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Dressed to Kill, Chapter 1 (ASOIAF FI)
🕑 Added 2024-11-19 20:04:59 +0000 UTCConsciousness slotted into place like the missing piece of a puzzle, the orderless morass of colors, spacetime, and distorted perception giving way to the senses of the flesh - for the most part. An awareness of the Psychic Aether remained, sight older than sight accompanying the vision clearing up as the tears of the body’s previous owner were blinked away. The parasite’s eyes were greeted by a man, his skin a coppered brown and decorated with scars old and new stretching across taut, defined muscle. His face was decorated by a snarl, a half-kempt beard beneath almond-shaped brown eyes, black hair tied into a braid behind him. Hearing returned next, the grunts of exertion and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, the faint tinkling of… bells? In the distance, screams of both men and women. Sensation followed, the hand pinning the body’s wrist forcefully, the rough movements of the man as he thrust his hips with… significantly more enthusiasm than skill, given the painful feedback from the nerves, the feeling slowly increasing in intensity as more nerves had their connection restored to a mind.
Atavistic instinct, older than words, older than fire, welled up in the disoriented mind. The bruises and scratches of the rough treatment and the ‘who is this and why is he fucking me’ culminated in a bond of lifeforce between the bodies even as a lance of psychic malice lashed out. There was no care or finesse to it, only the oldest call of instinct. To bite, to claw, to return pain for pain. It speared the man’s consciousness, own-thoughts spreading out and hooking into memories and wants and needs, breaking them apart into easily-absorbed chunks
Lazarro. Rider. Of Ko Boro, of Khal Maggo. A Dothraki of honor and good repute, raiding the lands of the Lhazar for food and slaves, as the Khalasar split apart into smaller forces and swept across the plains. Lazarro decided that the body of the young woman looked attractive enough to take her as a personal pleasure-slave: eye-catching purple eyes fit for someone descended of the Valyrian Freehold, but the characteristic silver-white hair was absent, replaced by a softly-faded purple resembling the shade of her eyes if paler than them. A slim, short body that he could lift with one hand. Appealing features. He wished to claim her as his own and killed the parents when they objected to that state of affairs before raping her. Her mind had checked out - so thoroughly there was not even a hint of memories or resistance to her body being possessed. The foreign mind slithered in as the Dothraki continued fucking the unlucky girl, assuming control of the sweaty, sticky body that was now pinned beneath the bulk of the functionally-braindead raider.
Driven by nothing but a sharp desire not to be trapped under foul-smelling muscle, centipedal legs of psychic power stretched out across brains in a soft pitter-patter, the parasite-mind curling up inside a new nest with no resistance. The body that had once been Lazarro was no less grimy, but the strength in its frame and safety in this skin were reassuring given the circumstances.
Now, if only the previous occupant hadn’t left him with blue balls, that’d be lovely. But he wasn’t about to finish off in a limp body.
Sparks of awareness, left lodged too deeply in what remained of the unfortunate girl’s mind, picked up on their source’s intent and desire. The body beneath him stirred, eyes drifting open once more as she started to move, using what leverage she had with her wrists pinned to fuck herself on his erection.
…He was loath to agree with a slave raider on anything, but his dick left little room to lie about what he felt about a vapid slip of a girl eagerly fucking herself on him. The only silver lining in this situation was that Lazarro had had enough patience to drag the nameless lady to what passed for a bedroom in this hovel instead of pounding her right next to the mess he’d made.
He didn’t bother with justifications and rationalizations past that, hoisting up the petite girl with contemptuous ease and letting gravity hilt the mewling body on his boner. There was a ghost on his senses, an echo of the body he was using like a glorified onahole, whatever it was it served no purpose other than guiding their motions into something vaguely coordinated.
His partner - if she could be called that - let out sounds of pleasure, moaning freely and gasping for air, wordless encouragement for him to take her harder and faster. There was no reason to disagree, his body feeling invigorated as his cock hammered into the enthusiastic girl.
Of course, that was when the dull thud of metal cutting into wood rang through the hovel, getting his attention for the holler that followed.
“Lazarro! Most of the band are already finished - do the same and get on your horse!” The voice was familiar to the fragmented memories that remained of the man he possessed, but there was no name tied to it.
“Not my fault all of you are quickshots!” The parasite hollered back without missing a beat, drawing on the remnants of Lazarro as one picked up a book. Whatever he had become, it was built for impersonating its victims. Not a comforting thought, much less with the reminder that the eager slut in his arms was actually as close to necrophilia as he would ever come.
