Lloroth turned in his cave, drifting towards the entrance before he thought better of it and stopped. The boy was dead, and his eyes sought to return to him, but their way was blocked. Cloth, he thought, remembering their last sight. Fear tore through him, unexpected and unwelcome; this was a danger he had never anticipated. Should he go to retrieve them? Should he wait, and send a bargainer instead? There were risks to waiting, but also risks to breaking his cover.
He should have known better than to make a compact with the boy, he decided. For all his swagger, the child had proven weak and inept. He'd been desperate to bargain, though, and the idea of a dedicated servant, one he could experiment on... Lloroth had been unable to resist.
The shock, when it came, was sudden and absolutely unexpected: blinding pain, and then the slow, throbbing ache as his two borrowed eyes reappeared at the ends of their tentacles. Dispelled, somehow. That was another risk he hadn't expected; how had the mortals managed it? If they'd done it to the boy's corpse, they could do it to any of his bargainers, and that was unacceptable. He'd have to refine his techniques, improve the magic he used for implants.
Trading out his eyes was only the beginning, a convenient way to gather resources and prepare. The lesser creatures on this island were not to be trusted; they might rise up against him at any time. No, he needed to continue his research, master his arts, and create better servants -- more loyal, more reliable, and better placed in what passed for local society.
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