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Dressed to Kill, Chapter 11 (ASOIAF FI)
🕑 Added 2025-01-14 15:15:48 +0000 UTCBoro’s body stood tall in front of the assembled refugees even as his less-impressive bodies loaded the carts with the tools, supplies, and resources necessary to make this controlled retreat as effective as possible while making sure it was also bearable on their part. Surprisingly, their overall mood held on despite the fact they had to move on right after settling in, but once Ladon considered the context it was not all that surprising.
They were inured to the fact their homes were regularly razed before they were enslaved without any real ways to oppose that. Having someone both warn them and help them get to somewhere safer? That was a fairly big step up from the traditional outcome of the Dothraki showing up. And it wasn’t something that he got from overhearing conversations - he could sense it in their minds, a mixture of gratefulness-reassurance-joy that someone was finally in their corner and deliberately assisting.
Temareh had beaten him to the explanation of why they suddenly felt so good, proclaiming it a blessing from the spirit that protected them - not entirely incorrect in that he did use his recent glut of Vim to fix some of the underlying health issues they suffered from. Old scars, prolonged malnutrition, bodies worn down by disease and the rigors of medieval life returned to the best shape they could have been.
So instead of anything else, his ‘speech’ began with an acknowledgement. “The godswife has already explained to you the reason for why you have suddenly felt your health improve - a blessing that I felt would be only right, considering the circumstances. Both for your aid in the growth of this settlement and for the hassle of this retreat,” Boro’s body rumbled out, a voice placid and calm. His recent successes only helped hold that confidence as he spoke. “It is not the only assistance I will be giving you - in the angle closed by East and South, I have set up waystations for you to resupply. Clean water will await you, as well as fresh fruit and eggs. They will be marked by the apple trees I trust you are all familiar with, by now.” There were sharp, attentive nods at that.
“There is no single trail for you to follow, for the oases are dotted across the area and not laid in a line, and I will be masking your tracks the best I can, so they should be unable to follow you should the worst happen,” He added after confirming their understanding. Ladon’s efforts to lay traps and conceal them had greatly advanced his understanding of how to do so, and he may as well use that new experience. “I will commune with you once the battle reaches a conclusion, but if my bodies fall limp and silent I trust you to carry on.”
A bit of a downer to end on, yes.
That did not stop one of the Lhazareen from approaching him mere minutes after, presenting him with a fired clay jug - one that clearly had a great deal of effort put into it, decorated with a pair of monochrome tanglewood trees dyed into the very ceramic itself in shades of red, from pale pinks to bright scarlet and deep burgundy. “An offering, great spirit. Your efforts to make sure we are safe and prosperous have let me pursue my passion in working with clay and color. This vessel is my first completed work, freely given for what you have done for us.”
Ladon’s entire bearing softened through Boro’s body, from the set of his eyes to the curl of his smile. There was no formality there, no sweeping hivemind, just a deeply touched person gently taking a gift in his hands. “Thank you, Betoran. I was all set to live alone, you know? Just a vaguely helpful monster treating the Dothraki and most of the Free Cities as an endless buffet of heartless bastards. That nobody would be willing to live with what I am and what I do, if they knew. You and your people have done a lot for me too, teaching me otherwise.”
The newly-minted potter bowed at his answer. “If I may offer a handful of words, great spirit? The bird on the prairie is a monster to the locust, but the farmer and shepherd both welcome its presence.” With that nugget of wisdom dispensed, Betoran halted for a moment - giving Ladon time to object to his words or reprimand him. When neither came, he withdrew, joining the steadily-assembling caravan.
The next person to approach him was Adervara, slinking towards Boro’s body almost casually. She silently joined him in overlooking the preparations. After several minutes of silent observation - and with things getting underway in earnest, distracting the Lhazareen - she finally spoke. “I do not intend to depart with them. Will that be a problem?”
“...Not inherently.” Ladon replied after a moment’s thought. “I would need to enhance your body and protect your mind to make sure you don’t become collateral, but that’s doable with a single person, as opposed to a whole community.”
She nodded with a slow, quiet hum coming from her. “Is that a major risk? I understand that in a… conventional… battle, the clash of men and flying arrows can kill even those not involved in the fighting, but I intended to stay well within the walls of your fortress, Ladon.”
“Yes and no. While the other entity seems inordinately fond of beams of killing light, faster than arrows and so hot they can turn blood to steam at a touch, digging a cellar for you to hide in should be plenty to take care of any stray shots.” Ladon explained, sighing heavily through Boro’s body, “The real issue is that I don’t know exactly what it wants or what its temperament is or worse, if there are more like it out there. So if you want to stay at my side for the long haul, it’d be best if I strengthened you as much as I am able.”
Adervara didn’t need to deliberate for long. In fact, Ladon could sense the shift in her mind that told him she had made up her mind before he had finished his full answer. “Then I shall do my utmost to make good use of this privilege,” The former slave declared, a smile starting to tug at her lips.
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This was becoming increasingly pointless. The expendable locals were being disposed of rapidly by the terrain and local wildlife that were acting in a manner highly atypical of unmodified specimens of common species. Ergo, they were being influenced by its target to delay and reduce its forces.
