0 Kommentare
0 Geteilt
1 Ansichten
0 Bewertungen
Verzeichnis
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Bitte loggen Sie sich ein, um liken, teilen und zu kommentieren!
-
The Wistful WitnessThe rain in the city of Oakhaven did not fall; it hung. It was a grey, suspended mist that clung to the wool of coats and the leather of bridle straps. Thomas Ashworth rode through it on a destrier named Grief, a stallion with a chest like a shield and eyes that reflected nothing. They were moving toward the Citadel. The air tasted of iron and wet stone. This was the path of the oath. This was...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Pale FractureThe dream was not a dream of flight, but of weight, a heavy, wet stone settling into the silt of a river that did not run, but pooled, stagnant and thick with the memory of rain. In the center of this stagnant water, suspended by a thread of light so fine it was barely visible, hung a seal. It was not made of wax or lead, but of a substance that looked like compressed silence, pale and brittle,...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Distant NightmareThe fog rolled in from the moors each morning, thick and white, erasing the boundary between the village of Oakhaven and the grey sea beyond. It was a town built on stone and silence, where the air tasted of salt and old iron. For three centuries, the townspeople had lived under the Watch. The Watch was not a person, but a state of being, a perpetual vigilance against the things that stirred in...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Distant CartographThe air in the infirmary tastes of iodine and crushed lilies, a thick, cloying sweetness that coats the back of your throat. You are standing in a room that does not exist on any map, a place where the walls are made of woven steam and the floor is a polished sheet of black ice. Here, time is not a line but a substance, viscous and cold, pooling in the corners of the floor. You are wearing the...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Distant NightmareThe dream is always the same. It is a room with no doors, only windows made of thick, dirty glass that look out onto a grey nothing. You are sitting on a wooden chair that is too high for you, and your feet do not touch the floor. In the corner stands a figure. It is not a person. It is a shape made of shadow and wet wool, and it is breathing. You know you should wake up. You know that if you...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Golden FarceThe iron bites deep. You feel the heat of the blade against your own neck, a searing line that separates you from the air. The man before you is large, a wall of rusted mail and breath. He swings again. You block. The steel sings a high, thin note. It is not a song of glory. It is a song of survival. You are Sir Elias Thorne. You are the Warden of the North Gate. And you are dying. The...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Distant LegendThe morning train from London to Edinburgh was a beast of iron and steam that shuddered against the tracks with a rhythmic, mechanical violence that seemed to echo the frantic, arrhythmic beating of Arthur Penhaligon’s heart, which had been struggling for the last decade to keep pace with the rapid decay of his own body and the even faster erosion of his mind. He sat in the second-class...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Golden RitualThe mill hummed. A low, constant thrum that lived in the bones of the floor. Elias stood at the center of it. He held the gear. It was brass. Cold. Heavy. It did not move. The air was thick. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light. They were gold. They were alive. Elias watched them. He did not blink. The mill was a place of iron and steam. It was old. It was loud. It was a monster. But...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Wistful AshesThe rain tapped against the glass. A steady, rhythmic sound. It filled the room. I sat in the chair by the window. The glass was cold. My breath fogged on it. I wiped it away. The view outside was blurred. Trees. Gray sky. The water ran down in thin lines. It looked like tears. Or perhaps just rain. I checked my watch. It was three in the afternoon. I had been waiting for two hours. The silence...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek