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The Life of Arga Chapter 2: Dangerous Passage Sponsored by Asbeoth By Draconicon

Arga did not normally consider himself lucky. One did not live as a slave for long and consider themselves much of anything, no matter how well-disposed one was towards the masters. However, now that he was free, his luck seemed to change.

He found a current to ride away from the mushroom tower of his former master, and he rode it a half-dozen miles down the coast. By the time that the slaughterfish were out and the dreugh were beginning their hunts in the shallower waters, he was well away from the scene of the crime. Nobody was there to see the naked Argonian climb out of the waters, and nobody was there to see him fall to his knees and cry happy tears.

He was free.

It had taken the hours of free swimming for that realization to hit him, but now that it finally had, he could barely move. He was free. After years of being used as laborer, sex toy, and something to beat whenever an elf got angry, he was finally free. They no longer owned him.

He looked down at his wrists, slowly shaking his head at the paler scales where the shackles had rested. No more restraints, no more markers of slavery. Not on his arms, at least, and the ones on his legs, he could hide. He could...he could make things better again.

The further he went, he knew, the harder it would be for the Telvanni to pull him back. Their power as a Great House had dropped vastly during the war, and they only had their absolute power around their mushroom towers. Past that...

Just a bit further. A bit further to the port, and I can take ship...

That was enough to get him on his feet again, and while he groaned as he put one foot in front of the other, he managed to drag himself away from the coast and up to the road. The Legion was not as powerful a presence as it once was, but they would keep the road clear. He could be safe. He could be...

He could be free.

The port city of Ald Saril was owned by the Redoran House. Not the best of places, but far from the worst. Far better than the slave traders, and far better than dealing with Dreth or the other minor houses that had fled from Vvardenfell after the explosion of Red Mountain. They wouldn't immediately chain him here, as long as he followed the law.

Of course, that meant very little if he just walked up to the gates naked.

Arga left the road slightly before the gates into Ald Saril, going back to the coastline. The short walls of the city were still tall enough to keep him from climbing over them, and he knew better than to think that there'd be a hole in them for him to sneak through. As blinded by honor as some of House Redoran could be, he knew better than to think that they would leave a hole in their defenses. They were honorable, but they were not entirely stupid.

But that didn't mean that there wasn't another way in.

He ducked back into the water. The sun was up again, forcing him to duck underwater, but that was fine. The slaughterfish were kept back from the harbor proper by spells along the seawall and jetties, and that meant that he could be safe in there. Other Argonians might have done the same, if they had been able to get to the water. He doubted that there were many in the area, though. With the Telvanni not that far down the road, it was dangerous to put oneself in this part of the country.

Nevertheless, he swam, riding the currents, slithering his tail along behind him for an extra boost of speed or for a sudden turn as needed. He wound around the boats that were coming in from a long night of sailing or were going out for the morning fish. The Argonian took some pleasure in it, even, smiling as the water caressed and buoyed him up, feeling at home in his more natural environment.

The only disruption to that were the shackles around his ankles. Every so often, he'd make a kick, and he'd feel the sudden weight of them on the ends of his legs. Another reminder, rough and cruel, of where he had escaped, and what could still happen to him.

Arga forced himself to swim for the docks, keeping himself a few feet below the surface at all times to avoid anyone spotting him at random from the surface. The water was dim and murky, despite the rising sun, and he knew that they'd have a hard time picking him out if he was just a little careful.

Finally, he reached the wooden pylons of the docks, and he slowly let himself rise to the surface. The water split around his head as he looked about. Dock workers - Imperials, for the most part, with the occasional Redguard, Breton, and Nord among them - were moving from ship to ship, pulling the goods off, and the captains were talking to the Dunmer masters of the port. They were all busy, all working hard that morning, and he knew that they were not keeping any eye out for someone that might be in the water around them.

He found an isolated corner at the edge of the docks and hauled himself out, the morning wind sending a shiver down his spine as it slapped at his soaked scales. The reminder of how cold it could be in the morning was an abrupt wake-up call, pushing aside any tiredness that he might have felt from his escape. He shook his head, remaining crouched in the shadows between the most distant warehouse and the wall that surrounded the city.

Need clothes, he thought. Clothes, and maybe a few coins...

What he really wanted was a weapon, but he didn't put any good odds on getting one of those. They were going to be locked up, waiting for someone to buy them. The Dunmer had gotten much better about not letting people just walk up and steal them, these days.

Arga glanced at the warehouse. It wasn't that well-protected, from what he could see. There were probably goods inside, and if they weren't clothes, then they might be in sacks that he could re-purpose.

Better than nothing, he thought.

Glancing at the guards in the distance, watching the Bonemold armor clicking, he waited for them to all be glancing the other way. When he was sure that nobody had eyes on him, he darted for the door, fiddling with the lock for a second or two before shaking his head. It was stronger than he expected...but not invulnerable.

Arga closed his eyes, pulling at the fire inside once more. The heat burned up his arms, coming faster than it had at the tower. It was coming back to him, little by little. The magicka was there, still.

He forced it into the palms of his hands, the fire burning brighter and brighter between his fingers until the lock began to melt. The iron came apart, and then dripped to the wooden boards below. It scored right through them, falling to the water underneath.

He pulled the door open before anyone could spot him and darted inside, barely remembering not to slam it shut behind him.

Too close...

As the Argonian took a moment to catch his breath, he glanced around. His lips turned up in a smile almost immediately as he saw that the warehouse was filled with rich goods, clothing and apparel that seemed to have come direct from Cyrodiil. There were lush silks and more on display, bits of sample clothes that dotted the cargo crates, and here and there, coin payments that had yet to be put away.

Perfect...

Five minutes later, a much-better dressed Argonian left the warehouse. He was still sneaking, of course - one didn't want to be noticed stepping out of the place that one just stole from, after all - but he was much less conspicuous. No longer bent over, no longer hiding, no longer naked...that all made it better.

He had gained a lovely red jacket over a black shirt, and a pair of silver-black trousers completed the look. There had been a dagger, more decorative than anything, in one of the crates, and that was slapped to his hip. He'd even managed to find a hat that fit his head, which had been something of a miracle, all things considered. It even had a little feather in the cap, one that he tapped to make sure that it dangled in the right direction.

The only thing that threw it off was a lack of footwear. Not a problem in terms of comfort, but in terms of making him look slightly less believable...yes, it was a bit of a problem. Not one that he was going to let himself think about for now, though.

Now that he had a weapon and clothes, though, he had options. Not good options, particularly, but options. Arga adjusted his trousers a bit, using his toes to pull down the puffy ankles at the bottom of the legs to hide his shackles, and then turned towards the main part of town. Time to find out what captains were going where, and they would all be down at the corner club.

The people that had been coming in via the road were there, too, passing down the road in the direction of the port. They'd be going there for cargo and trade deals. None of his concern, the Argonian thought, keeping his head down and making sure that he didn't look anyone in the eye. Nobody needed to see his face. Nobody needed to know that someone had escaped their master and gone somewhere else.

He shuffled along, making sure to walk with the gait of someone that had a bit of a hurry, someone that had an errand that shouldn't be interrupted. It was something that he had learned from the servants in the tower when he'd watched them. They had a way of keeping everyone from bothering them when they were busy with a task, a way of walking that said "I'm doing something for someone that will blow your head off if you get in my way." It was just enough to not look arrogant while maintaining a sort of confidence that nobody wanted to get in the way of, and it worked for them.

He didn't know how well he imitated it, but nobody asked him any questions on the road. As he approached the corner club, he glanced at the Dunmer bouncer that manned the door. The tough looked at him, tapped the club at his waist, and then went back to watching the road. The warning was well-received, and Arga nodded his understanding before stepping inside.

There wasn't much light in the early morning, and he could see more than a few Dunmer collapsed unconscious on various tables around the room. Most of them were either completely out of it or just coming into their hangovers, but there were a few that were making conversation with the staff or with foreigners. They didn't look up as he walked in.

The foreigners, however, did. Whether drinking sujamma or flin, they turned to see who had just joined their ranks. Arga tapped the edge of his hat to them, and they nodded back, going back to their drinks.

Let's see...

A quick glance around the long, narrow room confirmed his guess. At least four obvious ship captains, two of them Nords, one of them a Redguard, the third one a Khajiit. It was amazing that the cat-man had bothered coming this far, considering the current climate in Morrowind, but he supposed that the cats were always looking for a profit.

It was for that reason that he immediately discarded him as a way out of the country. One might have expected that the beast-folk would look out for each other, but not in Morrowind. And not in the Aldmeri Dominion, for all that they were supposed to be better than the Dunmer, but that was neither here nor there.

Redguard is probably heading east, he thought, glancing at the dark man's skin and his clothes. They looked like the sort of robes that the richer Dunmer wore further east, along the far coast, and he doubted that the human was heading back to the west dressed like that. Most people ditched those clothes as soon as they could, even the other Telvanni, and they were some of the most formal elves in the kingdom.

That left the Nords. One of them was already deep in conversation with one of the Dunmer at the tables, and the other was alone. Ignoring the scars on the captain's face and the sword on his hip, Arga walked over to him and sat down across from him. The human looked up from his flin - a good mark in his favor - and cocked his head to the side.

"What the hell do you want, hmm?"

"Passage."

"You're looking at something expensive, then, less you're looking to go for Skyrim."

"I am."

The Nord arched an eyebrow, putting his drink to the side. The captain cleared his throat, shaking his head.

"Ain't a good time to be moving there. We're taking ship up past Windhelm, and then up to Winterhold and Solitude. Least, if there's still a place to land at Winterhold; nobody can tell me straight, that."

None of those places were ones that he knew, but they sounded like the proper names of cities in Skyrim. That was better than anything that he had here. Arga reached down, pulling the dagger from his waist and setting it down on the table.

The Nord glanced at it, as well he should. Arga had picked it because it had at least a decent ruby in the hilt, and the blade was steel rather than iron. It wasn't practical, but it was worth some money.

"How far will this get me?"

"...You'd be able to get to Windhelm with this. Maybe Winterhold, if the port's open."

"Then take it, and give me a room."

"Berth."

"Huh?"

"The word is berth, lizard. You sure about this? You'll freeze your scales off up there."

"What business are my scales to you?"

"Just saying..."

"Do you have someone richer waiting to pay?"

"...I've had offers."

"Take this one. It's sure, and they're not."

"Well, least you're paying up front."

The dagger almost seemed to disappear from the table, the captain tucking it into his waistband. The other man shook his head, offering his hand.

"Captain Karg."

"Arga."

They shook, and the captain pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket. Ripping a chunk off the side, he called for ink, and one of the serving girls brought one. No surprise; contracts were made all the time in corner clubs.

As the female leaned over, Arga had a chance to look her over himself. The fact that her dress exposed her chest as much as it did was a huge change compared to what he saw on the lands of his former master. All the females were either locked up, hidden away, in the case of the Dunmer, or bared to the skin, in the case of the slaves. He hadn't seen someone only partially covered before.

It was interesting.

Arga used his tail to push down on his pant legs again, making sure that they were still covering the shackles around his ankles as he stood up. The captain handed him the piece of parchment, which had both the ship name - the Jarl of the Sea - and the captain's signature on it.

"That'll be your pass onto the boat," Karg said. "We set off at noon."

"I'll be there."

"You better be. We're not waiting."

That was fair enough and fine enough for him. The sooner that they got the hell away from Morrowind, the better. The Argonian nodded his head, and then darted out of the club.

He made it through the door, only to have the bouncer grab him by the arm as soon as he was free of the frame. Arga turned, meeting the Dunmer's red eyes.

"What's a lizard doing dressed like that?"

"I'm certain I'm free to dress as I like."

"No law saying you can't...unless you're a slave."

The Dunmer yanked Arga's sleeves up, glancing down. There were no metal bands, of course, but Arga froze regardless. The lightness of the scales along his wrists had faded, somewhat, but not much. The only thing that might save him -

The bouncer snarled, shoving him back.

"Get yourself some boots, outlander," the elf said. "Otherwise, you'll find someone else questioning you, and they'll be rougher than me."

"...Noted."

It was a bare stroke of luck. The fact that the morning light was still somewhat dim, and the fact that the corner club was in shadow, had saved him. If the Dunmer had noticed that there were band-shaped pale marks on his wrists, the elf might have put two and two together and realized what it meant. Just because he didn't have the shackles didn't mean that he was completely safe, after all.

He was more conscious than ever of the ankle bands as he walked down the street, of the soft beating that his soles were taking with every step. The bands were going to make wearing any sort of footwear difficult, considering that they were firmer and stronger down there than the ones on his wrists had been. They'd bulge any boot, show through any pair of hose or stocking. It would be impossible to wear anything decent while he still had them on.

Slaves were always forced to stay barefoot as a result, and that meant that it was easy to tell one from a free man. A free man didn't have to work hard for his boots. A slave was never allowed them.

Each step reminded him that though he had escaped his master's tower, he hadn't escaped the signs that the master had put on him.

He was almost thankful for the feeling of the dock underfoot when he returned to the port, if only for the fact that it felt different than the dusty road that he'd been walking on. It wasn't much better, but it was different.

Arga looked at the boats in the harbor, flicking his eyes from one to the other until he found one called the Jarl of the Sea. It was a dual-masted boat, big enough for at least thirty people, and he was pretty sure that he would be able to find some comfort there. He took a deep breath, then let it out.

I'm almost free...I'm almost free...

The Argonian walked down the wooden pier, then down towards the mooring point. A Nord stepped away from the gangplank, holding up his hand.

"Whoa, whoa, where do you think you're going?"

Arga held up the slip of paper.

"Passenger."

"Didn't know Karg was taking anyone on. You sure?"

"Read for yourself."

The Nord did just that, glancing at the Argonian once more before flicking his eyes down to the parchment. Arga didn't mind; he was just glad that he had the right proof of what he was here for. The last thing that he needed was to be doubted at this point.

He looked at the ship again. It was a bigger one than he'd thought, but to get from one country to another, he imagined that one needed a bigger ship. There were plenty of storms out there that would be happy to sink a smaller one.

Wonder what other passengers we might have?

From the sound of this crewman and from the captain, he imagined that there likely weren't many. The fact that he had been lucky enough to get here in time might mean that he had the free run of the ship, rather than having to dodge Dunmer left and right during the trip across the border.

I'm almost free.

The thought almost made him giddy, but he stomped it down. He had felt little bits of hope before, had seen possible ways to escape in the past. The first time that his former master had called him up to help with an experiment - before he found out that the mage had been a deviant of the highest order - he had thought his magical aptitude might be enough to give him a decent life, a chance at freedom. After that, a few fish-harvesting tasks had made him wonder if he could swim to freedom. Those hopes had been dashed, too.

This was still able to fall flat on its face. He could still lose everything here, and have to go back to where he had come from. He couldn't count on being free, or be happy about it, really, until he was across the border where slavery didn't exist.

He had to hold onto that. He had to keep his head on his shoulders, and he had to make sure that he didn't do anything stupid.

Finally, the crewman held the parchment back out.

"Looks like Karg gave you passage, alright. You want your berth now?"

"Sure."

"You have any stuff to take on?"

"Only what I'm carrying."

"...You dress rich for someone with nothing."

Arga shrugged, not bothering to answer that. After another moment or two, the Nord shrugged, gesturing for him to follow.

"You'll be on the second deck. Follow me."

That was something else that he didn't understand, but he wasn't going to ask for an explanation. As long as he was somewhere safe, he was happy.

He wasn't happy. Not with his cabin - which was passable, and eminently better than the den of slaves back at the tower - but because of his neighbor.

An Altmer...

If there was one thing worse than a Dunmer, it was an Altmer. The three elf species varied greatly, but while the Bosmer were a bit up themselves, they kept their sense of superiority to pranks more than anything else. The Dunmer were assholes, but depending on which elf you were talking to, you could find a fair one.

Altmer were something else, and this one was from the Dominion.

A shiver ran down Arga's spine as he heard the elf through the thin wall, shaking his head. As long as he didn't do anything stupid...

Just stay in your cabin. As long as you stay here, he won't know...

That didn't stop the shakes running up and down his spine as he stared at the closed door of his cabin. It was thin wood, something that would be hard-pressed to actually slow anyone down, let alone stop them from breaking the door down and just barging in. He had to figure out something, or he might end up being discovered.

Arga pulled up the ends of his pants, looking down at the slave shackles that were still there. Unlike the ceramic-banded ones on his wrists, these ones were bound in steel circles around the enchanted anklets and beaten metal. They'd need a professional blacksmith to get off, and even that would be difficult.

He curled his toes in fear and anxiety, knowing that if the Altmer saw them, he could be rushed right back to Morrowind if they weren't already across the border. The reward for escaped slaves was high, and he imagined that his reward was going to be particularly tempting for most people.

Worse, he could already imagine the Altmer seeking to take him as a slave himself. The high elves looked down even on the other elves as less than them, and beast-folk...oh, it would be a bad deal.

Arga rolled off his bed, getting to his feet. He walked to the window, looking out at the water. They'd be setting off very shortly, and when they did, he'd be stuck.

It's only a matter of time, he made himself admit. We're stuck on this ship for a week, and there's no way that I can stay in this room for a week. He'll see me, and eventually, he'll figure it out.

Shaking his head, Arga fumbled with the ties of his pants. He pulled them down just a bit in the front, reaching down to lift his cock up.

The shaft was still marked with the burnt fingerprints of his former master. The burns from the lightning spells were still there, making ridges of 'ownership' on his cock. The pain was gone, with the help of two hours of focused healing on it, but the marks had remained. If he was caught while washing, that was another sign of what he was...

He pulled his pants back up, hiding it once more. No. He couldn't just react to things. He couldn't hide. For once, he had to take some sort of proactive measure here. He had to be the one that made things happen, not wait for them to happen to him.

Tonight. Tonight, after everyone's asleep...

What? What would he do? Kill the elf? That would be stupid. It'd be almost as stupid as trying to kill the captain, considering how many people would notice. The high elf was rich, rich enough that he had probably paid a fortune to get on this boat and go somewhere else. The captain would notice if he just...disappeared.

But he had to do something. If he didn't, if he waited...

Arga clenched his hands to stop the shaking, sitting down on the edge of the bed as his breath started to come in pants and shakes. He punched his thighs, once, twice, then gripped his knees with his claws.

Breathe. Breathe!

It took far longer than it should have, but eventually, he was able to pull himself together. He was not in a good place, but he...

He could make it better.

He doesn't know I'm here. He knows there's another passenger, but I can beg off leaving the room until tomorrow, at least. That gives me time. I can go over there...

Skipping dinner would make him weak, Arga knew. He'd be shaky, and he'd need food the next morning, but...

He looked at his shirt again, slowly pulling the silk thing off. Getting a grip on the sleeves, he tugged them slightly. Then more. They were stronger than they looked, he realized, and as long as he was careful...

Bindings.

Tying up the Altmer would keep him from casting spells as easily, that was for sure. And once he had the high elf tied up, he had options. From the smell in the air, the Altmer had a potion kit in his room. There were different things that could be made to alter the mind, the will. He knew enough of that from watching his old master brew them himself.

And that was not counting the things that were done to break slaves.

The shakes came again, and this time, he couldn't stop them. They rolled over him, making him remember how it felt to be under the whip, the claws, the lightning. The more mundane tools, too, how they scored the body and trained the mind, and how slaves were trained through pain to fear their masters...and pleasure to give into them.

That had been something that his master had been piss-poor at, thankfully. He had feared the mage-lord, but had never felt the pleasure that other magisters were said to break their slaves with. If he had been able to make Arga feel more than a modicum of the pleasure that he had during their...sessions...there might have been something different at the end. He might have hesitated with the fire.

I know...I know how it works, he told himself. I can...if I have to, I can break him...

He clenched his hands into fists once more, almost ready to punch himself in the knee or the thigh again, but the worst of the panic had passed. It was no longer threatening to give him a heart attack, or to send him into a full-blown fear-frenzy. He just needed a little bit of time, some space to collect himself.

Slowly, he lowered himself down on the bed, taking one breath, two, three, four. They were enough to allow him to take control of himself again, though not enough to banish the fear completely. He still had that.

But that was something that wasn't deadly. Panic could get him killed. Fear could keep him alive.

Arga took a deep breath, then closed his eyes.

The motion of the ship woke him a few hours later, and he realized that they were underway. A sudden surge of panic nearly made him jump out the window, but he stopped himself when he looked out and confirmed that they were still going towards Skyrim. They were traveling west, not traveling east.

He was almost there. As long as he could handle the Altmer...

I can. I can do it. I can even break him...

The nap had done him good after a night of no sleep. He felt better, more rested, more capable. More than that, the magicka that he'd expended to melt the lock had regenerated, and more besides. While the ankle shackles were doing their best to drain him, they weren't enough to take everything from him on their own. He had his power again.

Arga leaned back, pressing his ear to the wall of his elven neighbor. Hearing the sounds of busywork, he knew that he had a little time. The lizard poked his head out of the door, looking into the hallway. A passing crewman turned to look at him, and the Argonian waved him over. The Nord blinked, but obliged.

"Yeah?"

"I would appreciate it if you would bring some water to my berth."

"...Why?"

"I had a long journey overnight, and would like to be clean."

"Heh. Delivery costs extra."

"You will be paid."

"Now."

"...Later."

"No. Now."

Arga glared at the Nord, but knew that he needed this more than he could argue with the human. And there was one more thing.

He pulled out the little piece of enchanted metal that he'd saved from his bracelets, holding it out. The Nord looked at it, his eyes widening.

"It's enchanted. I don't know what it is," he lied, "but it's got magic on it. That will be worth something to you when you make landfall, I'm sure."

"Yeah...yeah, I think that'll do. Just water, or?"

"And bread, if that will cover it."

"Heh, it'll cover that just fine. Back in a minute."

The sailor disappeared, and Arga shut the door. The idea of being able to bathe properly was a thought that gave him more pleasure than it should, but there were other reasons than just washing the dust and the sweat and the salt water off of him.

He rolled the front of his pants down again, staring at his crotch. The mage-lord must have lived through the fire, because the sigils of power were still around his crotch. The breeding-binding was still active.

Petty as it was, he'd be damned if the Telvanni asshole was going to control his dick from a distance. Maybe there was a way to wash it clean, maybe not, but at the very least, he could clear away his old master's touch from down there.

The End