch!

I liked the cat's description of the lower levels. No need to go into grisly detail since he'd seen it all before!

Ahh, revenge is sweet, indeed! Thanks to Ra'jirra for putting that "honored user" in his place! That was the finishing touch Irlav needed after all the pranks Maxical played on him!

Very fun segment! You really added depth to a simple puzzle-solving and monster-bashing quest by delving into Jarol's prejudices, Skaleel's insecurity, and Denel being a perv. I especially liked that the last two were specifically chosen to fail by Jarol so he could get rid of them (or at least get rid of Skaleel). That not only explained why they were unable to solve the puzzle, it also added an extra layer of conflict at the same time.

Thanks for that. When I started writing Jarol, his panicky monologue must have snagged his prejudices and out they came! Originally I almost had Ra'jirra coming to blows with Jarol right there in the lobby, but pulled back and let Raminus handle me out of a corner.

It was also fun to engineer reasons why Skaleel and Denel hadn't cracked the pillar puzzle as well. Incidentally, if you have OOO installed, you can pick up the mentioned book at First Edition. Just imagine finding that in your chest of scrolls.

It also makes the Arcane University more realistic, not one big happy family of finite state machines.

13. In Which Ra'jirra Learns the Secrets of Black Soul Gems

Well as I say, off I went to cool off. Next thing I know, Raminus is tugging on my cuff.

“Hold on there, Conjurer,” says he, “Can you do me a favour?”

I just stare at him. “I'm promoted again?”

Raminus just grins and hands me a conjurer's robe. I could feel the magic in it, much better than the one I'd pulled off that sodden corpse near Anvil.

“We're in strange times now,” says he, “and we need good men, mer, and beastfolk like yourselves. Besides, you've heaps for the guild, starting with unmasking Falcar, stopping Kunthar, offing the spies in Skingrad... which brings me back to your recommendations.”

“Go on,” says I, “What do you need doing?”

“I need you to find out about black soul gems, like the ones you found in Skingrad. Delmar's had a look at them, and he told me they can swallow a person's soul entire! Can you imagine the enchantments you could make with a soul like that?”

I can't because it's only here in the sunlight that I notice a huge bruise on Raminus' temple that wasn't there two days ago.

“What the hell happened to you?” asks I.

Raminus points to the Mystic Archives. “Tar-Meena.”

Even as he speaks an Altmer shoots out the door like Molag Bal made advances at her.

“What the hell?” is my intelligent response to this sight.

“Um...” Raminus looks embarrassed, “The Council's in an uproar over the necromancer threat and they've all demanded everything she has on them. Even I went to ask her, and she just screamed and threw a book at me.”

Now I've heard everything.

“Look, Tar-Meena's going crazy because up until now we've just asked for everything and anything she has. Those black soul gems from Skingrad are the only really concrete thing we have to research. How are they made? How are they used? That sort of thing. But I'm keeping my distance from Tar-Meena until she calms down.”

So off I go and enter the Mystic Archives.

Inside was full with apprentices and other sorts mumbling as quietly as possible over books and parchments, shooting fearful looks at Tar-Meena, who was slumped in front of a desk staring unseeing at some paperwork. Her colour didn't look too good, all dull and flat, and there were dark bags under her eyes.

“Ma'am?” asks I.

“What?” she snaps, hackles shooting up and tilting her head just enough to glare at me, “Don't tell me you're looking for information on farging necromancers as well!”

I start to speak, but away she goes, “I've had every fargnaxing councillor and their flunkies in here demanding information on fargnaxing necromancers and can they have it yester-farging-day! What do they think I am, a miracle worker? I can't produce results if I can't get the time!” She sags a bit and groans, “I'm not used to working like this.”

“Well I don't give a damn about the corpse-jockeys,” says I, “I'm after information on black soul gems.”

Well, that takes her by surprise. “Not necromancers?”

“Well,” admits I, “When I went to Cheydinhal, Falcar turned out to be one, and he had a couple, and Raminus asked me to find out more.”

“Well, finally! Something solid I can respond to!” She straightens up and then looks at me slyly. “How's his head?”

“Never seen it that colour before,” says I, “Don't think he likes it.”

Tar-Meena just snorts with amusement. “Lemme think... Yes... I think we still have a copy of Necromancer's Moon around here. Unfortunately I've no idea where it is,” and she glowers at the assembled parishioners, “Thanks to all these overly vague requests, I've lost track of most everything. It's very distressing.”

I didn't thank her, because everyone had downed tools at the same time and started scouring the shelves. Precious volumes were dumped unceremoniously on tables, desks and even the floor, where they got kicked or stood on in the scuffle as Tar-Meena and I stared on, stunned. The poor librarian flinched every time a book got dropped or banged or kicked.

Then a struggle broke out between a disgracefully fat dunmer and a young nord over one book, which only stopped when the unfortunate volume broke apart with a terrible noise.

Everyone froze at that instant, then an equally terrible hissing sound began to fill the silence.

It took me a while to realise it was coming from Tar-Meena, who was now beginning to look like a mad dog. All bared fangs and bulging, enraged eyes, stalking towards the two now very scared idiots with hands twitching.

I fled – along with everyone else, just as Tar-Meena screamed like a skeleton. A couple of battlemagi, probably alerted by the exodus, charged in, and I'm guessing they managed to calm the angry argonian since about ten explosion-free, if not screeching-free, minutes later they emerged, struggling with a somewhat scratched and burnt fat dunmer and young nord.

“The Mystic Archives are closed until further notice,” one of them announced, “and if you love living for the gods' sake don't go in there.”

Great. I still didn't have the book and it looked like asking for it would be asking for it. The Mage's League of Silly Buggers drifted away arguing what to do, while I braced myself and gingerly peered in. Tar-Meena was looking utterly deflated as she surveyed the mess the library had become.

“Can I help you clean up?” I asked.

Tar-Meena just looked at me dully. “Get out.”

“Look,” says I, “This was partly my fault, asking for that–”

And a book hit me square in the face.

“There's your fargnaxing book!” she screams at me. “Get OUT!!”

I get out.

I sat down in the lobby and started reading. Raminus joined me.

“They say there was a fight in the Mystic Archives,” says he, “what happened?”

“This did,” says I, “as soon as Tar-Meena told me the title everyone began tearing the place apart for it. Then two morons snapped a book in half and...”

Raminus winced. “Oh, gods. That is not good. What're you reading anyway?”

“Necromancer's Moon,” says I, and then I stop. “This could mean something. Listen:

“The Revenant, the Necromancer's Moon, watches over us all. His Form, ascended to Godhood, has taken its rightful place in the sky, and hides the enemy Arkay from us so that we may serve Him. Watch for the signs: when the heavenly light descends from above, hasten to His altars and make your offering, so that He may bless you with but a taste of His true power. Grand Soul Gems offered to Him will be darkened, and can be used to trap the souls of the unwitting; a feat even the great N'Gasta would marvel at.”

I found a loose reed on the floor and used it as a bookmark.

Raminus looked thoughtful. “So, it involves altars and a ceremony that takes place when a celestial event occurs... Bothiel!”

The bosmer had come in while we were talking and was ear-farming. Raminus filled her in, and she starts.

“Shade of the Revenant? Falcar was here some time ago, asking about just such a thing. Said it was for research. He had a large sheaf of notes with him about it.” And she frowns at me. “I'm afraid I didn't have any more advice for him than I do for you. With the Orrery in such a state of disrepair, I have no point of reference.”

I can feel my face burning or maybe it's the stinging from the impact of the book.

“Falcar did leave this behind; I think it fell from his notes as he left. I didn't pay it much attention, but perhaps it will be of use to you.”

She hands me the note and Raminus looks over my shoulder.

Primary sites:

The Dark Fissure

Fort Istirius

Fort Linchal

Wendelbek

Altars have been raised; Anchorites have been called. Watch the skies; once a week His Grace shines down on us.

“Bothiel,” Raminus says, showing great restraint, “why didn't you turn this in before now? We could have captured Falcar alive.”

“I didn't know!” Bothiel says indignantly, “I didn't think it important, and besides I just wanted the snot out of my face. I was rebuilding the main actuator mechanism at the time, or don't you remember?”

Raminus just gives her a look, then turns to me.

“The only one of these I can identify is Dark Fissure. It's a cave in the Valus Mountains near Cheydinhal, almost due east of Vahtacen. So, go there, see if there's an altar, and watch what happens when this 'shade' occurs, then report back to me.”

Bothiel is looking over my other shoulder at the note. “Damnit,” says she, “I don't recognise any of these names.”

“Why's that important?” Raminus asks irritably.

“Because one of these altars may be near Camp Ales,” she explains, “So our Conjurer here could retrieve my orrery parts at the same time!”

Which I take as my cue to flee.

I have a think at home and decide to head out to Dark Fissure, mainly because it's in an area I know. So, after some stiff travel and stiffer climbing, I crouch, armoured up and trying to be as still as a mouse, on a ledge above the entrance to Dark Fissure. In front of it, as expected, an altar, draped in the banners of necromancy, on Turdas 11 Frost Fall.

Nothing happened that night, except I got very cold and stiff.

I went to Cheydinhal the next day, did some exploring of local caves, found some nice bits, then high-tailed it back to Dark Fissure for another midnight watch. Magic ceremonies, especially dark ones, tend to be more effective, or only effective, at midnight.

Fredas became Loredas with the exact same lack of warmth and drama.

I went back to Cheydinhal, sold some salvage, then went and explored Fort Farragut. After avoiding deadly traps and deadlier than usual undead, I realised I had stumbled across the redoubt of worshippers of Sithis, none of whom were in attendance, thank heavens. I burgled the place and got out. Further on, I fended off an ogre and a pack of wolves near Rickety Mine. At least now I had some meat to munch on tonight.

Loredas became Sundas with a column of pale light, shining down directly on the altar in front of Dark Fissure. I watched the beam fascinated, then froze as the door opened and one of the corpse-jockeys emerged and strode to the altar.

He placed something on the altar, cried, “The Order of the Black Worm will feast on your soul,” referred to a piece of paper, “mortal.” Then he referred to the paper again and cast a Mysticism spell on the altar, and I watched as the gem blotched and darkened to an ugly black I had seen before.

I was aiming for his head, but the damn arrow went low. I jumped down and spelled and skewered him dead, then looted his pockets. A note and grand soul gems. I went back to the altar.

Thoughtfully, I picked up the gem, and equally thoughtfully put the other two gems on it, then looked at the note. Evidently the fool's speech was a sop to his need for theatrics.

I looked at the altar, swallowed hard, and cast soul trap on the altar, and again. Two black gems winked in the pale light beam like malevolent eyes.

I knew how they made black soul gems.

You couldn't see my tail for dust as I rocketed back to the University, Raminus, and warmer climes.

“Bloody hell,” was Raminus' response to my report, “I shall pass the news on to the Council. Most troubling, indeed, to know that these are not merely myths, but there's more of the ever-so-honoured users than we thought.”

“Oh hooray,” says I, “so there's a right punch-up brewing.”

“I'm afraid so, all joking aside. As such, you're being kicked upstairs. Arch-Mage Traven wants to give you your next set of marching orders, so you're allowed to use the teleport to speak with him, and you're being promoted again. Conjurer no more, Ra'jirra – you're a Magician now!”

All I could think of to say was, “Make sure Jarol knows won't you?”

Raminus just laughed.

“I...” then I trailed off, “I need to get used to this. I'd best deal to... um... Bothiel's bandits.”

“And about time too,” says the bosmer in question from where she'd been standing in the shadows.

“Give Traven my excuses,” says I, “I need a break.”

First off, I think you have Skingrad mixed up with Cheydinhal, unless your map did the watusi in spike heels and swapped cities on you. Falcar was the head of the Cheydinhal chapter and had black soul gems in his dresser, while Skingrad's chapter head lost one of her mages because she couldn't be bothered to babysit his experiments (when she wasn't busy playing musical beds).

That aside, this chapter was sooooo enjoyable, mainly because of Ra'jirra's perspective on otherwise mundane NPC's

I remember thinking what the hell did I do to get promoted??


Gotta love Tar-Meena!

Creative use of language there! I loved it! Sounds like me when I'm having a bad day at work!

I totally sympathize with Tar-Meena there - don't mess with my books!

Ohh, that sounds like the first time I did this quest! The view from there is awesome, but that's all I got to say for the wait!

Tee hee!


Yeah! Rub it in!

Again, this was a chapter that made me laugh out loud more than once. Good job!

Uh, obviously I had a writing fail. For one thing, it was Camp Ales [fixed]. But the confusion comes from Bothiel whinging that Ra'jirra's heading in the opposite direction from her precious orrery parts. Again.

EDIT: Argh! How could I have made THAT mistake!? F1XX0r3D.

With regards to same, I've tried to mod the DLC for the orrery so that it isn't reliant on the MQ starting. However it looks like I'll have to redo the patch before I can continue with the story. Ra'jirra needs some time whacking nothing but bandits before he can get up the gumption before reporting to Traven.

Several lines had me chuckling
Like this one
Stating the obvious is sometimes funny as hell. And you made an art out of that

Poor, harried Tar-Meena. I always liked her. The observation of he color being flat was an excellent touch at world-building. Little things like that bring the races to life.

Even I went to ask her, and she just screamed and threw a book at me.
Priceless!

“Never seen it that colour before,” says I, “Don't think he likes it.”


Lots of fun all around. You have a real gift for writing comedy.

Thanks guys. I found out where the semicolon had to go; so now all that remains is the writeup. Why the coders thought they had to wait until the main quest spat you out of the sewers is beyond me.

Incidentally, I passed a couple of chapters through this thing, and it said I write like Ursula K LeGuin. Hoodathunkit?

Neat! I posted in Chapter 12 of the TF, and it said I write like Stephen King. I guess I am long-winded!

Well, I tried that thing, on two different stories.

Three chapters from one story - excerpts said I write like Harry Harrison, Chuck Palahniuk (?), and Stephenie Meyer (??).

Excerpts from my OHDH here on Chorrol.com: from Spies, Really compared me to J. K. Rowling, and from my next post A New Habit garnered me a William Gibson.

Interesting. None of them are my favs, but I do like HH and WG. Never heard of CP or SM. Have not read JKR.

Makes me wonder what they're using to analyze the text - it must be formatting, syntax and rhythm, since the subject matter has nothing in common with those authors! It's funny that I should get three different authors on one story, and two on another.

Heh.

I only read Earthsea (like a dozen times) from LeGuin but I disagree. Your work style doesn't remind me of her work at all.

[Hey guys, still here. The long break's because there's been a bereavement, and also because I've been trying a few other games and stuff.

Anyhow, I fired up Ob' long enough to finish the next quest, but you try writing with crook guts. Here's a shortie to tide you over anyway.]

Chapter 14. In which Ra'Jirra Finds a Friend

I spent about three days roaming the heath and highlands beyond Skingrad and Kvatch, hunting down first one, then the rest of the bandits lugging Bothiel's precious dwemer thingamajigs. Whoever controlled the bandits wasn't a fool – he'd dispersed the parts among five different camps.

Of especial note was the bandit who jumped me when I emerged from Niryastare – the more fool her – and a truly terrifying incident where I slew an entire camp, near Nonungalo, I think, and then was attacked by an ogre. As we circled in the dance, I shat myself in terror as I saw six more ogres approaching from the east!

Mercifully, they paid me and my most recent kill no attention as they headed west. So where the effing hell were they before? They could have killed off the bandits for me.

By this time I'd had a gutsful of the yellow-green hills, and I returned to an overjoyed Bothiel, before taking Raminus' advice and teleporting to the council chambers.

“Magician! Where the bloody hell have you been?” This came from a short Breton man whose aged face and snowy locks looked almost out of place atop a suit of daedric armour, except for the sense of authority and the ease with which he moved in it.

“My apologies, Arch-Mage,” says I, “I have been reclaiming Guild property for Bothiel. And frankly I've been pulling myself together, given what I've seen.”

His response is a snort. “I needed you three damn days ago. It may already be too late, except I've heard nothing, so maybe we're still in with a chance. I need you to find my spy.”

“You have a spy in the necromancers?”

“No,” says he sweetly, “He's a spy in the Imperial bedchamber.” Serious again. “Last I heard he was sent off to Nenyond Twyll. Pass us your map.”

I obey orders and he marks it. “Been to the inns there I see. Don't eat at the Inn of Ill Omen, he can't cook to save himself. Faregyl's known for its potato bread – fair makes your mouth water. Nenyond Twyll's due west of it on a ridge – you can't miss it. Just watch out for battlemagi.”

“Why them?”

“I've been overridden,” says he disgustedly, “To be perfectly Francis with you, I had to send them in to keep the council under control. Only thing is, those battlemagi don't know Mucianus Allias is on our side, and I want him out of their hands. I'll give you three guesses why.”

“The grove,” says I.

“Not bad for a 'mere cat,' eh Irlav?” says Traven, looking over his shoulder at bloody Jarol. Jarol just smiles in a sickly fashion. Seems his little outburst bit him on the bum. The altmer woman who I'd seen shooting out the library near a week ago also grinned tightly at Jarol's discomfort, but I got the impression she was ear-farming too.

“Anyway,” Traven comes back to me, “Get your tail over to Nenyond Twyll, where you should have bloody been three days ago, find Mucianus and find out why he's been so quiet before either our lads or those bastards do. The portal's to your right.”

I went to my right.

Ahahahaha! Oh my! Spy in the Imperial bedchambers! Ahaahahah.

