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Negary (split soul) pov :
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As I opened my eyes, I beheld the night sky, a vast expanse punctuated by stars. They shone with a cold yet captivating beauty.
''...Each star, a self-contained nuclear fusion reactor" I uttered slowly , remembering the phisics I used to study.
The tranquil sound of waves crashing against the ship's hull resonated softly.
"...a manifestation of fluid dynamics and the interplay of forces between the water and the vessel" I continued to mumble, unheard by anyone.
The hard boards of the ship's deck pressed against my scrawny body, a tangible reminder of the forces of gravity...a reminder that I had yet to try to increase gravity with my magic...
I lay there in contemplation, as my mind delved into the meaning of the vision I had only just witnessed.
'So that's their origin...I had my suspicions , but this confirms it...still , there are a few pieces missing from the puzzle'
The stars above and the relentless sea below were a testament to the beauty of the world...but how could mere beauty incite me?
I pushed myself to my feet in a fluid motion, ignoring the creaking of my joints as I did so. The body I currently inhabited was taken from a homeless person that had the bad luck of sleeping near the Red Keep in an alleyway.
This body had seen some rough days, and it showed. It was as skinny as a scarecrow, like it hadn't seen a proper meal in forever. In the cold night, it shivered a bit, but I held it steady, like a puppet waiting for the show to begin, its muscles tense and ready.
It's eyes were darker than the night, and the sickly look on its face made it quite unapproachable . It had that expressionless poker face, like it had learned to keep emotions in check , without me needing to do anything.
It was dressed in simple, dark clothes, nothing flashy. And one hand was hovering near the hilt of a sword, like it was ready for action, no matter what came its way.
...It wasn't a really impressive view, so when I presented it to Barristan I thought it would be wise to show him that appearances could be deceiving at least in this particular case.
Even as weak as this body looked, when controlled by me , I doubt there was any normal man that could defeat it one on one...in this world at least.
But the reason for choosing such a weak body was quite simple...I didn't have any other choice.
I quite literally lacked the ability steal the body of someone with a stronger soul.
Of course, I could kill a normal human and then I could control his corpse to do my bidding in five seconds flat, but to ,,take over,, another body , I had to slowly peel away the old soul while I took it's place. Only like this I could preserve the body and keep it ,,alive,,
If I just shattered the soul of a person using my magic and then I tried to possess the body, well, I couldn't do it fast enough so that could keep the cerebellum and medulla alive because the heart stoped the very second there was no soul left in the body (which was fucking bullshit by the way because the excitoconductory system of the heart should keep it beating even when separated from the body for a while) and no oxigen reached them anymore.
Those were the only parts I cared about as they allowed for easier and more refined control over the possessed body...but enough of that.
'I'm sure that with practice, possessing will become easier...' I thought as I inspected my surroundings.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
I looked around, taking in the empty deck of the ship. The wooden deck was weathered, bearing the scars of countless voyages. The mast loomed tall and sturdy, the rigging overhead standing like silent sentinels.
But my attention was drawn to the figures near the helm. Two old men with white hair stood there, engaged in a hushed conversation. One of them wore a white cloak that reflected the feeble light emitted by the ship's running light. His eyes held a wisdom that only age could bring. The other old man, portly and well-fed, had one hand on the helm of the ship, guiding our course. In his other hand, he held a cup from which he drank slowly, the golden rings on his fingers a stark contrast to his calloused hands, a testament to a wealth that seemed out of place on this vessel.
I took quiet steps, their sounds masked by the small waves that lapped against the ship. I moved closer to the two men, their voices still soft and indistinct.
As I approached, a wooden board creaked beneath my weight, breaking the hushed ambiance. The two men finally turned towards me. The first, the man in the white cloak, regarded me with overt wariness, his eyes scrutinizing my every move. The other, the portly old man, concealed his wariness behind a friendly smile.
He spoke with a voice as smooth as silk, "Ah, esteemed sir, I see that you have woken from your slumber. I am the captain of this vessel, and let me tell you, this is the first time I have seen someone lay unmoving for seven days without being dead, hahaha." His laughter seemed genuine, likely practiced over decades, but his eyes remained barely opened as he laughed, revealing the shrewdness behind the facade. He watched intently, ready to adapt his own demeanor to match my reactions.
'Mirroring the emotional state of your target is one of the basic tactics in manipulation after all...to bad he chose the wrong opponent for this game.'
