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The Life of Arga

Chapter 1: The Old Masters

Sponsored by Asbeoth

By Draconicon

Among the Telvanni, the first sin was to be less than Dunmer. The second sin was to be of the beast folk. The third was to be without magic. Of the three great sins of the remnants of the magical house, Arga was guilty of two, and his slave shackles all but granted him the third.

Outside the great mushroom towers of his Dunmer masters, the Argonian worked the land. It was one of many duties that he and the other slaves held, and he knew that at any moment he could be called back to the tower to fulfill some other task. Sweeping the floor. Cleaning the kitchen. Avoiding the hunger of a most-recently-summoned monster until the mage lord inside could find the proper banishment spell. All of these tasks and more could be assigned to a slave.

Arga brought his hoe down again, dragging it through the half-dead dirt around the tower. Most of the soil's nutrients had been drained in the creation of his master's mage home, and there was no chance that it would bounce back anytime soon. Even with soil imported at great expense from Argonia to revitalize it, there was only just enough to feed the master's household. Slaves, of course, were not included in that household.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. The rattling thud and smack and thunk of stone and wood and metal in the soil continued, the sun pouring down heat at the end of summer. Arga's scales shimmered like jet along his back and arms, and his belly and cheeks burned crimson with the sweat that stained them from the hard work. He kept his head down as he dragged the hoe through the earth, knowing that the overseers were waiting for -

CRACK!

One of the other slaves received the whip. The heat of fire seared the air, the conjured spell as strong as one could imagine. He bit back a wince as he heard the body hit the floor, knowing that was one slave that would be recovering for a week. Better than even odds that the slave would have been doing nothing wrong, either, merely looking in a direction that he shouldn't, meeting the eyes of his masters.

Thunk.

Keep your head down. Just keep working, he thought, taking a step back to keep dragging the row of earth, the crust on top giving way to the wet earth that other slaves poured to try and bring the earth back to life. Just keep working, he thought, leaving footprints behind that he did his best to smooth out.

There were more cracks in the air as whips of fire continued to descend, snapping down on the unlucky slaves that gained the ire of the overseers, and those that were merely doing what they could. Arga never looked up, but he marked the count nonetheless.

Every step reminded him of the shackles around his legs and wrists, the magical metal that drained all but the slightest hint of his magicka. Despite his talents, his species marked him as inferior, and the Telvanni put all those that were inferior to work in the fields or wherever else they could be of use.

Thunk. The row was finished with one more pull, and Arga turned to move to the next line. He was just about to lift his hoe when one of the overseers grabbed it by the handle.

He stiffened, freezing as soon as the elf leaned in. The steel-blue flesh and red eyes were as intimidating as ever as the Dunmer pulled the hoe free.

"Report to the mage-lord. He requires your assistance."

"Yes, master."

"Be quick about it, lizard."

"Yes, Master."

He darted from the fields, leaving it behind as fast as he dared, his loincloth flapping as he did. His tail was stiff and down, making sure to show submission with every step, even as he bit back an angry quip. One of many to go on the list, a list that would never see the light of day at this rate.

The mushroom tower loomed over the rolling landscape of the northern coast of Morrowind. After the Accession War, the remnants of the Telvanni house had made their home here, as well as on the distant island of Solstheim. Arga had heard that the lord that ruled on the far-off island was one of the better ones, that he allowed his slaves the right to rise, to become house Hirelings, or more.

Not here. Arga passed through the knotted wood door that marked the entrance to the tower, stepping inside the yellow-hued structure that was as much a sign of his master's power as it was his home.

The inside was yellow and orange, the walls half-transparent to let in the light. Here and there, some of the lower-ranking Dunmer darted about, students of the mage-lord that were pursuing their studies under him. Some glanced his way, and Arga was quick to drop his eyes back to the leaf-strewn floor.

Nevertheless, he could feel the judgment in their gaze, the way that they stared, the way that they glared, the way that they sniffed as they went by. He was half-naked, while they were dressed in opulent robes. He was barefoot, while they had fancy shoes. He was a beast, while they were Dunmer.