To be perfectly Francis with you?? Francis?? Oh, my, just let me catch my breath here!

Not fair, putting that on the heels of a spy in the Imperial bedchamber!

Then following that with a critique of the cooking at Ill Omen!

Lots of fun again! Traven sure has quite the sense of humor. I loved the Imperial Bedchamber line, as well as the 'mere cat barb directed at Jarol'!

I am sorry to hear about your bereavement. It has taken me awhile, but I finally sat down to read this tonight. Tell Ra’Jirra that whatever the Mages Guild is paying him, it isn’t enough. He is worth his weight in septims! I won’t go on and on quoting some of his one-liners back at him because, quite frankly, I don’t think he would like that at all. Know that he has just given me two and a half of the most enjoyable hours that I have ever spent reading a fan fiction (I submit that it would have been much less if I didn’t have to take constant breaks to compose myself).


I agree with this. I put through two chapters of Interregnum and it says I write like James Joyce . . . and Dan Brown. I hated The Da Vinci Code and reading Ulysses is like being repeatedly slapped about the face and neck. Go figure. Incidentally, Chuck Palahniuk wrote the novel Fight Club that is the basis for the film starring Brad Pitt and Edward Norton. And Stephenie Meyer writes the Twilight series. I know that because I am blessed with a thirteen year old niece.

I'm actually just responding to the Prologue for now, because that's all the further that I've read for the moment. Busy schedule and all that nonsense. As Calvin (Calvin and Hobbes) once said: 'Reality continues to ruin my life."

That out of the way, you must be the Rev. Cardboard Box from another site? I haven't read anything over there for a long time, so I only recently glanced through new stories to notice that there was a Box there as well as here. If you're looking for honest reviews that actually offer thoughtful comments and advice for improving your craft, I'm finding that Chorrol is a much better site. The people here actually like stories with plot--stories where people aren't getting naughty two chapters after meeting. Of course, you probably knew that already since I'm assuming that you've been on this site longer than I have.

Now onto the actual story! I truly love the distinct voice of your narrator. He's a farmboy who talks like an unrefined bumpkin, which is quite charming in its own right. My favorite instance of him fumbling for words was after the dispel was cast. The whole description of the spell feeling like a cobweb was neat, and I was so pleased to see the word cantrip! Don't ask me why, but I've always liked this word, and besides that, your story sounds quite humorous. I'll leave another review once I progress a little more.

Yep, guilty as charged. But also please note that this site doesn't move as fast as that place does, so a good story gets hosed off centre stage by reams of shoddy Naruto/Twilight/Harry Potter slash or whatever written by pimply-eyed plop [sic] culture addicts who apparently spend their English classes surfing for porn on their smartphones. And then they go home and drop trou and WHUGGAWUGGAWHARBL at the computer and call the result best fanfic evar. [You forgot the good stories that don't get bloody finished - R.]

This is also not the first fanfic I ever wrote. The first evar was based on a series of Quake mods headed by Marcus "Mexx" Dromowicz. There were also enthusiastic snippets and one longer piece for Carson Fire's comic Elf Life (currently on hiatus) and then there's all that work I did to get Unicorn Jelly into print.

Depending on how I feel, Ra'Jirra may save Tamriel from Mehrunes Fishface; he may turn into the next Sheogorath; but I am thinking of a future Oblivion/Fallout 3 crossover in which he becomes a reluctant sidekick of an arrogant boat of a Lone Wanderer. [I'll take out a restraining order in the morning - R.]

But first I have to finish this chapter. [Well get on with it you lazy british boatie - R.]

My apologies Ra'Jirra. Of course there are excellent stories among the...well, you described those ones quite well. I've found quite a few over yonder that are exceedingly wonderful. I'm still blown away by the consistently excellent stories on Chorrol though. My compliments to all of the hard working writers out there. You're all fantastic.

I am sorry to hear about your bereavement, I had one as well or I would have been on here commenting on these great chapters you've added since last I was here.

1. ROFL!!!

2. I love Grayditch!

3. ROFL!!

I like the idea of a crossover to Fallout 3, but not enough to see you leave Tamriel this soon! ARGH!!!

[And so it finally all spills out in an untidy heap. I think the end better portrays my idea of Traven.]

Chapter 14 cont'd (2,332 words later)

I arrived outside Faregyl Inn without incident and watched disgustedly as the damn unicorn immediately lifted anchors for its grove without so much as a by-your-leave. Still, the last thing I needed was a unicorn preventing me from evading whatever guards the corpse-jockeys had set out.