I put on a wide, charming smile, one that likely startled Barristan, who stood nearby. It was the same smile that had preceded our duel back when we met ,,for the first time,,
"The pleasure is all mine, captain," I replied in a voice as sweet as his honeyed words, "Or should I call you...Magister Illyrio?"
And suddenly, the old man wasn't smiling anymore...
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Third person pov:
(Present moment)
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In the heart of the Riverlands, Lord Harroway's Town basked under the midday sun, revealing a blend of architectural elements and the vibrant life of its people.
The town's layout featured a distinctive seven-sided sept, a spiritual hub for its inhabitants, where the faithful came to seek solace and guidance. A two-story inn stood tall, offering respite and comfort to travelers who passed through. Rising above the town, a sturdy stone roundtower provided a watchful eye over the surroundings.
The people of Lord Harroway's Town went about their daily lives, engaged in various occupations, from traders haggling for goods in the market square to fishermen hauling in their catches from the river. The architecture reflected a blend of practicality and tradition, with buildings constructed to withstand the occasional flooding of the river. Whitewashed walls, timber-framed structures, and slate roofs created a picturesque view against the backdrop of the flowing Trident.
The river itself, the mighty Trident, meandered gracefully alongside the town, providing a lifeline for trade and transportation. On its banks, locals and visitors could be seen enjoying the cool waters, while boats and barges transported goods up and down the river.
Down by the bustling riverfront, a wide, flat-bottomed boat rested at the ferry. It boasted a dozen oarlocks, ready to navigate the Trident River's currents. A wooden house on its deck served as a base of operations for the ferry service. Adorned with two intricately carved horse heads, the boat stood as a symbol of the town's trade and connectivity.
The town, with its rich history and vibrant present, stood as a testament to the enduring spirit of the Riverlands, where tradition met commerce, and the Trident River wove its tapestry of life and prosperity...
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Amidst the bustling heart of the city, a sweaty man sprinted through the crowded market, his voice carrying loudly and clearly as he yelled, "The Blessed King will reach our city tomorrow! Start preparing the festivities!"
His cry echoed through the air, reaching every corner of the market, and a sudden silence descended upon the crowd. People froze in their tracks, their eyes wide and mouths agape as the news from Lord Roote, their noble ruler, washed over them.
But this stillness was short-lived. It was as though an invisible switch had been flipped. Suddenly, the entire market sprang into action. Some began chattering excitedly, sharing ideas and plans for the upcoming festivities. Others cheered loudly, their voices joining in the chorus of anticipation.
Amidst the joyful chaos, there were those who prostrated themselves on the ground, offering up prayers and thanks to the gods for this momentous occasion. The energy in the city surged, and its inhabitants, from the youngest child to the oldest elder, started preparing, each contributing their part to ensure that the arrival of the Blessed King would be celebrated with the grandeur and fervor it deserved. The whole city seemed to come alive, fueled by the prospect of welcoming their monarch...
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A few tens of miles away from the city , in the heart of a sun-kissed grassy field, said monarch stood like a living statue, a vision of regal magnificence.
His form appeared as if sculpted from the finest marble, every muscle and sinew perfectly defined beneath his skin. Short, glistening hair framed his face, and a serene smile played upon his lips, giving him an air of tranquil authority. His closed eyes seemed to hide untold wisdom as he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the embodiment of grace and poise.
And surrounding him were three men, their steel swords glinting in the sunlight as they held them threateningly toward their seemingly defenseless monarch.
The first was Eddard Stark, a living legend of the North, his face a mask of supreme concentration, prepared to strike the Blessed King with his years of martial expertise.
The second was Jaime Lannister, the supposed uncle of the young King, his brows furrowed with an air of hesitation as he too poised himself to make his move.
The last was a black-haired, tanned swordsman, his grip on two blades, one in each hand, expertly poised for action. His eyes observed the Blessed King's unmoving figure with a predator's precision, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.
The tension in the air was palpable, as these three seasoned swordsmen prepared to engage. However, the serene repose of the Blessed King remained unbroken.
But suddenly, under the watchful gaze of these expert swordsmen, a disruption shattered the stillness.
*Yawn...*
Joffrey, the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, yawned loudly, as if unfazed by the swords poised to strike him...
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A.N :
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As an addendum to making choices when you make a choice commit to it fully or not at all.
Giving anything less than your best when you've made your choice means you might have well not made the choice at all."
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No significant stat changes , but during the week that passed the wounds on Negary's souls healed almost completely, so he will be able to start refining it again very soon.