But come he did, in every sense of the word. The nameless girl cleaned him off while he grabbed the woolen blanket she’d been pinned against before he hollowed out Lazarro. It reeked of sex, but it was dry and whole, both of which couldn’t be said of the girl’s clothes. She was bundled up and in short order he was walking out of the hovel with a fucked silly burrito slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
The pieces of the previous occupant he’d pilfered said the tribe would approve even more if she was visibly dripping, but he wanted no business with that crusty mess. It was bad enough he could feel a distant echo of the grime on her body, for all it was drowned out by the afterglow emanating from her.
…Wait.
There was no pain. Despite how he distinctly recalled a hearty collection of bruises and scratches, there was no discomfort whatsoever. A second look showed nothing but unblemished skin, even his mind swapping places didn’t show anything other than the odd sensation of a cream filling. How?
Blessedly, Lazarro’s body kept on moving unhindered by the puppetmaster’s consternation, simply following the unspoken intent as it emerged into the devastated settlement.
The evening sun shone above, not yet low enough to be called sunset as it illuminated the scattered buildings of the village: some were starting to smolder, flames spreading across thatched roofs, while others merely had their doors broken down, their contents likely carried away. The tracks of hundreds of horses ran between the huts, grass trampled flat alongside the remains of the handful of unfortunates who were caught in the opening charge. More intact bodies were scattered across the ruins, arrows of low enough quality to be discarded sticking out of their bodies or mangled by wide slashes with enough momentum behind them to part the bone. Some distance away, the rest of the force that pillaged the Lhazareen settlement assembled, mostly gathered save for a few stragglers like ‘Lazarro’, either enjoying themselves or looking for valuables.
The events from earlier replayed in the entity’s mind even as the Dothraki body absently got onto its horse, working on automatic while the psychic pondered inside the nameless girl. Assuming control of the girl’s body, senses returned, and a link that he could now feel with more clarity even if it was drowned out during the tryst. His mind fed Lazarro’s body a trickle of energy from the non-place he belatedly recognized as swirl of chaos he’d come to, strengthening and revitalizing - but while the parasite was hosted within the girl, it made a link between the Dothraki and his victim, life draining away and healing her.
The drain was less than the influx - Lazarro’s body was still in a better state than before, simply stronger, faster, more enduring and faster healing all apparent benefits. But it could be pushed further if the siphon leading from him into the girl was broken - and he felt he could do so, the link feeling… more than frail. Pliable, much like the shell it linked to. At the same time, it wasn’t doing much of anything right now, for good or ill. So the parasite simply let it be for now, slipping back into the Dothraki’s body as he focused on riding up to the rest of the kosar, the three-hundred strong band of raiders given a name by what was left of the body’s previous occupant.
The girl, still bundled up in the woolen blanket, was placed onto one of the six wagons they’d brought along, slaves huddling away as he approached before spreading back out as evenly as they could. It made something twist in his gut, but there was nothing to be done about it in the here and now.
When encamped, the girl would be kept in his tent, but pleasure-slaves and those intended to bear children had the benefit of wagons instead of having to walk when traveling. Two carriages were dedicated to this, while the other four were laden with supplies. Crates and sacks filled with wool, meat, tools and everything else of value that the small settlement had to offer.
Too ruined to be worth rebuilding, else he may’ve left the girl behind.
The clomp of hooves closing in snapped him out of his musings, another Dothraki was pulling up. Slimmer and taller in build than Lazarro and bearing fewer scars, although one of them was a large, jagged thing running from the middle of his right brow to the left edge of his lip. The feature tugged at a snippet of memory - the man’s name was Qaro, a peer to Lazarro in rank and time spent in the khalasar, for they were both born into it. “A fine find! There were already rumors you found a beauty, but she truly does look more fit to be a slave of Lys than an ewe on the plains!”
That name rang no bells other than a faint impression that Lys was THE place for high class slaves. Still, ‘Lazarro’ played his role, “Ha! How such a flower sprouted among filthy farmers is beyond me, but she will be watered properly now.”
Qaro let out a noise that could be taken as either a cough or a bark of laughter, but the smile forming across his face did nothing to disguise his good mood. “Yes, hopefully even by you! I’ll not give names but there have already been whispers of challenges planned over her. Not yet, but few women worth taking have been found, mostly sheep-men for labor or matrons fit to tend the fires and wounds but not our cocks. I’d keep an eye on her, if I were you.” That was apparently all he had to say, urging his horse onwards as he moved on, the other raiders already starting to trot after Ko Boro at the head of their force.