To my surprise there weren't any, just a pack of wolves and an ogre carrying a bundle of huge potatoes. Sacks not being an ogre invention I decided to ask around.

I'm beginning to wonder if inns in Cyrodiil have to be built according to a set plan: public room below, and private quarters up above. If it wasn't for the fine Khajiit matron behind the bar and the younger and quite pretty she sitting at it, I could have sworn I was in Wawnet.

"Welcome, strangerr," she purrs at me. "This one is Abhuki, and this is Farregyl Inn. Was it food you seek, orr perhaps good bedding?"

Oh ho ho! I think to myself and decide to tread carefully.

"I'm Ra'jirra,", says I, "Looking for a friend who's got lost around this way." I rub my chin and add, "If I find him he'll probably need a place to rest. He's an Imperial bloke, would be heading westward. Anyone like that around recently?"

Well Abhuki looks surprised and the kit jerks her head up and around, making her fussy hairdo shake.

"Heading westwarrd? Perhaps this he you seek stole poorr S'jirra's jumbo potatoes!"

"S'jirra!" says Abhuki, "neverr mind your potatoes! Many pass west to Brravil, it may have been someone else."

"But how is poorr S'jirra to make herr famous Farregyl potato bread without them?"

I look to the older and younger and pull out the sack of spuds the ogre was toting. "This them?" asks I.

I seem to make folks' eyes fall out on a regular basis. However, I don't usually make folks so overjoyed that they kiss me. Then again, S'jirra is quite free to kiss me any time she likes!

"Oh wonderrful Rra'jirrra!" she creeled with delight in my ear, much to the embarrassment of Abhuki and the amusement of the other patrons. "Oh, how did Rra'jirrra find them? Stupid S'jirrra to leave them outside all alone like that! All S'jirra wanted to do was give them some sun. Next thing, they werre gone!"

"An ogre took them," says I, "but ogrres are no match for Ra'jirra."

What? That east Elsweyr accent and dialect can be contagious. And attractive.

"Ogrres!" She pulls away from me with a start. "So close to ourr inn? Why, we could be murrderred in ourr beds! Oh, please stay and prrotect poorr–"

"S'jirrra!" Abhuki snapped, and S'jirra let go of me, unfortunately. "Rra'jirrra seeks his lost frriend. Hopefully he will not be long–?"

I blink, and decide "I shouldn't think so," along with a deposit on a room, is a good decision. "But the ogre is dead, so the inn should be safe for now."

"Then go rrescue yourr frriend," says Abhuki, "and do hurrry back."

"And herre," S'jirra pushes a loaf of the most delicious smelling bread into my grasp, "forr rrescuing my potatoes," (Abhuki rolls her eyes at that) "on the house. Rra'jirrra can have morre, but he must pay," says she with a twinkle in her eyes.

Maybe I should have stayed overnight, but I didn't want to keep Traven waiting. Besides, this time I wouldn't be alone. There would be big burly battlemages doing all the fighting.

My plan was to find the leader and point out that Mucianus was to be taken to Traven for interrogation. Special orders, sir. No sir, I don't know why. And with those cheerful thoughts in mind, I left the stars behind and entered the Ayleid hole.

Almost immediately I was greeted with "You!" from a rattled-looking bosmer in full steel gear. "What are you doing here?"

"I was sent here," says I, "Traven wants–"

"Has the Council gone mad, sending you here alone?" cries he, not letting me finish, "There's no time. The others... they were waiting for us. They knew we were coming!"

"Hang on," says I, "Where's the rest of your lot?"

"I'm the only one left," says he, and he looks a bit shifty, and I look at him closer. His gear doesn't have many dings in it, and he's scared and not hiding it well. "Since I'm the junior in the squad, I was held back on sentry-go," he adds, explaining a lot.

"The Necromancers retreated further in," hang on, what's this shrill business? "but we've got to follow them. There's no time to waste!" Out comes an axe in a grip for dear life. "Follow me!"

And off he runs downstairs with total recklessness. He must have got his license wrapped round a loaf of bread.

I yelled at him to wait, but before I reached the bottom of the stairs, I heard an almighty crashing of stone and a bosmer's deathcry. The last battlemage, supposedly a wily warrior versed in combat and spellcraft, had charged straight into an Ayleid trap.

The rigged floor slab sank back to ground; the bosmer's corpse came later, some of the spikes in the ceiling having stuck in his head. Almost as soon as it landed the weight triggered the trap again and away he went.

