Mojar woke to the sound of wheels in the corridor and opened his eyes just as a leg of roast nix was flung through the bars of his cell. The Dunmer tossed meat to Mojar's neighbors before pushing the little serving cart down through the row of cells, escorted by a guard who went ahead and opened the circular door for the cart to pass. The door clicked shut and the prisoners were left alone again, until the next walk-through.

Mojar suddenly noticed that the previously vacant cell to his right had been filled while he was asleep. A rather svelte Khajiit in sleek black fur leaned against the bars that separated their cells, dressed in the same rough uniform worn by the others. He dropped down on his heels in a squat, his movements unusually graceful, and beckoned to Mojar with one finger.

Sitting up, Mojar scooted closer to the bars.

"Hello, brother," the black Khajiit spoke in Ta'agra, cocking his head to the side and smiling in a friendly way. "J'riska, and you must be Mojar. This one has been talking to the others while you slept."

Mojar nodded. The Suthay-raht before him did not seem particularly strong, but that wasn't so unusual. It was hard to find a slave in very good condition, but judging by the sheen of his fur, this J'riska must either be new to slavehood or he had been a house servant previously. Mojar pitied him... the poor fool had no idea what hardship he was in for.

"A man of few words, hm?" J'riska asked, and then his voice lowered to nearly a whisper. "But a strong man, J'riska is sure. Very strong." His eyes slid across Mojar appraisingly.

"Most here are strong," Mojar said, narrowing his eyes. He leaned forward and caught the nix meat with his claws, pulling it to himself to eat. He wasn't quite sure what J'riska's game was, but his hunger was greater than his curiosity. Holding the leg like a club he set to stripping the tender meat from the bone. It was very bland, as the cooks didn't bother seasoning the slaves' food, but at least they were given an ample amount. After all, the fighters had muscles to maintain.

"Mojar."

A bit irritated, he looked to his right. Mojar was ready to tell the black Khajiit to buzz off and let him eat in peace, but instead his jaw dropped. A thin piece of metal, pinched between J'riska's thumb and finger, glinted in the light of the hanging lanterns strung through the corridor.

"A lockpick?!" Mojar hissed, dropping his food, grabbing the bars between them. J'riska grinned and nodded. Murmuring voices from those closest to J'riska's cell described what was happening to those further away. Soon, all conversation had completely halted and every set of eyes silently stared in their direction.

"Your arm, please," J'riska said.

Mojar hesitated. Even without the bracers, he was still deep inside a Telvanni complex. Guards roamed the corridors and stood watch at every exit. Escape... it simply was not possible, and the punishment for an escape attempt would be severe.

"How many minutes before the next patrol?" J'riska asked smoothly, snapping Mojar from his thoughts. Perhaps twenty or less. No time to weigh these choices.. Mojar thrust his arm through the bars and J'riska immediately grasped him, turning his wrist to access to keyhole on the underside of the bracer. Mojar suddenly felt lightheaded; his heart drummed in his ears, drowning out the murmurs of his cell-neighbors.

"How did-?" Mojar tried to ask, but his tongue was too thick, his voice too raspy.

"Shh, let J'riska work." On second thought, Mojar wasn't sure he wanted to know how the black Khajiit had smuggled the lockpick inside. J'riska leaned in close, eyes intense as he concentrated on his work. Mojar heard the click, and his bracer popped open for the first time in two years. He retracted his arm and stuck the other through the bar, and let the first bracer slide off into his lap. The fur from his wrist to mid-forearm was matted, moist, and a bit dirty. Mojar stared in wonder while J'riska worked on the other bracer. He heard another click, and suddenly, Mojar was free.

But not quite. While the black Khajiit fervently worked on his own bracers, and then the cell door, Mojar sat and stared stupidly at his bare arms. He smoothed out the fur with his palm and almost cringed at how sensitive he was there. It was almost painful to be without the light pressure of the bracers. He shook himself- this was real, this was actually happening. He couldn't sit and marvel at his matted fur. Mojar pulled himself to his feet by the bars, leaving his bracers on the floor of the cell.

J'riska had finally unlocked his own cell, swung open the door, and now was hunched by Mojar's gate. In a matter of seconds it clicked open as well. J'riska spun to work on the next cell as Mojar stepped out. Voices began to rise from the cells.

"Me next, please!"

"Hurry!"

"This one is good fighter!"

"Quiet!" Mojar hissed, slapping his palm against the bars for emphasis. "If the guards come to investigate the noise you will never be free!" The voices quieted but all were standing now, faces and hands pressed desperately against the bars as they watched J'riska move from cell to cell. Mojar moved to the door at the Eastern end of the corridor, standing by the hinges to conceal himself from whoever opened it next. Other slaves had been freed and were gathering in the narrow hall, although J'riska had not unlocked their bracers yet. Mojar pointed to a large Argonian called Dragon-Scales, and then at the opposite door on the South end, indicating he should guard it the same as Mojar. The Argonian nodded and moved into position.

Two cells had been empty, meaning there were 18 slaves in total. Five had yet to be released from their cells and the rest were clustered in the hall barely big enough to permit two people to walk side by side, when suddenly the round door Mojar stood behind began to open.

It was all over in a matter of seconds. Two slaves by the door yanked the Bonemold-clad guard inside while Mojar slammed the door shut behind him and whirled to grab the Dunmer by the arms. He yanked the guard's hands up while another Khajiit pulled the sword from his sheath. The guard shouted and fire burst from his hands against the low ceiling, hitting a paper lantern and raining flakes of burning paper. Mojar felt a sudden jolt as the guard's own sword skewered him through the eye-slit of his helm, and then the body sagged. Mojar went down with it, lowering him gently to avoid a clang of armor. The familiar stink of blood filled the air.

Mojar yanked the key ring from the dead guard's belt and hurriedly helped J'riska to unlock the remaining cells, and then the remaining bracers. Time was counting down, now. When that guard did not check in after completing his circuit, others would come. They might have even less time if his voice had been heard.

"Listen up," hissed J'riska as Mojar worked at the last pair of bracers. "We run now. We do not stop. Move as one."

"What about the others?" asked one of the slaves, meaning the slaves in the other wing they would pass.

"No time," J'riska spat. No one argued. Mojar felt a knife twist in his gut. He knew the moral thing to do would be to fight off the guards while they painstakingly unlocked every cage and every bracer. But it was simply not possible. All it took was one mage with a wide-sweeping lightning spell to take all of them out in one go. In these narrow tunnels there was no place to hide, and their superior number meant little in a bottle neck.

"Go!" J'riska said. Mojar opened the door, revealing another corridor filled with slave cells on each side. He and the slave with the guard's sword, a big gray Khajiit named Dro'mazag, went through first. They ran, ignoring the pleading wails and the grabbing hands reaching out from the cells. He did not turn his head aside, did not look his fellow slaves in the eyes. He tried to hear only the thunderous slap of bare pads and claws against the floor. He yanked open the next door, this one leading to an access hall branching in multiple directions. To their left the path sloped up, leading to the small, round vestibule that was the exit, where two guards would be waiting. A guard standing in the crossroad immediately jerked his head in their direction, drawn by the cries of the still-locked slaves. He hesitated for a split second before turning and running down a hall that Mojar had never been in before. The crowd ignored him and streamed toward the exit, for the door they had all passed through thousands of times as they were led to and from the pit.

The freed slaves spilled past him as Mojar held the door. He was not being polite- no one made room for him. It was a mad dash now. He could smell fear and pure adrenaline. Everyone had gone crazy with the hope of freedom. He heard shouting in the distance and knew the guard had alerted others. The slaves at the front had already turned left and entered the vestibule, and now Mojar finally had space to follow them. Aside from the mages tube leading out of the ceiling there, the only other door was the one leading outside. Mojar heard yells as the guards were dispatched, but most of the action was blocked by people standing in front of him. Someone pulled the door open and the light of early evening spilled into the room, along with a gust of fresh air. The scent of freedom.

Fire exploded in the chamber from above, the blast of heat rolling across Mojar's face as he stood in the round doorway. His eyes screwed shut, his ears flattened against his skull and he fell back, grabbing the doorjamb to steady himself, his breath taken away as the incredible heat seared his lungs. Voices screamed. Mojar looked up to see bodies thrashing on the floor as they burned. There was a mage in the tunnel above them! Another fireball boomed against the floor. Smoke and the stench of burning flesh and fur choked the air. Mojar could see the silhouette of people running outside- a few slaves had reached the door before the rain of fire. He heard screams as the guards outside cut them down.

Mojar felt something press against his arm- it was J'riska.

