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 Distant PromiseThe iron taste of blood is the first thing you notice, sharper than the cold that has settled into your marrow. You are standing in the courtyard of the manor, the rain slicking the cobblestones into a mirror of grey and black. The arrows are still in the sky, or perhaps they have already fallen, but the sound of them is a persistent, high-pitched whine that vibrates in your teeth. You hold...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Golden CrossingThe house was dying, and I was the only one who heard its groans. It stood on the hill above the village, a rotting monument to an age of coal and iron that had passed into myth, its timber bones warped by decades of damp and neglect. I had returned to inherit it, or so the lawyer claimed, though I felt less like an heir and more like a scavenger picking through the carcass of my own history....0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Distant JokeThe iron gates of the Citadel of Saint Jude do not open for the living, but you are already inside, your boots sinking into the wet, muddy grass that has somehow taken root in the cracks of the ancient flagstones. You are a man of the King’s Guard, clad in mail that has turned the color of rust and old blood, and you carry a sword that is heavier than it should be, its edge dull from a decade...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Pale DanceThe bread had been rising for three days in the stone cellar beneath the keep, and the air within it had grown thick with the sweet, heavy rot of yeast that had turned against itself, a pungent and cloying stench that seeped up through the cracks in the flagstones and into the marrow of the bones of the man who stood watch over the oven, a man whose name was Elias Thorne and who wore the...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Wistful WitnessThe train shrieked into the station at Blackwood Hall, a jagged tear in the evening mist that sounded less like steel on steel and more like the grinding of bones in a wet field. Thomas Bradshaw stood on the platform, his hands white-knuckled around the handle of a leather satchel that smelled of antiseptic and burnt sugar, watching the steam coil and dissipate into the grey air as if the...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Pale DoorThe jar shattered on the gravel. Not with a crash, but with a wet, granular sigh. Elias knelt in the dust of the roadside. He did not pick up the pieces. He watched the viscous, amber liquid seep into the cracked earth. It was a tonic. A specific, high-grade formulation for the deep, rotting ache in his bones. He had carried it for three days. Now it was gone. The road stretched out before him,...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Faded ShieldThe moss on the stone was soft. It smelled of rain and old iron. Elias knelt in the damp, his fingers brushing the lichen that had colonized the crest of the shield. It was a strange thing, this shield. It did not belong to any kingdom he knew. The metal was a dull, bruised purple, and the surface was etched with vines that seemed to move when he was not looking directly at them. Elias was a...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Wistful LetterI dreamed of teeth. Not my own, but a cascade of them, white and jagged, spilling from a porcelain bowl like spilled milk. They were cold to the touch, slick with a viscosity that felt less like saliva and more like mercury. I woke in the dark of my studio apartment, the air thick with the stale scent of boiled oats and despair. The digital clock on my nightstand blinked 4:14 AM. I didn’t sleep...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Faded RuinThe banquet hall of the Ashworth estate was a cavern of dust and dim, flickering gaslight, a space where the air hung heavy with the scent of rotting lilies and old varnish, and it was here, in the center of this decaying grandeur, that Thomas Bradshaw stood alone, his eyes fixed on the peeling wallpaper that curled away from the plaster like dead skin. He was a man of few words and fewer...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek