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The Faded ChronicleThe rain had been falling on the ironworks for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones into a mirror of rust and silt, and it was in this damp, industrial twilight that Elias Thorne stood at the window of his small, rented room above the chandler’s shop, watching the smoke from the factory chimneys twist into the low clouds like the fingers of a drowning man, his hand...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ChronicleThe rain did not fall. It hung. A grey curtain draped the world outside the chapel windows. I wiped the condensation from the glass. My breath fogged the pane. The scent of wet stone and old wax filled the air. I was the keeper of the bees here. Or so the ledger claimed. The abbey was old. Older than the kingdom. The walls wept. The floor was cold stone. My name is Elias. I am old. My hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CircuitThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of the keep into a slick, treacherous mirror of the sky. I sat in the corner of the high chamber, my back pressed against the cold stone, my hands wrapped around a cup of ale that had gone cold an hour ago. The air smelled of damp wool, old wax, and the faint, metallic tang of fear that clings to a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe iron is warm. You know it is warm because you can feel the heat through the leather of your glove, a dull, persistent ache that lives in your palm. You hold the bellows still. You do not push. You let the air settle in the chest of the shop. "Is it finished, Thomas?" The voice comes from the doorway. It is soft, but it carries the weight of a stone dropped into a deep well. It is Mr....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of the old castle courtyard into slick mirrors reflecting the bruised sky. Thomas Bradshaw stood by the iron gate, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that felt less like a weapon and more like a heavy, cold anchor dragging at his soul. The steel was worn, the pommel bent from years of use, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraThe mud sucked at Elias’s boots. It was a heavy, cloying thing, black as oil, smelling of rot and iron. He held the rifle tight. His knuckles were white. The enemy was not a man. It was a shape in the fog. A shifting, gray outline. It did not have a face. It had only a hunger. Elias fired. The crack of the muzzle was sharp. A tear in the silence. The shape dissolved. Then it reformed. Closer....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe air in the sub-basement of St. Jude’s Rehabilitation Center smelled of damp concrete and old paper. It was a smell that settled in the back of the throat, a dry, chalky dust that coated the tongue. Elias Thorne sat at the long, scarred oak table, his hands folded over a single, empty envelope. The fluorescent lights above him hummed, a low, electric drone that seemed to vibrate in his...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe rain that had been falling on the city of Veridia for three days did not cease but rather changed its nature, shifting from a cold, mechanical drizzle to a thick, viscous mist that clung to the wool of coats and the leather of shoes, a heavy grey shroud that seemed to press down upon the cobblestones and the iron grates of the manholes, obscuring the sharp edges of the modern world and...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarYou are standing in the rain. It is not falling. It is hanging in the air, a suspended gray mist that smells of wet ash and ozone. The city, New Veridia, stretches out before you, a labyrinth of glass and steel that never sleeps, yet feels dead. You are a Detective of the Interior. Your badge is a small, cold square of metal. It does not spark. It does not glow. It is just metal. Your mentor,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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