I took a breath after the third encore and jumped on as the slab lowered again, grabbed a leg and yanked as hard as I could, pulling him away before the trap went off again. Now his suit had battle damage.

Ayleid floor traps can be avoided by skirting around the edges, although you do best to avoid the damn things altogether. This left me free to head around and deal to the undead and corpse-jockeys that were hanging around, patrolling in a sloppy fashion. This didn't mean they were pushovers though – their summonses made sure of that. Even so, I was able to cast Soul Freeze Burn on one of them – and it stuck.

The chamber reeked of blood and death; the cold light of a nearby Ayleid crystal made the loaded black gem even more hideous. There was a man's soul in there. I'd torn the essential energies from a more or less living, mortal man, and crushed his essence into a container. I sat for a while staring at the gem. I'd seen his eyes, he'd realised at the last what I'd done. Was he still aware in there? Unable to do anything except wait for the inevitable destruction when I used the gem for... what?

I suddenly realised I had no idea what I could do with the damnable thing.

Then I remembered that I was inside a necromancer stronghold and I was three days behind in extracting Mucus or whatever his name was.

I also noticed that there were no signs of other battlemagi, dead or otherwise. Evidently the gentles I had met were guards after the fact, and the real fighting had been further in. Pity that that bosmer was stuck on door duty.

Beyond the chamber was a door which led to the 'Riellesel', whatever that was. Beyond the door was a woman shrouded in shadow. I unlimbered my Bow of Jolts and sent an arrow in her back.

To my surprise, she merely staggered and turned to face me, laughing!

"Oh, you poor dear," says she, eyes gleaming with madness, "I'm afraid you're late to the party. The guest of honour has already left!"

"What guest?" snaps I, "You talking about Mucianus?"

And she just giggles and coughs, seeing as my arrow stuck a lung. "Oh, I knew it! I do hate to disappoint you, but Mucianus is in no condition to be leaving. He's a Worm Thrall now, and shall be quite content here."

"You bastards," says I, "You filthy corpse-humpers..."

"Oh, stop that," says she around the blood filling her lungs. "A grim fate indeed, but one does not cross the Order of the Black Worm without suffering greatly for it."

There is nothing worse than a woman smiling at you with bloody froth all over her gob.

"I shall tell the master that you were here looking for him. Ooh! Perhaps I'll bring him your head as an offering!" foams she, and we danced, briefly.

Below, there was a sort of bridge affair in a large chamber full of water; apparently 'Riellesel' meant 'reservior' or something like that. There were two more necros waiting to be introduced to death, but they weren't much of an issue.

The real scare came after I crossed the bridge. I almost didn't notice the telltale distortion until it was too late. That was my first introduction to a senior necromancer – a Keeper of the Dead. Despite being wailed on by a skeleton, a ghost and an endless stream of summoned zombies, I finally skewered and spelled the honoured user into his own grave.

I couldn't move afterwards. The swine had slammed me with a spell shattering my strength. I remember grimly eyeing the first bottle of home made potion before downing it, feeling the lightness of feather magic – as well as the side effects. And so I trumpeted my victory as I sought Mucianus.

I found a zombie in a secret chamber that didn't attack me. Unlike other zombies, this one seemed to sport rags resembling the remnants of a robe. A powder-blue one. With a familiar clasp.

"Mucianus?"

It nodded.

It nodded and looked at me.

It nodded and looked at me with anguish in its one recognisable eye.

He nodded and looked at me with anguish in his one recognisable eye and spread his arms beseechingly.

He howled in despair and I'm sure I screamed as I fled for the surface and the honest light.

I think he's still down there.

I remember standing outside the doorway staring up into the clean rain, wanting to return to Faregyl Inn and the attentions of S'jirra (and all right, Abhuki) and just be in a place with honest warmth and good people.

But I came to my senses. Firstly, Arch-Mage Traven had to be informed. Secondly, I was carrying a huge amount of salvage. And finally, well, I've mentioned what feather potions do to myself already.

So I lit out for the waterfront, got home, dropped off my salvage and turned around to find Traven blocking the door.

"Well, Magician?" snaps he, "It's been another three damn days. Where's Mucianus?"

And I just gape at him, feeling very old.

"When I give an order," he continues to snap, "I expect obedience. Instead I find your scent trail," and I think I blushed at that point, "ends up in this shack. Maybe I could porter for you while you run riot through the Merchant's District?"

And I just gape at him and feel the floor tilt slightly.