He used us all to escape. He held back so that we would do the fighting, he realized numbly. Mojar's ear turned to the heavy thud of boots and knew that at least four armor-clad guards were coming up behind him. They had no choice.

"Go!" yelled J'riska. They both dashed through the doorway, through the fire, leaping over the bodies of fallen slaves who shrieked on the floor. Mojar felt his pads press down on the charred flesh of another. Fire lit the tunnel above them and exploded against the pile of slaves just as Mojar's foot hit the threshold, the heat enveloping his tail. He felt J'riska's hands on his back, pushing him out of the way as they cleared the exit. J'riska's back was aflame and he went screaming over the edge of the platform.

It was pandemonium outside. Guards ran to and fro, trying to catch up with the slaves who had cleared the door before the blasts of fire and escaped their blades. Mojar saw Dasab-We laying several feet from the door, blood oozing from his slit belly. He moaned weakly, dying. Mojar didn't stop for even a second.

He ran.

He raced across narrow, twisting walkways and crowded platforms he had never seen before, pushing over pedestrians and flinging aside vendor carts when they were in his way, panting so hard Mojar thought his lungs or his heart might burst. The entire city seemed to be screaming at him, grabbing for him. It was merely background noise to accompany the roar of blood in his own ears.

Every route he had mindlessly taken seemed to angle up, sending Mojar higher and higher through the maze-like network of tendrils and platforms. He stole a quick glance behind and saw three guards racing after him. Looking ahead, the path branched in two directions: one toward a pod entrance, and the other to some sort of terrace where a group of Dunmer were dining while enjoying a view of the sparkling bay. He had run out of choices.

Mojar sprinted for the terrace. The Dunmer looked up from their meals, aghast at the sight of a Cathay Khajiit in slave rags barreling toward them. Without hesitation Mojar vaulted over the short rail, plummeting 50-some feet to the sea below. Levels of walkway and fungal shelves raced past him, sometimes mere inches from his nose, close enough to hit his whiskers. It was all over before he could even comprehend his luck that he had not hit anything.

Water smacked against his feet. Cold and dark enveloped him. Mojar struggled to the surface and gasped when his head broke above the waterline. He could hear yelling. The balcony had been at the outskirts of the city, so now that Mojar faced Southeast he could see the Llothanis peninsula on his left and the mainland on his far right, while the sunset-orange bay stretched out toward the sea before him. He could see no mer-made structures aside from little shacks dotting the coastline, and plenty of hills and forests to hide within. But if he swam in that direction, anyone on the balcony might see him. It was also the most obvious choice.

Mojar turned back toward the city and dove deep, darkness enshrouding him once again. He could barely see more than a few feet in any direction, and the stalks and pods of Llothanis loomed at him from the black. He only surfaced to breath when he had something above him to conceal, and sometimes there were only inches of space between the water and a part of the tower. He clung to a platform, claws gouged into the side as he hung like a lamprey to catch his breath and listen to the marketplace bustle happening mere feet above. He tried to will his heart to slow but it would not. Any moment now he expected a guard to find him- or worse, a slaughterfish. Mojar pushed off from the platform and kept moving, closing his eyes as he passed through garbage and waste thrown into the water.

He felt and heard a disturbance in the water; Mojar opened his eyes again and could see a mass of dark objects violently churning to his right. He suddenly realized that he was looking at a swarm of slaughterfish feeding on something... Most likely one of the slaves who had fallen in before him. Perhaps even J'riska. Mojar turned and swam in the opposite direction. The shadows over his head grew further and further away. When Mojar came up to breath, the limbs of the city were far over his head. He had done it- he was leaving the city!

There were a few structures on the Western shore, but Mojar angled himself toward an empty section of beach. His muscles screamed at him for rest but the Khajiit never paused for even a moment now that he was out from beneath the shade of Llothanis. He did not risk looking back, but he couldn't hear anything to indicate he'd been followed.

Sharp fangs clamped down on Mojar's right ankle. Unthinkingly, he yowled, releasing a stream of bubbles into the water. He twisted and grabbed at his foot, found a slippery scaled body instead. Mojar's claws dug into its flesh as they sank together. He felt its jaw tighten, driving rows of needle-sharp teeth deeper into his flesh and scraping bone. Mojar grabbed its head, felt his fingers puncture eyes, and squeezed with all his might. The slaughterfish finally released him then, snapping blindly and catching his hand, but Mojar ripped at its soft flesh with his other. The water had clouded with dark blood. The creature went limp. Mojar twisted up, trying to find the surface again. He swam, lungs burning, hand and ankle throbbing.

He broke through after what seemed an eternity, gasped, and started to sink again. Mojar forced his muscles to comply, forced himself back to the surface. The beach was so close... he didn't have much time before the blood would attract other slaughterfish.

His toes barely scraped the ground. Mojar paddled harder until finally his foot touched down on rough gravel, almost falling when he tried to place his weight on the injured ankle. Mojar hop-limped to the shore and collapsed on a beach more gravel than sand, heaving hard, his eyes stinging from the salt. He wanted to do nothing but lay there sucking in air, but his foot was bleeding. Mojar struggled to sit up and peeled his wet shirt over his head, tying it tightly around the wounds to stop the bleeding. Waves of seawater lapped at his legs as he did so. His left hand had been punctured and was bleeding as well, but the bite had been shallow. Blood matted his fur, and it hurt, but infections aside it wasn't life threatening. He looked up and saw ripples in the water where other slaughterfish had come to feed on the one he had killed.

Mojar felt heavy and tired, his wet fur adding pounds of weight for his weakened muscles to bear. He rolled onto his knees and pushed himself up, wincing and grunting as he forced himself to bear weight on the injured ankle. He had no choice. Mojar limped up the slope toward a forest of gargantuan trees and smaller parasol mushrooms barely taller than himself. He knew nothing of Morrowind; knew nothing of what might be waiting below the next hill. He might be running straight toward a garrison.

The only thing Mojar knew for certain was that he was free. Free, free, free repeated in his mind on an endless loop as he staggered along, pain and exhaustion clouding his senses. The world was growing dark, and for a moment Mojar thought he was passing out, but realized instead that the sun was setting behind him and the forest he entered had further darkened the sky.

He came to the peak of the slope and found not a garrison in the valley below, but instead a river winding along the base of a mountainous, rocky hill on the other side. His end of the beach sloped down more gently to the water's edge, but it would be very difficult to climb out at the other side. Mojar braced his weight against a tree trunk as he panted and looked at the landscape around himself, both alien and lovely. The trees here had to be at least five feet in diameter at the base, long trunks of smooth, twisted bark rising sixty-some feet before the limbs finally stretched out like arms to fan shaggy clusters of thin, needle-like leaves. The trees were widely spaced here on the ground, but the far reach of their limbs meant that the sky was almost completely obscured. Large roots snaked through the stunted grass like veins, partially peppered by dead leaves and other vegetable detritus. The roots made the terrain rough and uneven to walk upon.

In the shadow of the massive trees grew brown-stalked mushrooms with golden gills, usually three or four flat caps branching out from every main stalk. The steep hill on the opposite side of the river blocked Mojar's view of the West, and the thin strip of forest seemed to continue both North and South as far as he could see- which was not terribly far.

He could make out dark shapes flitting from limb to limb high above him and could hear the buzz of large insects. Beetle-like shapes clung to the trunks higher up and Mojar hoped they would not take notice of him... some were barely smaller than himself.

Mojar settled down with his back against the Eastern side of one trunk so that he could watch the bay he had come from. Now that he was away from Llothanis and had time to think more clearly, he untied the quick bandage he had made for his ankle and began tearing the shirt into strips. He rebandaged both his ankle and hand and stuffed the leftover strips into his waistband to use for later. Part of the rough fabric was already stained by his blood but he kept it anyway, rather than leave evidence of having been there.

His stomach ached with hunger and every other part of him ached from the long swim. He reeled, leaning back against the tree, for a moment feeling he would vomit. The nausea passed and Mojar looked about himself, suddenly terrified. He'd thought emotions of such intensity were beyond him.

He had no idea where he was. He had no idea where the closest city might be. He was unarmed, injured, without food, potable water, or the tools to acquire such. And he had no time to sit and think; guards could be on their way. In fact Mojar thought he saw a tiny shape moving out on the bay, possibly a boat. He looked up, wondering if he could scale the tree and hide in the high branches until the search party had gone away, but immediately discarded the idea. The trunks were too tall and Mojar didn't think he had the strength left to haul himself up with his claws alone.

He hauled himself up and limped down toward the river. After drinking his fill of the fresh water, he would follow it South. Black Marsh lay to the South- this was the only thing Mojar knew for certain.