0 Comments
0 Shares
0 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Wistful MountainThe forge is cold, but you are not. You are a furnace of pride, a blacksmith of words, hawking your soul in the market square of a city that does not know your name. It is the year of the great silence, when the bells have stopped ringing and the river runs thick with ash. You stand before the Guildmaster, a man whose face is a mask of polished wood, his eyes dead as stones in a dry creek bed....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe rain did not fall so much as it was hammered against the slate roof of the mill office, a relentless, rhythmic assault that shook the loose floorboards beneath Elias Thorne’s boots. He stood in the center of the room, a space no larger than a coffin, surrounded by the damp rot of old ledgers and the metallic tang of fear. The air was thick, suffocating, a physical weight that pressed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThe rain does not fall. It presses. It leans against the glass of the taxi window, a gray hand seeking purchase. You are not driving. You are the passenger. This is the first error. The second is that you do not remember boarding. The driver does not speak. His neck is thick, red, strained by the effort of holding his head up. The car smells of wet wool and old pennies. You look at your hands....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe journey into the citadel of Oakhaven began not with a march, but with a walk, a slow, deliberate trudging through the mist that clung to the cobblestones like wet wool. Captain Elias Thorne carried his rifle, a heavy piece of ironwood and steel that had served him faithfully since the border skirmishes, but today it felt less like a weapon and more like a limb he could no longer use. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe iron gate screams. You do not stop. The mud sucks at your boots, cold and wet, pulling you down into the earth. You are bleeding from the lip. A drop falls. It hits the grey stone and vanishes. The courtyard is empty. The torches burn with a sullen orange light. Shadows stretch long and thin across the flagstones. You are the Seer. Or so they say. They call you the Witch of the Hollow. They...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe rain fell in sheets. Gray. Cold. It slicked the gravel of the road leading into Harrow’s End. Elias pulled his coat tighter. The fabric smelled of damp wool and stale tobacco. He had driven for six hours. His hands were white on the wheel. The engine hummed. A low, dying sound. He stopped the car. He sat. He did not move. Through the windshield, the town was a blur. Gray roofs. Dark trees....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe air tasted of iron and old rain, a metallic tang that coated the back of Cillian’s throat as he drove the stake into the shoulder of the Beast. It was not a monster in the way the stories in the village square described them, with scales of obsidian and eyes like burning coals. It was a thing of flesh and fluid, a sprawling, multi-limbed mass that looked less like an animal and more like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe fog rolled off the moor and settled in the valleys like a gray shroud. It smelled of wet wool and old stone. Elias stood alone in the scriptorium. The candle flame flickered, casting long, trembling shadows against the oak shelves. He held the book. It was heavy. Cold to the touch. The leather cover was cracked, like dry skin. He was the Archivist. That was his title. His job was to keep...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MazeThe iron gate did not groan when it opened, a silence so profound it felt like a held breath, as if the very air inside the fortress of Kaelen had learned to suspend its own existence in reverence for the weight of what was about to enter. Thomas Bradshaw walked through the threshold, his boots striking the cold stone floor with a rhythm that had beaten in his chest for forty years, a metronome...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek