3E 426
Llothanis, Telvanni District, Morrowind
The yellow blister-windows of the Telvanni mushroom pods glistened almost wetly in the noon sun high overhead, the green walkways twisting around the pointed towers in an incomprehensible maze. Llothanis itself was a single organism housing thousands of others, the massive fungus spanning nearly the entirety of an inlet of the Padomaic Ocean. As such, the outdoor areas of Llothanis were hosted on gigantic, rounded platforms and fungal shelves rising over the bay. Balustrades were not popular in Telvanni design, meaning one wrong step could send a man plunging into the slaughterfish-infested waters below.
On one such platform kneeled a large Khajiit, his hands bound before him in iron shackles. Mojar had been handsome- once. He was still muscular, if less so than he had been before his enslavement. Black spots dotted gray-tan agouti fur, his eyes and mouth ringed in light gray. Black pencil stripes lead away from dingy yellow eyes. His mane was not nearly as impressive as some Khajiit may have sported, but thick fur spilled along the side of his face like long muttonchops. Three old scars marred the top of his broad head, distorting the pattern of his fur just enough to tell they were there, and his ears had been torn many times. His rough-textured fur had lost its youthful glossiness. At 6'1 the Cathay was a bit imposing for a Khajiit, taller even than the guards who shepherded him like an animal to and from the pit. Most Dunmer preferred his smaller cousins, the Suthay and Suthay-raht, as they were easier to cow into submission.
Trails of blood-crust originating from a shallow gash on Mojar's brow marked his face like stripes on either side of his black-nosed muzzle. He tilted his head up, blinking at the patches of bright sky visible beyond the mushroom jungle overhead. Pennants hanging from bridge or tendril snapped in the wind, flashing as the swatches of color caught what light they could. His nostrils flared and the Khajiit almost thought he could scent the fresh air beyond the city rather than the bloody stink of the pit and fish guts from the nearby market. A crowd of Dunmer ringed the large platform nearby, a cacophony of smell and noise that hid his view of the combat, although Mojar could hear the grunts of exertion and the impact of fist and foot even through the mindless jeering.
This place- the pit, as it was called- was the Llothanis slave arena. Mojar knew little of local laws, but had his suspicion that some aspects of the arena were illegal. Nevertheless, it had never been troubled by the guards in the two years Mojar had lived there. The lowest levels of the Telvanni cities were what Mojar would have called the slums- seedy, impoverished, and brimming with corruption. Anything could happen for a price here in the dark shadow of the upper echelon and the towering spires that housed them.
The arena itself was a small circle of ground enclosed by flimsy rope fence and clustered on all sides by standing mer, illuminated in shades of blood by lanterns hanging from the network of walkways that criss-crossed over their heads. There were a few booths set up at the outskirts, some for placing bets and others that sold food and drink, with only a handful of tables crammed beneath cloth awnings to accommodate the patrons. Space came at a premium here on the platforms and not a single inch of it had gone to waste. A few pods hanging just above the platform edge opened into various pubs, titty bars, skooma dens, and any other form of low-class entertainment one could hope to find. Walkway tendrils growing from the front stoop of the aforementioned pods touched down on the platform, their curling tips a beckoning finger inviting guests to their doors.
The shouts in the pit rose to a climax. Mojar heard a crack followed by a mix of excited whoops, groans, and obscenities. The fight was over.
"Right, you're up next," said one of the Dunmer beside him, fully clad in Bonemold armor. At first glance one would think he and his companion to be Telvanni guards, but both wore blue loincloths bearing a black muskfly. They were privately employed by Goldyn Bereloth, Mojar's master, and the master of half the slaves in the pit. Mojar had been kneeling in what they called "the pen" because it was enclosed by a tall fence made of the same fibrous mushroom stalk that everything else in the city was made of. They waited with hands in shackles until it was their turn to fight, and afterwards would be sent back to their individual cages in the subterranean level.
Apparently the Khajiit didn't move fast enough; one of the guards grabbed his arm with a snake hook and yanked him up. Mojar growled as he stumbled to his feet. The guards chuckled and ignored the empty threat, but both of them had a hand on their sheathed swords. The same guard hooked Mojar by the neck and lead him out through the gate, his iron-shackled hands held in front of him. They walked single-file across a narrow tendril leading up to the arena platform, and then into the crowd which parted to allow them through. Many Dunmer cheered as he passed, while others cursed and spit. Mojar didn't flinch as their spit struck his already filthy fur. This was his third fight of the day and he had not been washed of the blood of that last Argonian.
Mojar looked up at a balcony extending from a stalk several yards over his head, commanding an excellent view of the arena. A Dunmer in a high-collared robe of red satin stood with one hand braced against the rail, the other holding a glass. His white hair was slicked black, plastered to his skull. The Dunmer looked down, meeting the Khajiit's gaze for a brief moment- the corner of his lip tugged upward in an intimate smile, as if some private joke had passed unspoken between them. He nodded and raised his glass as if in a toast.
