0 التعليقات
0 المشاركات
2 مشاهدة
0 معاينة
الدليل
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
الرجاء تسجيل الدخول , للأعجاب والمشاركة والتعليق على هذا!
-
The Distant ThresholdThe rain did not fall so much as it descended, a heavy, oily curtain that smudged the gaslight into weeping halos of amber and grey across the cobblestones of the city, a metropolis that breathed steam and sorrow in equal measure, where the air tasted of coal smoke and rotting fruit, and where I, Captain Elias Thorne, walked with the weight of my uniform pressing down upon my shoulders like a...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Distant JokeThe coat is brown. Not the rich, oiled brown of the merchant’s study, but the dull, dust-caked brown of the gutter. It smells of wet wool and the metallic tang of the ironworks. You are standing on the platform at Harrowgate, the steam hissing like a wounded animal behind you. Your hands are trembling, not from the cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the thing in your arms. It is just...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Wistful MirrorYou are the Keeper. The title hangs heavy on your tongue. It is a word that tastes of rust and old blood. You stand before the King. He sits on the throne of white marble, his face a mask of bored stone. The hall is cold. The air smells of incense and fear. "Speak," he says. Your voice is quiet. It is the voice of the one who has seen too much. "The mirror is broken," you say. The King’s eyes...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Wistful MountainThe rain hits the pavement in a rhythmic, static hiss, a white noise that drowns out the city’s deeper, more dangerous hum. You are standing under the awning of the municipal archives, your coat soaked through, the fabric heavy and cold against your shoulders. Inside, the air is dry, sterile, smelling of dust and decaying paper. You are here to find the name of the bird. It has been three days...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Faded SutraThe rain did not fall; it hung in the air, a thick, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world. Elias stood at the edge of the black mud, his hands trembling. Not from cold. From the weight of the thing in his pocket. It was a coin. Small. Round. Worn smooth by centuries of thumbs that were no longer there. He had found it in the root system of the great oak. The tree was dead, or perhaps...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Pale TaleThe rain had stopped, but the silence that followed was heavier. It pressed against the windows of the old manor, a thick, wet blanket that smelled of rot and damp wool. Elias stood in the hallway, his hand resting on the banister. The wood was cold. It had always been cold here. He looked at his fingers. They were long, pale things, wrapped in leather gloves that had long since lost their...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Faded ApartmentThe rain in London did not fall so much as it accumulated, a persistent, gray mist that clung to the wool of coats and seeped into the marrow of bones, eroding the sharp edges of the city until all things looked soft and indistinct. Thomas Ashworth moved through this damp silence with the heavy, rhythmic gait of a man whose body had been a weapon for so long that it had forgotten how to be...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Faded SutraThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a gray curtain drawn tight against the windows of the city. I stood in the courtyard, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword. The steel was cold, familiar, and heavy. It was the only thing in this place that felt solid. Around me, the cobblestones were slick with moisture, reflecting the dim, amber light of the lanterns that had been...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
-
The Wistful CipherThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the courtyard into slick, dark mirrors. You stood before the great glass doors of the Ministry of Archives, your reflection ghostly and fragmented in the pane. You were not a soldier, nor a judge, but a tailor, a man whose hands were stained with chalk and dye, whose life was measured in inches...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
English
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek