Ioeth Story Prompts

Once again, Ioeth finds themselves in the small town of Hazleridge, a day’s journey away from Faline. The crooked streets and jumbled houses bring no good memories—Ioeth was here when the witchfinder plague had only just started, and they can recall the events with bitter clarity.

The square in the middle of town is the same as it was, though the raucous crowd from back then is now replaced with a more sullen, silent gathering of people; where there was only one preaching witchfinder, there is now a whole lineup of them, standing beside a wagon train heading Grace-knows-where, some of them armed with crossbows.

A stark difference from when tensions between mages and Miriam’s lackeys could be soothed by mere words. Ioeth has not tried to reason with a witchfinder in many months, and they have no reason to begin. They throw an angry glance at the notice board at the edge of the town square, where the posters for wanted mages hang, and pull their scarf and cloak tighter around themselves, as if further trying to hide their magic-marked body.

So far, it’s working. Nobody gives a bundled-up northerner a second glance, nobody questions the layers of fabric hiding their face and hands. Hazleridge may be small, but the Southern Road passes right beside it, and merchants, travelers, and visitors to the southern parts of Ivras are a common sight.

Their own reasons for stepping foot here again are a bit more devious. There is a newly built Order outpost here, and its warehouses swell with the goods and precious materials the Order requires for its day-to-day work. Ioeth has been scouring Order locations for gold and precious stones for weeks, carefully managing their underhanded ventures as to not make it too obvious; this is the first time they’ve attempted it in Hazleridge.

The spoils of their thievery hang in a small, but valuable pouch, well concealed under their robes, and they ought to leave the town as fast as possible, but something holds them back. Perhaps it’s the sheer number of posters for wanted mages; Ioeth does not doubt that their own name and visage may one day be nailed to a notice board—their reputation has grown.

Maybe it’s spite. Spite is what made them speak up before, back in August, and perhaps that’s what drives them to wander the streets now, carefully watching the faces in the crowd. They take a moment to scan the posters more carefully, and frown deeply at one in particular. It shows a young woman with a defiant expression and wild brown hair, and her crime is teaching magic. The hypocrisy of the Order and its witchfinders makes Ioeth grit their teeth, and there is a sliver of dark anger in the back of their mind, something nasty and vicious. But they keep still, inhale deeply, and breathe out; their expression smooths into one of careful neutrality again as they turn away from the board and move into one of the side streets.

There is a crowd gathering nearby, gawking at some spectacle, and Ioeth realizes the line of wagons are moving, and the squadron of witchfinders as well. Ioeth has no intention of getting in the way of their crossbow bolts, and takes the opportunity to carefully back away into the mostly-empty streets behind them.

Suddenly, there is a shout and a commotion before them. A witchfinder, his white collar spotted with a fleck of red, has grabbed a woman’s hand—the woman from the poster, Ioeth realizes an instant later, the mage—and is trying to drag her towards the wagons. She is resisting, her face set in an angry snarl, and when she manages to land a hard kick to his groin, he lets go with a pained yell.

The mage whirls around and pushes through the crowd. Behind her, a handful of other witchfinders have taken the first one’s place, and from Ioeth’s position, they can see two others coming at her from another direction—and she happens to be coming straight towards Ioeth.

Quickly, they pull the scarf from their face, catching her gaze, and gesture at her to follow. Her eyes widen in recognition of another mage, but she starts running towards them without hesitation. Cries and shouted orders from the witchfinders make it obvious that they have noticed too, and when the woman, breathing hard, almost crashes into Ioeth, they know it’s time to get out.

They pull her into a corner. It’s late, and the sky is darkening in the east, but it’s not yet dark enough for deep shadows, and with the sound of heavy boots behind them, Ioeth has no choice.

Without wasting a moment, they reach out with a skeletal hand, curl their claws around her shoulder as they pull on their magic; the shadows around them deepen and coalesce, and a black chasm opens in the middle.

“I’m so sorry,” are the first words they say to her, as she frowns and starts to turn around at the feel of their claws.

“What—”

—and then Ioeth steps into it, pulling her with them.

Her scream is cut off as soon as darkness engulfs them, though Ioeth can still feel her shake. Every moment in the dark feels like an eternity, but it is only a few seconds later they emerge, stepping out of the shadows under a large hedgerow. The faint chimney smoke from Hazleridge can be seen beyond a stretch of woods and pastures against the twilight sky. 

It’s quiet, save for the wind through the trees; the mage sags in Ioeth’s arms, shaking still. They know she is grasping her throat, yet finding nothing there; they know the feeling of tangible darkness, of choking on it, drowning in the endlessness.

She stumbles away from them, and Ioeth lets her go; her expression is wild and agitated, and they can see it’s not only fear of witchfinders in her eyes when she turns around to face them. She has a small dagger in her hand, and she holds it protectively in front of herself, pointed right at them.

Their gaze lingers on the dagger before they meet her eyes, then Ioeth gently raises their hands and takes a step back.

“There is a farm down by this road,” they say quietly, then pull the hood and scarf over their face again. “They are friendly to mages there. Tell them you’re from Hazleridge and they will lend you help.”

“I—” she starts, then swallows hard when Ioeth pulls their claws back behind their cloak. “I don’t know what you did. I don’t want to know. But thank you.” Though her voice is ragged, there is gratitude as well, and with one last glance at their face, she turns and starts to jog down the road.