The shackles, the shackles, they burned as he felt them staring at the shiny metal bands. The enchantments pulled at every bit of magicka he had, leaving him with scarcely enough to light a candle over the course of the day. If he had been unchained...

But he wasn't. He wasn't even taught. The only reason that the mage-lord called for him rather than the others was because he had a bit of magicka, a bit of self-taught knowledge, and that put him a hair's-breadth over other slaves. No more than that, and no better than that.

He followed the curving roots that swept through the structure. In another Telvanni tower, he had heard, there would have been a simple hole in the floor far up in the tower, forcing those that did not have a levitation spell to wait upon the pleasure of their master, unable to reach the tower's lord until he deigned to come down. Here, either through practicality or a lack of his own power, the lord had designed the tower to swoop the roots up towards the hole to the upper floors. Arga followed it, scaly feet beating out a thump, thump, thump step that the soft boots of the Dunmer did not.

"Beast," one muttered as he walked by.

"Savage," another said.

"Slave," spoke another.

He buried the words as he always did, keeping his head down and just walking. Walking, walking, and walking some more, leaving the lower level behind.

The upper rooms were dedicated to the mage-lord master, to the best of his students, and to the concubines that he kept. The female Dunmer were off to the far end, near the balcony that looked over the water, while the mage-lord's quarters and lab were off in the other direction, facing towards Morrowind proper. He turned to the left, to his master's rooms, and hoped that today wasn't another 'transform the slave' day.

It didn't take long to find his master. Anis Madales, the lord of the tower, was in the middle of communing with his magic, as the mage-lord called it. To most, it would have looked like meditation, save for the fiery lights that were coming out of the lord's eyes. To others, to those that knew of the magical arts - like Arga - they would have known that he was merely playing out an illusion for himself.

The Argonian stood in the doorway, his head down, not daring to look at the master and provoke his ire. He had arrived, and while he was not the most welcome in the upper floors, now that he stood here he was safe from being thrown out. At least, for now. He would wait, and his master would notice him -

"There you are."

The green light faded from the Dunmer's eyes, the red light that normally burned there returning. The yellow-robed Telvanni magister stood up, gesturing for Arga to step forward. He did, and the plant wall shut behind him, sealing them away from the rest of the tower.

Right. It was one of those days.

The Argonian took a deep breath as the magister looked him over, knowing that he looked filthy compared to the elf. Dirty feet from working the fields, wet scales from sweat, the loincloth unwashed for the last week due to the lack of time or water to get it done. It was all a horrible look, one that would justify the inferiority of the beast folk in the eyes of anyone that cared to look.

He was pretty sure that was why the magister always looked at them this way, why the slaves never had the time to get clean, or to feel better, or to recover more than the smallest amount before they were sent back to work. The dirtier and less-able they looked, the better it was for the elves to believe that they were so much better.

But this was more than that, today. This was something darker for the mage-lord.

"Closer, beast."

The Argonian did as he was told, taking a step closer to the mage. The Dunmer smirked, reaching under the Argonian's loincloth, grabbing him by his cock.

It was not a gentle grip, either, but one that made him hiss in discomfort. It was a tight squeeze that would leave finger bruises up and down his shaft, a mark to humiliate him as much as possible.

"Just as fat and bestial as ever..."

"Yes, master."

"Your kind are slaves to these, aren't you? If you weren't bound by magic, you would be breeding your kind, attempting to rape mine. Wouldn't you?"

He nodded dumbly, not daring to answer otherwise. The last time that someone had tried to protest that Argonians were better, the entire slave quarters had received a beating for that sort of talk. They weren't going to make that mistake again, not when they had the chance to stay healthy just by keeping their mouths shut.

Even if it hurt.

Another squeeze, and Arga hissed again, clenching his teeth all the harder as the Dunmer pulled him forward, forcing his cock to stiffen by the rough manhandling.

"I know your species. So dumb, so stupid, so driven by instincts. If it were up to you, you'd just rut and eat until the day was gone. You live in a swamp because none of you have any intelligence, any ability to build up a proper city. Slavery is a gift to your sort, no matter how much the rest of the country may have changed their minds."

Arga held his peace, only giving the master a nod of his head. Knowing what the Dunmer wanted, he forced himself to think of sexual things, to think of the better women and men in the slave quarters. In such tight spaces, it was impossible to not know how they looked, and despite the tiredness that came after working the fields all day, the mind remained willing, even if the body did not.

He remembered the soft breasts of one of the females, the thought that he'd had of her green scales pressed against the red ones of his crotch. He forced himself to remember another male, one who had bent over a number of times before being assigned to the fields, and still showed off the curves that nature had blessed him with.

It did not take long for Arga's shaft to rise after that, filling the slave master's hand, making it stiff and throbbing. He bit his lip as the Telvanni magister finally pushed his loincloth to the side, making it stand out in the open.

If anyone else were to see this, he would be punished, beaten, probably to within an inch of his life. The beast folk were creatures that were meant to stay on the ground, to be beaten down, to be used as slaves and nothing more. The Dunmer were to keep their bloodlines to themselves, to enjoy the touch of their own species, to savor their own superiority.

But there were those deviants among the Dunmer society that wanted to lord their power over others, and this was one of them. Anis Madales was one of those that liked to bring some of them to the tower, to force them to bend and break in a way that he could not do with the other Telvanni without breaking some of his oaths of service. To one of the beast folk, however, he could do this in secret, and he could enjoy himself in a way that no other could.

Arga did his best to keep quiet as his cock was thrust into the open, seven inches of hard Argonian flesh on display. It was a fine shaft, and thick, and one that would have bred many eggs into a willing female. It might have even drawn more than one, if he was lucky, but that was not to happen here.

A ring of magical sigils surrounded the base of his cock, a commandment that could not be broken. It forbade him from spilling seed, just as all the other males wore in the compound. They were not allowed to breed with the females unless they were given leave by their mage-lord, and that was only allowed when it was time to breed another generation of slaves. It happened maybe once every ten years, when the last generation had grown enough to start educating, and the next needed to start growing.

He had yet to have that pleasure. He doubted that he ever would.

"Kneel, beast."

Arga did as he was told, the metal around his ankles clicking against the floor, the ones around his wrists clicking as he pulled his hands behind his back. He knew what was coming, and he was doing his best to hold back.

"Heh. Even your bit of magic isn't enough to redeem you, beast. You throb like a wild animal. Do you like to be put on your knees so much?"

"I enjoy what you do to me, master," he said, but with just too much of a growl.

CRACK!

He was slapped across the cheek, sent flying to the floor. One booted foot pressed to the base of his tail, and a smooth hand grabbed him by the tip of it, yanking it up. The combined pressures nearly snapped several bones, and he growled in pain.

"Do you dare threaten me, beast?"

"Nnnngh..."

"Don't forget, you are nothing more than a slave. I honor you to allow you to pleasure me. If I ever hear you growl at me again, you will lose more than your tail."

He knew that the mage-lord wasn't making idle threats, either. The man had done worse to the other slaves on the estate, going so far as to mark them with lightning, to burn their scales off, to 'shave' them of their outer layer of scales and make them scream as they were tossed into the salt water on the coast, dodging slaughterfish until they either died or were able to make it back to shore.

The Dunmer was a sadist...and in this case, something of a moron.

When Arga fell, he'd heard the 'click' of the shackles hitting the ground again, but he hadn't quite realized what had happened until he was pinned under the mage's boot. He looked away from his wrist shackles as soon as he saw what had happened, not daring to let the mage-lord see what he'd done.

A crack had formed. Not much of one, but a slight crack in the band, enough to let some of the magicka drain fade. Just a little, just a tiny, tiny bit...but enough to notice.

Hide. Hide.

"Are you listening to me, beast?"

"I am listening. I...I am less. I should thank you."

I should burn you.

"I will take your gift."

I will burn you.

"Thank you."

Curse you.

"Better, slave. Better."

The boot on his tail slowly stepped away, and he was able to breathe a little better as his spine settled back to the arrangement it was supposed to have. He took a deep breath, only to grunt as he was kicked in the ass.

"Present yourself. I want to see what your labors have done for your body."

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."

The words burned in the back of his throat, but he knew better than to show any defiance now. The Dunmer would question him, would wonder what gave him spirit, and the one little bit of hope that he had would be taken from him.

He pulled his legs under him again, getting on all fours and turning his backside to face towards the Dunmer mage-lord. He lifted the base of his tail, then curled it down as best he could, using the tip to spread his cheeks. The muscles fought him, but it was enough to expose his pucker to the Dunmer.

Just like that, steel-blue hands grabbed him by the ass, holding him down, pinning him in place. The thumbs pulled at his hole, pulling the rim apart, making him expose his inner walls. He didn't say anything; he didn't dare say anything.

Just let him use it. Just let him use it, and you can go back to the quarters...

It wasn't the first time. Sometimes, the mage-lord was satisfied with the mouth of a beast. Other times, he wanted to use him more...roughly. This was going to be one of the latter.

"You creatures. Always so ready to be bred. Not like Dunmer women," he heard the mage-lord said, the familiar fumbling with cloth making a rustling sound. "Nearly an hour to get them in the mood. With you, just bend you over, and you're ready. Beasts, covered in sweat, defiled by their own urges..."

Arga bit his tongue, using his tail to rub the sweat on his scales over his ass, knowing what was coming. It was going to hurt...and it was going to feel good at the same time. It always did.

Finally, he felt the 'cut' tip of the elf's shaft against his hole. Not one Dunmer he had met had a foreskin, something that had surprised him the first time that he had been put into this duty. Now, he just accepted it as part of their -

"Nnnngh!"

He grunted as the magister shoved forward. The one saving grace of the dry dick was that it was skinnier than his own, skinnier than any Argonian dick that he had seen in the slave quarters. Long? Yes, most assuredly...but not fat. Eight inches long, and he felt every single one of those as the mage started thrusting away, but not thick enough to hurt as bad as it might have.

He still felt the friction though, and he grunted, huffing and grunting and puffing as he was filled from behind. Smack! Slap! The mage's hands were all over his ass, slapping it, making it bounce, making it shake every time that it was hit.

He didn't let it distract him. Instead, he waited, learned the timing. He let himself feel every harsh smack, every hard thrust, and he let himself learn the timing of the sounds. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two -

Tink.

Yes, that was it. Arga brought his wrists down against the floor every time that he had the chance, timing it to the loudest sounds he could make, to the hardest spanks, to the roughest thrusts that gave him a good reason to slump forward a little bit. The harder floors of the upper story were the only place he could damage the wrist shackles. Everywhere else was either dirt or soft plants, not suitable for bashing.

A bit more, a bit more. Tink. Tink. He kept gradually breaking the bands, cracking the parts that held the beaten metal in place. The enchanted shackles were more bent metal than bonded; if he could break the bands on either side, the rest could be broken free.

SMACK!

The latest spank across his ass almost knocked him flat on the floor, and he hissed for breath as he struggled to lift himself back up. The Dunmer pulled back slowly, leaving half of his cock inside. What -

"Freeze."

The mage-lord's command held him as still as a spell. Arga stared straight ahead, hoping he hadn't been too obvious. He was sure that he hadn't, but he could be wrong. Was he wrong? Had the mage-lord seen?

No. No, it was more humiliating than that.

Arga cheeks burned as he felt the heated flow of piss running up his asshole. The feeling of that heat, that bitterness, that horrible burning feeling, was just as bad as the first time that one of the overseers had pissed in his face for planting the wrong seeds. The feeling of it running into him, scraping along little tears in his ass, only made it worse. He wanted to growl, he wanted to scream...

But he couldn't. Not if he didn't want to get punished. He clenched his hands into tight fists, and clenched his ass even tighter.

"Yes, that's it, little lizard. Savor your master's gift..."

It only got worse as the mage-lord grabbed him by the dick, forcing him hard again and stroking him. The feeling of the extended piss-enema up his ass only made it worse, and he had to strangle his own growls as they threatened to break free. Instead, he was made to huff and puff again, the magister's fingers finding all the sensitive spots on his bruised cock.

"Deviant little beasts. You'd cum from fucking a real animal, wouldn't you? Pull a guar over, and you'd hump it if you had half a chance. No surprise, then, that you're still hard after being used as a toilet."

I will burn you. Burn you for this...

The humiliation was hot and keen, and he could feel his cock being milked out right against his thighs, dribbling down to his feet. Pre-cum stained his scales as the mage-lord jerked him off, thrusting in slowly to force all that piss in deeper, some bits of it rolling out past his rim and along the backs of his balls.

"What's the matter, beast? Don't you like your master's gift?"

"I...do...master," he said, taking care to push out each word as if it was the panting, excited truth. "I'm sorry...I'm tired..."

"Then I'll just have to 'help' you enjoy it."

No sooner said than done. The mage-lord pulled out just as the lightning started to spark from his fingers, and Arga screamed as the lightning coursed through his cock.

His muscles spasmed, the pleasure disappeared. His body cramped up from knees to stomach, and everything twitched like mad. His hole squeezed down, squirting the Dunmer's piss out, squirting it over his legs and his feet, soaking him and his loincloth with the elf's bitter, acrid gift, and his cock...

The Argonian came, alright, spurting over his legs, drawing lines of white across his reddened soles. He came, squirting, spasming, not out of pleasure, but out of the mage-lord's force of will. He came, and came, and came, and when he was finally done, his cock was marked with the fingerprints of the mage-lord, etched into his scales from the pain.

He collapsed when the Dunmer finally let go of him, only to feel the heated lines of the other man's seed landing across his ass. The loincloth came back down, rubbing it in, grinding the mark of the other man's scent into his body.

"There. You're done, now."

"Nnnngh..."

"Leave."

"Yes, Master..."

Arga struggled to get to his feet, managing it by the skin of his teeth after a few seconds. He wobbled from side to side, his shaft slowly falling down enough not to leave a bulge in his loincloth. The mage-lord had already returned to his desk, his studies, and the indication was clear. He was to leave.

He did, wincing with every step as he made his way back down the hall, and then down from the top floor to the bottom. Everything ached, and nothing felt good. The mage-lord had decided that he was due a punishment, and that was what he got.

Arga held his hands down and in front of him the whole way out, the lizard keeping a look of humiliation on his face that wasn't entirely feigned. He walked out of the mushroom tower, and the overseer told him to go to the slave quarters, to rest up until the next day. The burn marks on his hips and his cock - which the overseer did make him show - were proof enough of what happened.

Not until he was in the slave quarters, an underground den that was built next to the mage-lord's tower, did he finally look down at his wrists.

The shackles were damaged. He'd managed to do more than he'd thought to one of his wrists, the ceramic that held the enchanted metal in place almost completely broken. He flicked the few remaining pieces on the bottom half of it out of the way, and then wiggled the enchanted metal from side to side. After nearly five minutes of patient wiggling, it came free.

The shimmering thing taunted him with all the magicka that it had drained from him over the years, and he almost threw it across the room.

Almost. It was the only hard material he had, and he knew better than to believe he could just break the others on his own. No. Use it. Hard as it was, use it.

Tink, tink, tink. The metal was loud, and he knew that if he had been doing this in the middle of the night, the other slaves would have woken up. Some might have waited to be given a turn, others would have fought him for it. Still others would have been too afraid at the possibility of the mage-lord punishing them for this, and they would have called for the overseers, reported him.

This was his one chance. He could not waste it.

Bit by bit, he shaved them free. Bit by bit, he managed to free his other hand. The magicka was coming back. Not all of it, not enough to fight a battle, but enough to feel. The energy that moved the universe, the fire in his veins, the burning heat that was all that life was supposed to be...it was back.

Arga had to stop. He had to stop and feel it. He put the metal down, putting one foot over it as he hugged his arms around his middle. His blood sang with the power of magicka again, awareness beyond awareness flooding through him as it slowly returned. It was like a trickle, a trickle that foretold a tide, but it was enough.

He was aware of the heat in the air, of the warmth of summer. The tingle of other life around him, the other repositories of magicka, moved and tingled at the edge of awareness as he felt the Dunmer just outside, elves that didn't have their magicka restrained, living people that...that didn't understand what it was like to be restrained, to be less, to be fucked.

There was so little magicka in him, even now, but it was enough. He held his hands together, cupping them as he stared at the palms of his hands.

Please...

He pushed at the fire in his blood, pushed it towards his hands. It moved, he could feel it moving, the tingles of that ancient energy running towards his fingertips.

Please...just a little...

It felt like pushing the tide into a bay with nothing but a mop, but slowly, little embers began to form beneath his scales. He saw the orange glow against the black, and he almost lost control of the magic. It slipped, the embers fading, but he grabbed it again, forcing it forward one more time.

Come back...come back...please...come back...

And it did. The embers surged forward, and as the magicka moved, he slowly made fire. It was no more than a tiny ball floating between his hands, a simple surge of flame, but it was something. It was something.

Arga let it fade, covering his face with his hands as he cried. The tears came freely, not in fear, but in joy. Fire burned in his veins, still, the heat of magicka returning to him once more. It continued to grow. Slow, yes, but it was there. It was there. Even if he couldn't get the anklets off by sundown, it would grow.

#

With the sun away and the two moons in the sky, Arga made his escape. The guards had long-since stopped paying attention to the slave quarters. It was more important to watch the boundaries of Lord Madales's town, to make sure that bandits and monsters couldn't make it in. They looked outside, not inside.

Ditching his loincloth at the edge of the slave pens, Arga made his way naked to the slave tower. There was only one mission on his mind, one thing that he needed to do before he escaped. He had promised to burn his mage-lord, and that was what he was going to do.

The magicka had come back during the day, though the shackles around his ankles were too strong for him to completely break. Eventually, he'd find a way to get them off, but for now...

Arga knelt at the base of the mushroom tower, sitting at the back of it as he stared up at the great roof. If he knew more magic, he'd send fire and lightning crashing into the spore-filled top, burn it down from above, so that the mage-lord died first. Unfortunately, he didn't know enough magic for that, but he did know enough magic to start a fire.

Particularly since you never bothered to fireproof this thing, you monster...

He laid his hands against the base of the mushroom tower, feeling the spongy material. Even if he couldn't burn it all down, he could flood the tower with smoke, and enough of it to drive them out, maybe even suffocate them. Whether it would be enough, he didn't know, but it would make a distraction.

After today, he would never come back.

The fire burned against his palms, and he sent it into the tower. It caught and burned, spreading through the inner layers between the outer and inner walls. The fire soared upwards, finding plenty of fuel, and Arga darted further along the tower, setting one fire after another after another. Each one found fuel to burn, and it soared and seared as it went.

He had set more than half the north wall ablaze before the guards finally noticed. The cry went up, and the black and red Argonian knew that it was his time to flee.

With the guards watching the south, east, and west, there was only one path left, the path that all Argonians knew. The waterways.

He turned and ran. No arrow chased him, no spell found him before he leaped from the sandy beach into the water. His arms cut through the sea, taking him towards the sea floor. The slaughterfish would not wake for another hour or two, not before the midnight hour, and the dreugh were too far off to be a problem. As long as he kept to the shallows, and the floors of the shallows, he would be alright.

Arga swam, the light of his inferno lighting his way for almost half an hour before he was too far away, and even then, he kept swimming.

Morrowind would not be safe for him after this. Those that lived would count the slaves, would know who was missing. They would hunt him. They would try and bring him down, if only to be an example to the other slaves.

He would need to flee. Argonia called to him, but the marshes were too far away for him to reach now. Perhaps if they were on the east side, but no. He was in the north. That left only one place for him to go.

Skyrim, he thought. There were no laws to allow slaves, there. Hopefully, he could make a new life for himself. Hopefully, his torment was over.

The End