The guard yanked at his neck and Mojar stumbled forward into the arena proper, forced to break eye contact with Goldyn Bereloth. A guard unlocked his shackles before retreating back the way they had come- the bracers were still there, but he had gained the use of his hands. Mojar stood silently in his burlap rags, eyes downcast at the blood-stained ground and waiting with his fists clenched at his side for the guards to bring his opponent. His tail rested inches from the ground, unmoving, his ears trained forward.
"We have a rare treat for you tonight, friends!" began the officiate, who paced along the outskirts of the circle, trailing his hand along the rope barrier. "No slave against slave for this round- this mer has come here of his own free will hoping to best our champion! And we all know these beasts like to pull their punches against their own kind, but will he do the same against a Dunmer opponent? You all know our deadly Khajiit bruiser Mojar, but here we introduce a newcomer to the arena- Vedran Thirano!"
Mojar looked up to see a single guard escorting an unshackled Dunmer into the pit from the opposite end. Nothing on the Khajiit's face betrayed the revulsion he felt. The mer was sickly, paper-thin skin stretched tight over jutting bones, his eyes deeply sunken in his skull. His head had been recently shaved and he wore simple, clean linen clothing, both of which Mojar was sure had been provided by Bereloth- or whoever his benefactor might be. The mer did not stand tall; he slouched and shuffled along, his hands curled against his belly. His body spasmed intermittently, but Mojar knew he did not shake from fear. Despite the haggard appearance his skin was quite smooth, indicating he must have been young, although "young" for a Dunmer could have been 50. Mojar had a hard time estimating their ages.
The mer called Vedran Thirano raised his head to lock eyes with Mojar, in that instant communicating volumes without ever having to open his mouth. The Khajiit saw terror, self-loathing and desperation there in those glassy red eyes, yet all of it muted by thirst. This man before him did fear, yes, but it was not fear of Mojar.
Some of the crowd booed. Most of them wanted to bet on fights, not watch a betmer beat an elf to a bloody pulp. Some, however, laughed at the show they knew was about to begin. Now Mojar understood why Bereloth had come today. This was some sort of personal score being settled. Mojar would most likely never know how the mer before him came to be here, but it was most certainly not of his own free will.
"Begin!" the officiate called almost gleefully. Mojar did not hesitate. He could see the muted shock on the Dunmer's face as the Khajiit launched into action, throwing himself at the mer with both arms outstretched. Vedran tried to duck aside but Mojar caught his shoulder with his left hand and jerked him forward, simultaneously plowing his right fist into the Dunmer's face with a sharp thwock. His head snapped to the side and the Dunmer crumpled, but Mojar's fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt and hauled him up. The crowd roared at the impact, and again when Mojar lifted the Dunmer off the ground by the shirt in one hand and the neck in his other and tossed the elf like a broken doll across the arena. It felt like picking up a child.
Vedran slid across the ground, the rope barrier finally stopping him. He rolled onto his side quicker than Mojar would have expected and pushed himself up, blood streaming from a broken nose. He would have a massive bruise and a crooked nose later if not healed. The big Khajiit stalked forward, in no hurry, staring coldly at the smaller elf. Vedran found his feet while Mojar was still a few paces from him. The Dunmer ran at him, feinted a punch and instead kicked Mojar's knee in an attempt to knock him down. It was pathetic how insubstantial the blow was. Mojar stumbled back half a step, raised his arms to block the punch Vedran threw before clubbing both forearms down on the Dunmer's shoulders. Another snap; his collar bone was possibly broken.
Mojar dropped on top of the Dunmer, pinning him, raining blow after blow on his head while the Dunmer tried to shield his face with his fists. He was simply too weak to have any chance of throwing Mojar off. The fight was over, but Mojar knew they wouldn't be allowed to leave until one of them had stopped moving completely. To knock this man unconscious as quickly as possible was the only mercy he could provide.
"Please!" the Dunmer gasped. Mojar stopped mid swing, his fist inches from Vedran's face, which by now was a bloodied mess. His lip had split, blood oozed from nose and mouth, and the skin was already a discolored purple. He didn't even try to fight back, his weak fingers grasping Mojar's wrist.
"Please," he repeated weakly, then coughed once, bloody spittle flecking Mojar's nose. "My debts erased... If I win... Please.." Those desperate red eyes searched the Khajiit's face, beseeching mercy but finding no hint of mortal compassion in the slitted, beastly eyes. Mojar yanked his fist away from the Dunmer's weak grasp and slammed it back onto his face. His head rolled aside, his hands fell limp. Mojar stood and stepped back, his fist stinging and fur moistened by blood. A healer had already ducked between the ropes and was running for them as Mojar turned away, stepping toward the edge of the arena with his hands held in front of himself to receive his shackles. He could hear the quick whir of magicka.
"It's too late," said the healer. "He already died."
Mojar froze. It felt as though he'd been sucker punched in the gut, all air gone for a moment. He looked back over his shoulder. The crowd gasped. Some laughed. The healer didn't even try again, not caring to waste his magicka on a lost cause. Something within his belly twisted, but Mojar held his ears and tail very still. Not a muscle in his face twitched.
