Carved - Bonesmith Heirmir - October Writing Prompt
Bonesmith Heirmir has fucked up.
Were it not for her actions, Zovaal would have never obtained the maldraxxi sigil.
Yes, that idiot mortal, Highlord Fordragon was the one who suggested they take it to the Runecarver, but Heirmir could have said no. She should have.
She should have considered that with whatever magic was wrapped around it, perhaps even the Jailer would not be able to get through, and if he couldn’t get even one sigil, then he would not be able to do whatever it was that he had planned.
The unmaking of reality.
Heirmir glares at the nearest shrub, wishing she could go back to her forge.
Or back in time.
Like all maldraxxi, she has missed the Primus, and for her reunion with her master to have been such that it was…
She feels her failure in a profound way. That is why she remains in Korthia. It is a punishment she has set out for herself, for in truth, she could make the trinkets and gems that the mortals ask of her from anywhere. She could go back to Maldraxxus and send the mortals what they want via couriers.
Her presence is not truly required.
But the Primus is here, and he is working to set things right, and Heirmir will stand at his side until things are.
As little as she cares for the mortals—especially the venthyr ones who drag her to their idiotic parties to man part of the armory—she will help.
Highlord Fordragon has made the mistake of attempting to talk to her twice. While she is prepared to deal with people more than she would like, she is not prepared for some miserable mortal to try to discuss mundane topics with her. The second time, when she realized that there was not going to be anything useful said on his part, she made sure to give him her best ‘the next time you open your mouth I am going to stab you’ expression.
She’s not sure if he’s gotten the message yet, but she does daresay that a dagger through the ribs might help drive it home.
The mere thought reminds her of weapons and that reminds her of her forge, and her mood sinks to a dismal low as she considers that she would much rather be back in Maldraxxus, either manning her forge.
“Heirmir!”
She feels the presence of her soulbind just as her name is called, and her frown doubles. She should not have offered to soulbind with this mortal. In a moment of weakness, she was impressed with their capabilities and had wanted to learn from them, to improve herself—and to offer the maw walker her strength.
Now, though…
She wants to push them in a vat of lava.
“I made you a jack’o’lantern!”
It is with a tired soul that Heirmir looks down at the small mortal to see that they are holding some sort of gutted plant. It has been carved up so that a fairly impressive rendition of Heirmir’s face stares back at her in oranges, with green light from inside the hollowed gourd illuminating her features.
The skill that has gone into carving her likeness is impressive, and for a moment, she forgets to frown, instead appraising it and then letting her gaze move to the maw walker. “You know these things rot quickly.”
“But it’ll last for a few days!” They are so chipper. “I put one next to your forge a few days ago, but then I heard you’re not coming back around Maldraxxus for the time being, so I made you a new one!”
Heirmir takes the jack’o’lantern from her soulbind. It is heavier than she expects, heavier than she would have thought those weak little mortal arms could manage, and so she takes it to the nearby stump and sets it there, stepping back to appraise it.
The brokers wander over and inquire about it as well, even as a few others gather around to see what the fuss is about.
“Quite skillful,” one of the brokers commends, and the maw walker puffs up a little, pleased. “How many have you made?”
“Well, four.” They count on their hands. “I was going to do one for each soulbind, but then everyone liked having Heirmir’s around her forge, so I had to make a new one to bring here.”
Heirmir’s fickle mood returns as she listens. “Who, pray tell, is everyone?”
“Everyone!” the maw walker says. “Someone brought a little tiny hammer and set it next to the pumpkin! And a tiny forge. There were some jokes of getting a spare body to rest the pumpkin on, but we decided against it.”
Heirmir is going to cause bodily harm to whoever came up with that idea. When she finds them.
And she will.
“Do you accept commissions?” one of the brokers asks as the other leans forward to see the source of the light inside. A small candle flickers there.
“Ah, no,” the maw walker shakes their head. “These are just for Hallow’s End. It will be over soon, anyway.”
Before the broker can say anything else, they take note of something and back away, as does everyone else near the tree stump.
Heirmir looks over her shoulder and then quickly shuffles to the side as well as the Primus walks up. He kneels before the stump, peering down at the little gourd, brow pinched.
“You captured her scowl quite well.”
“Thank you!” says the maw walker.
Heirmir is not amused.
As the Primus stands, he glances down at Heirmir. “It sounds like you’ve left your forge cold.”
“I’m where I need to be,” Heirmir replies, though she does stand a little taller, wondering if her current decision to stay out here is only further disappointing her master.
“I wonder,” the Primus murmurs. For a second, Heirmir fears that she is going to be sent home. That the Primus will announce to everyone present that he has no need of her here.
She is not sure why that idea terrifies her so. It’s not like she even wants to be out here, after all.
However, he doesn’t.
It is not until much later, when there is a lull in the activity around the Keeper’s Respite, that Heirmir finds herself inspecting the gourd again. The details are indeed meticulous. It looks more like a drawing than a carving and she is impressed at the amount of detail the flesh of the gourd can hold.
As she is wondering if the maw walker did this themselves or had someone do it for them, she realizes that she is not alone.
The Primus is kneeling beside her again, inspecting the jack’o’lantern as well. “He would have gotten the sigil anyway, in the end.”
“Primus—”
“It would have taken a bit longer, but it also would have cost a great deal more lives,” the Primus says, still looking at the pumpkin. “So your stupidity was not a complete waste.”
Heirmir looks at him, feeling something break in her chest. Or perhaps it is something melding back together. It is hard to say.
He has not forgiven her just yet, but his words are a promise that he will.
And she’s not sure why that means as much as it does.
She considers going back to Maldraxxus, to reclaim her forge from whatever mockery has been set up with the help of the maw walker, but decides against it. She is still needed here.
And now, as the Primus moves back to his overlook, she can’t say that she minds quite as much.
