Ioeth Story Prompts

Snap.

The fine blade of a jewelry saw breaks easily, when the mind wanders and the hand falters.

With a soft curse, Ioeth puts the tool down, stretches their now-sore hands. It’s growing late in the day, and before them is a pile of gold pieces, sawn and filed into shape, waiting to be soldered. Beside them is another heap of dark gems, glittering softly in the dim light. The fire in their workshop has burned low, and the single oil lamp they keep on the desk is sputtering, too, making the shadows dance and shift in the corners of the room.

At least, it’s easy to blame it on the lamp, instead of something else.

The lack of light doesn’t matter. Ioeth could work in the dark, if they had to, but it’s a comfort—pretending normalcy, however brittle it may be. Getting up from their seat, they tend to the fire; their pile of firewood is dwindling, but their work for the day is done, and they long for company, a proper fire, and a meal. It’s only a short way from here to the warm and welcoming rooms of the Red Slipper.

The sky is darkening when they step out of their workshop, and there is a chill wind blowing from the sea. It brings the smell of frost and salt, and from somewhere, the comforting smell of baked bread and spices. There is a clatter of wagon wheels upon the cobblestone, and from somewhere in a distant alleyway, raucous laughter that ends abruptly.

They know it is cold. The uncommonly chill weather has been the most frequent subject of small-talk from their customers all week. And yet… they don’t feel cold. Not anymore.

Ioeth sweeps their cloak tighter around themselves, pulls the hood over their head, more out of habit than out of a genuine need to. There is a thin film of ice on the water in a bucket beside the steps to the door, and they crouch down to touch it, feel the ice crackle beneath their fingertips, and certainly, it is cold. 

For how long has it been like this, they wonder, slowly rising to their feet again, staring at their fingers, their palm, their wrist, where the unnaturally black skin of their hands gradually fade into a warm brown. Beneath their heavy cloak, the bones of their skeletal limbs click together as they move.

When did they stop feeling the cold?