"Bloody hell, you're dead on your feet," snaps he, and strides over and hauls me to a seat at the kitchen table. "Siddown."

I saddown.

"What happened?" asks he a bit less nasty, "You don't look good. He's dead isn't he?"

"They..." I find my voice again, "they turned him into a worm thrall, that's what they called it. Zombie. Said the guest of honour had already left..."

"What do you mean?"

"She... she said something about a master," I stuttered. (Need I point out all this talk is cleaned up?) "Maybe he was there."

And Traven just shakes his head. "Orrery parts," mutters he, "And the battlemagi?"

"They're all dead," says I, then I remembered. "Wait. There was one guarding the entrance, but I never saw sign of any others. I mean, the last one said he was the only one left, I thought the rest were killed..."

Traven just stares at me. "This is bad, Magician," says he at last, "Very bad. Our spy and an entire squad of battlemagi lost. So, what happened when you first entered the ruins?"

I don't remember much about that interrogation, except firelight playing on Traven's hair and his eyes boring intently and unblinkingly into me. He teased it out, piece by piece, until my terrified flight.

Then he blinked and leaned back. I think it was a spell.

"Ra'jirra," says he, "I need to think about this, and you need to rest and rethink your practises. Right now, your strength and endurance are shattered, and it's only those feather potions that got you out of there." Then he looks at me and fans his face. "Next time someone throws a spell at you, get out of the damn way. And another thing," and he jabs one gauntleted finger at me, "Illusion and Alteration. Practice them more. Otherwise you'll never learn enough to become invisible. Or wean yourself off feather potions."

"I've been practicing those," objects I.

"Not. Hard. Enough," snaps he, standing up. "Once you're rested, go to chapel or mix up some restoratives. Then speak to Polus. I'll send for you in about two days or so. And one more thing. Grow a pair. You can bet your tail there's going to be more necromancy in your future, so stop being a big girl's blouse about it. Alright?"

Mention of big girl's blouses made me think of S'jirra.

"Alright?" Oh, yeah, Traven.

"Yes, Arch-Mage," I finally manage to say.

He left, banging the door behind him. It took me a while before I got up the gumption to slink from the kitchen table to my bed, where I fell into a nightmarish sleep.

Man, that Traven's one cold SOB!

I liked your description of this quest, especially that Bosmer's tragic (riiight - heh heh) end on a floor trap. You know, I could never figure if that one was a man or a woman - - -!

More chuckles and laughs, it's definitely a fun story to read.

I always thought S'jirra was slightly touched in the head about those potatoes.

SPEW!!!!!!!! ROFFL!!!!! FAREGYL INN - SPEW!!!!! CORPSE-HUMPERS !!!!!!!! RO[CENSORED]FL !!!!!!!

Your version of Arch Mage Traven is AWESOME !!!

Funny, but also growing more intense I see. This version of Traven is quite the ball-buster. He is the kind of guy I can truly see running the Mages Guild.

Now his suit had battle damage.



nits:
Many pass west to Brravil, it may have been someone else."
The Faregyl Inn is north-west of Bravil, so they would be passing south, or south-east, to Bravil.


He must have got his license wrapped round a loaf of bread.
Somehow I do not think you meant bread here.


I finally skewered and spelled the honoured user into his own grave.
Likewise with the honor Ra'jirra heaps upon this user.


so stop being a big girl's blouse about it.
& Mention of big girl's blouses made me think of S'jirra.
I do not think you really meant women's clothing either.

In regards to SubRosa:

This version of Traven is quite the ball-buster:
Actually this is what I had in mind at the start, but didn't get it across. Traven knows full well he's started something very nasty with banning necromancy and all. He's also had it confirmed that the necros are moving against his guild. He's a battlemage and a soldier at heart, and he expects guildies to do as they're told.

And as I said before, I get tired of AU being all smiles.

West to Bravil:
Bravil may be southeast of Faregyl as the crow flies, but not as the road winds.

He must have got his licence...:
Well, they don't have cornflakes in Tamriel. Or Sugar Bombs.

Honoured User:
For some reason Ra'jirra thinks this substitution's funny.

And yes, Ra'jirra intends to see more of S'jirra -- take that as you like!

Umm, the road winds south east to Bravil as well. Here is a pic of the map (North being straight up).

Remind me to never read Ra'jirra with an uncovered beverage nearby!


I thought this line was simply perfect.


Amen to that!

It's official, folks: My Tamrielic compass is fuxx0r3d. I could've sworn it went west past the inns, then south, then due east, then southeast. I blame all those random encounters.