Ioeth Story Prompts

Weeks pass since the events in the Whispering Sea, and Ioeth’s magic is slow to return.

Frustration blooms in their chest, hot and heavy, more often than not, and turns into a seething anger; aimed at themselves and their perceived weakness; at others who were present; at the world, at the monster, at those who didn’t come. Why, why, why…

It makes them snappish and short-tempered, though they try to keep it in check. They spend more and more time alone, locked away in the back room of the shop, working their frustrations into more and more intricate jewelry. 

The Dark Reach is almost constantly on their mind. How did it happen, and why—and most importantly, what to do with it now: can they do anything? Is it reversible? In their current state, no; Ioeth can only fervently hope that their magic will come back, and they will find a way to undo the damage they have wrought.

If they could, they would go there alone. They are not strong enough to shadow-step yet, but if they close their eyes, search inwards, they can feel it; the Reach is a beacon in their mind, a black hole, tugging at their attention. If they only could muster enough strength, it would be so easy to travel there…

But they cannot.

Ioeth has tried, of course. Attempting to conjure enough power to step into the shadows made them want to throw up from pain, and left them quivering, with a black nosebleed and stabbing cramps in their hands and arms.

When they are asleep and dreaming, though, there are no such limits to their magic. They can feel it surge through them, a boundless void at the heart of their power, and it is as easy as breathing to step from one shadow to another—and more.

In their dreams, they stand before the Dark Reach, in the boundary between the shadow-scarred land and the bright marshes, where an unnatural twilight settles over the lands. The sun’s warmth does not reach them, and its light fades abruptly as they step inside. 

It is a familiar environment, and yet not. The marshes stretch before them, dry and withered, an ashen shadow of the once vibrant landscape—but even in the changes, Ioeth senses familiarity. They know this darkness like the back of their hand—the black bones that litter the ground, the strange structures erupting from below. The empty, black sky is an all too familiar view.

In their dreams, they wander the darkness, a shadow among shadows; they explore every nook and cranny of the strange new land. Towers of black bone rising from the earth; an endless Void above them; the air silent and still.

Except for one thing. It’s always there, at the very edge of their hearing: a faint heartbeat, slow but steady; so faint it could be brushed away as a figment of one’s imagination… except they know, with a cold certainty, that it is real.

They begin to follow the sound, and it takes a long time, even in their dreams, to find its source.

A great structure, all black bone and parched shadows, rises before them. They can hear the heartbeat echo in their mind now: thump, thump, thump. Perhaps a little faster than before—as if stirred by some emotion.

Without hesitation, Ioeth steps inside.

Deep inside the bowels of that strange labyrinth, they find it. Dark against the darkness, a grotesque shape against the surface it lies on. It beats, rhythmic and slow.

They reach out to touch it, hesitate a moment, then their fingers grasp it without thinking.

It is a black and wretched thing; sticky with dark blood that seems to drip continuously, trickle between their fingers. Blood ought to be warm and alive, but this feels cold and viscous.

Thump. 

Here, it is less of a sound and more of a feeling, a faint movement in their hand. It contracts and relaxes.

Thump. 

Morbid, macabre curiosity rears its head, and they squeeze it gently, push their fingernails into the black flesh. In the same instant, there is a sharp pang of pain from inside their chest, and Ioeth almost drops it with a hissed, indrawn breath. 

Thump.

They wake up panting and breathless, disoriented for a moment; their surroundings wholly unfamiliar—no, it’s their bedroom, in the apartment they share with Mochrie—and it takes a minute for them to recall their dream. They can still feel their magic course through them, effortless, powerful; for a moment, they are filled with exhilaration, wild and joyful and elated—

—crushed, when they try to summon even a fraction of what they were capable of, and cannot. 

For a moment, it makes them want to scream and rage and destroy something, anything; instead, they take a deep breath. They unclench their claws, tangled in the blankets, and get out of bed, slowly rising into yet another day.