Keeping an eye on the girl would be simple, given the telepathic link or whatever it was between each of his puppets. With as much effort as glancing to the side, the girl’s senses came into sharp focus. Envious glances mixed with pity, the former at the lack of wounds and the latter at the violent sexual assault that apparently made her near-unresponsive to those around her. Without so much as articulating the thought into words, the girl’s body obeyed his wants, making her huddle deeper into the blanket.
‘Lazarro’ rode ahead into the first third of the horde, moving unchallenged. The spot taken was near-instinctive, closer to muscle memory than deliberate jockeying for position, but an idle observation was made: longer braids were evidently given more respect and leeway, riding closer to the front of the group sparing them from the dust kicked up by the hundreds of horses.
Lazarro’s own braid reached the slightest bit past his shoulder blades but did not yet reach the small of his back, the Dothraki in his immediate vicinity sitting in that same ballpark, although some had clearly put more effort into embellishing it. Small bells, rings of precious metals, the odd feather. What you’d expect from raider-nomads like these.
The next hour was spent in relative tranquility, bloodlust and ardor both expended in the recent raid. About the only disturbance were the cheerful jeers and boasts being exchanged, more of sexual capability than martial valor because the Lhazareen were not truly enemies. They had few warriors into the mere handful of towns they claimed as their own, and even fewer were anything the Dothraki may consider peers. Infantry were only fit to be run down by ‘their’ mounted warriors, after all. ‘Lazarro’s’ relative silence was not seen as strange, a touch of eavesdropping during the ride painting an acceptably accurate picture of the situation.
Khal Maggo, the overall leader of the Dothraki horde, was heading towards Meereen leading an army of fifteen thousand. His intent was to extract tribute from the city of slavers, and his host was certainly large enough to be taken seriously - a khalasar of ten thousand was considered respectable for a Khal, with the largest known being Khal Barbo’s thirty thousand. That said, not all of Maggo’s forces were moving as a single unit. He personally led a group of five thousand, with smaller kosars led by Kos orbiting it, ranging in size from a few hundred to over a thousand as they raided Lhazareen villages for supplies, letting the entire army move at an appreciable pace. Ko Boro’s command was one of the smaller such groups, but he was considered a just and solid leader, with a good sense for risk and reward.
The group was called to a stop as the sun had begun to set, orders barked out as camp was prepared, slaves setting up tents and digging fire pits, the good mood of the Dothraki warriors not yet fading as some preparatory effort already seemed to be directed towards a minor feast to celebrate the raid’s success.
The parasite took the chance to experiment now that everyone was too busy working and planning. A scarred hand came to rest over the head of his horse, a chestnut-haired courser in role if not in breed, built for speed as it carried a lightly-armored rider into battle. Just like that, his will seeped out to subsume another mind.
Intent skittered across the psychic aether, but this time care was taken and the act was far slower and more methodical, the faint sparks of consciousness near-overlapping with physical presence. He could not tell another’s thoughts without making contact, but something in his gut told him line of sight would be enough– even through the eyes of his puppets. Something similar was also tickling at this astral perception, a presence almost comparable to another’s body heat when in proximity. Faint, more felt than seen, too diffuse to really pin down without a focused effort.
For now, though, he focused on ‘his’ steed’s mind, dull and placid even as astral mandibles carefully pinched its consciousness. Rather than spearing through its invisible membrane, this time they injected the mind of another, the beast lacking the intellect and willpower to even attempt resisting as its brain was overtaken. Just like that, the parasite settled into a new body, the original mind eaten from the inside out.
It came with the welcome surprise that it did not feel any less coordinated - the addition of two more limbs, the weight of ‘Lazarro’ on its back, the different angles and positions of the eyes… None of it mattered as the horse went into a steady trot around the forming camp, something that could easily be considered a patrol of due diligence and not just a test of control over a new puppet to direct. A twinge of intent pulled the parasite back into the rider, but the link remained, a second tentative line extending to connect the horse with the slave-girl without any conscious effort to create it.
When ‘Lazarro’ turned his horse towards his tent, they now moved in perfect unison, the Dothraki ideal of the horse and rider being one.
His smile tasted of bile.