The Dunmer was dead. It was not the first person Mojar had accidentally killed. All of their faces were burned onto Mojar's mind like brands, but this was the first Dunmer. He always thought that if he could just kill one of those fucking dusk-skins, it would bring him peace for a night. It would avenge some small part of the suffering he had endured.
The Dunmer lay like a sack of spilled kindling on the ground, his clothing draped over a gaunt body like the sagging skin of a fresh bonewalker. The pool of blood leaking from his nose slowly spread outward. Mojar felt the shackles click over his wrists and he was yanked away, back through the crowd that spit and cursed. A rock hit the back of his head but Mojar merely dipped his muzzle down to protect his eyes as he walked, ears flat against his skull.
A single guard led him to a pod entrance to the subterranean level where the arena slaves were housed while other workers dragged the corpse away. A real death was not such a huge deal here, and in fact sometimes low value slaves were left unhealed on purpose. Mojar expected he would probably not be punished. After all, the fact that he didn't hold back was part of what made him valuable.
Mojar was allowed to bathe before being led back to his cell for the night. He rinsed the blood of the dead mer from his hand with little emotion, watching the red particles drift away and dilute in the bathwater until it was like it had never existed. Mojar could feel- something, very far away, buried beneath layer upon layer of apathy, like thick scar tissue over a nerve.
"Stone cold killer," the guard remarked as he was herded into his cell, sans shackles but still in bracers and his original clothes, which were still speckled with a bit of blood. "I bet killing him felt good, didn't it?" Mojar did not respond, but stood silently in front of the closed door. The guard jabbed him through the bars with his hook before walking away, muttering under his breath that Mojar ought to be put down. It wasn't until he was out of earshot that Mojar finally sat down on the thin mat that was his bed against the wall. Two buckets rested nearby- one for water, one for voiding.
Each wing of the slave quarters consisted of twenty cells, ten on either side of a narrow walkway. There was no privacy at all, as the walls they shared with their neighbors were bars of the surprisingly sturdy tendrils, which felt more like hardwood than any type of fungus Mojar had known in Elsweyr. The gates to the cells were not part of the living fungus, although they had been crafted of the same material and the tendrils of the structure wrapped around the gates in lieu of hinges in the proper places. The floor and the back wall was slightly spongy to the touch, but firm if pressed on. Given enough time a Khajiit might have been able to dig in with his claws, but guards regularly patrolled the corridors. It would take hours, days even, to make any real progress. Chances were that he would strike water, in any case. They were below sea level here.
"'Ay, Mojar, what happened?" asked the vibrant orange-scaled Argonian in the cell kitty-corner from his own. He had given Mojar the cut on his brow, and Mojar in turn had broken a few of the Argonian's ribs. Dasab-We was healed now, and Mojar knew there were no grudges between them.
"This one killed a Dunmer. Bereloth promised to erase his debts if he would fight. Seemed like a sugar-head," Mojar grunted. He felt very tired and did not want to talk. Dasab-We seemed to understand.
"Ah. A hard day, my friend. No rest, never any rest." Dasab-We rolled over on his mat. Mojar could still hear soft voices as other slaves conversed with one another, but no more questions were directed at him. He shifted his weight to his knees and lifted a corner of the mat to reveal the faded, smudged charcoal drawing on the floor underneath. The drawing needed to be refreshed, but Mojar did not want to waste the last tiny nub of charcoal. He would probably not come across any sort of writing tool for a very long time.. the charcoal had been passed to him by another slave. Before that, he used stones.
He stared at the faded lines of Shahrazade's striped face for several long minutes, tracing them with his eyes, committing the image to memory again. Sometimes he thought the color of her eyes or the exact shade of orange that was her fur was fading from his mind, but he quickly assured himself, no, no, she was the golden orange of a sunset, her eyes glittering jade. She often held one rounded ear to the side, lopsided, just like her grin. He closed his eyes and the colors filled in his simple linework.
This ritual felt almost empty to him. Some days Mojar didn't even care. It was like that emotion he had felt earlier, in the bath- so muted, so faded. His love was drying up, crumbling like withered leaves to blow across arid soil. To acknowledge this cut him deeply. Mojar's eyelids tightened and he placed a palm over his heart.
"Forever one heart is bound to another. Two walk together as one in this life, and so shall they walk again beyond the stars," he whispered in Ta'agra, repeating a portion of their marriage vows. Mojar lowered the mat over the drawing and laid down upon it, resting his head next to that spot. He closed his eyes again and tried to imagine that he was beside her, but his thoughts continually returned to the corpse of the Dunmer as it lay in the ring, surrounded by a wall of uncaring gray faces. Mojar imagined that by now the elf was already awaiting cremation at the local temple, if he hadn't simply been dumped in the river to save time and trouble. A poor mer like that probably had no family shrine. His remains would end up as donations to the Ghost Fence or in a "communal sandbox," as another Khajiit had so aptly described to Mojar.
Fitfully, Mojar slept.