Glint-Within-Facet could appreciate that strategy. Doubly so because it was working - only around a quarter of his starting five hundred were still combat-effective and the psychic crystal had serious doubts they would prove to be of value even as a distraction. Especially if this level of obstruction was merely the hastily-erected outer defense. It could see as much, the faint but fresh psychic imprints noticeable enough to make it aware of that much.
There was also the issue of its target remaining so diffuse to his senses. The coordination its defenses showed suggested telepathy, and that diffusion meant it could probably shunt its mind around, making it more difficult to get the right body as well as giving them an uncomfortably high chance of slipping the noose should Glint-Within-Facet win the battle.
If he managed to get close enough to the right spot, if it could win the battle, if it could consume the psyche of its target… That was too many ifs and not enough whens for its taste. Too many things would need to go in its favor, from its foe suddenly making several poor defensive choices to lacking countermeasures to its own powers to Glint-Within-Facet managing to successfully lay a mental trap for a confirmed telepath while not being one itself. In hindsight, this was a poor choice of target for a hunter of its talents.
And it did not want to risk its existence in a final, desperate push to maybe get some useful data but probably die in the act instead. The information gathered so far was weighed, and the psychic predator came to the conclusion this was not a conflict that was in its favor. Better yet, there was nothing forcing it to stick with the failure of its plan.
Glint-Within-Facet descended to ground level, a yank on the mental leash connecting it to the expendable warriors demanding them to return. Then, it waited - there was little else to do with its original intent abandoned, and so it merely hovered in place, absorbing the sunlight, photons penetrating its surface and trapped within the planes of crystal. Stored for later use when there was no such abundance of the resource.
The horsemen returned, ragged and exhausted. Zealous hands gently pressed against its surface moments after it demanded such, and directives were given out - survive, grow, gather information. Abandon the assault, disperse, and act as independently as they could. Glint-Within-Facet, their master, intended to return. Or so it informed them, at any rate - its plans were tentative at best.
The crystal bore no ill-will to the psychic that managed to fend off its recent efforts. Resistance to being subsumed was natural; and Glint-Within-Facet acknowledged that it was far more suited to to battle with the more physically-inclined solitary type of prey than a dispersed, cunning opponent. Therefore, it had no real desire for a rematch.
It would come back if it found a silver bullet or countermeasure that would let it overwhelm the psychic, but unless Glint-Within-Facet managed to do so, this would be the last both the locals and the Esper in the distance would know of it.
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He won. Well, for a given sense of victory - the retreat of the mind-shackled Dothraki was accompanied by the light of the other psychic’s presence spiking out like a flare before winking out into nothing, and his investigation included the capture and consumption of the tribesmen’s psyches. Fresh memories, assembled from dozens of slurried, disorganized minds gave Ladon a name to work with.
Glint-Within-Facet, a hunter that fed on other psychics. One that acknowledged it lacked the ability to reliably kill him and therefore left with the intent to return once enough information had been gathered by its minions and it grew sufficiently in strength.
Where there was one, there were more. His preparations would continue, because it didn’t matter if it was this hunter who returned or someone else. All that changed was that he had more time to grow and train and build.
…and also the fact that he really should notify the Lhazareen he had ordered to evacuate that the immediate danger had passed. His perception flicked through the plants and animals he had assimilated, checking on the united convoy as they prepared to settle in for the night at one of his waystations. He’d probably just give the lot of them a shared lucid dream to inform them. He had gotten good enough at that during the trip North before he set down roots.
Adervara nudged Boro’s body from the side, drawing his attention back to her. “You look deep in thought.” The woman had changed, Ladon’s influence visible even if the cause would not be immediately apparent to an outsider. Her hair had turned to a more solid silver in color, having grown straighter, softer, and paradoxically probably also strong enough to garrote a man. Her features were refined further, going from a barely-achievable sort of beauty to looking almost airbrushed while still feeling like a person instead of a doll. Her proportions also slimmed down, becoming a silhouette that was probably unachievable without an eating disorder if one bound themselves to non-psychic means, but the two most obvious changes were her eyes and skin.
The former glittered faintly in their sockets. Faint, flickering sparks of light within the iris, a pseudo-bioluminescence that developed without any real input on his part, or hers for that matter. The latter shifted in color, the tan she bore deepening and seeping in to permanently tint her skin to a golden brown.
“The other spirit left the plains, seems like it didn’t like its odds.” Ladon rumbled through his main terminal, Boro’s massive hand cradling Adevara to his chest effortlessly. She hadn’t been the only one to change. The more in-depth refinement had altered his primary body. With hindsight, he now saw that what he was doing before was a quantitative increase, adding on more muscle, forcing the bone to stretch and thicken to support it, enlarge the heart, lungs, and other organs to maintain viability, and so forth. A very brute-force solution of just making things grow.
Boro had been improved on in terms of quality, turning what already was a looming hulk of a man that could probably break someone’s spine with a half-hearted punch into something very blatantly superhuman. Thick bundles of muscle stretched across the frame, sculpted into a bodybuilder’s envy: arms as thick as lesser body’s thighs, thighs as wide as their waists, rock-solid to the point it could be considered a form of natural armor. That development was not solely limited to the limbs, either: the core muscles, organs, bones, the skin were all pushed higher in quality and performance.
Ladon just hoped it would be enough for the next bastard.
