0 Yorumlar
0 hisse senetleri
1 Views
0 önizleme
Rehber
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Pale ShadowsThe wool coat hung from the iron hook in the corner of the refectory, its color a pale, washed-out gray that seemed to absorb the dim light of the hall rather than reflect it, and you stood before it, your breath misting in the cold air, knowing with a certainty that had no name that if you did not take it, if you did not wear it, you would cease to exist in the way that mattered, and the...0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 1 Views 0 önizleme
-
The Pale TowerYou stand in the center of the stone hall, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and old blood, while the great oak doors behind you slam shut with a finality that shakes the dust from the high vaulted ceiling. You are Elias, and you are the last of the Ashworth lineage, a warrior whose hands have been stained by the duties of the Crown, a man who has spent his life guarding the silence of...0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 1 Views 0 önizleme
-
The Faded FrontierThe brass compass had begun to weep. I noticed it first on a Tuesday, when the light in my study was the color of old tea and the dust motes danced in the air with a slow, indifferent grace. It sat on the desk, a heavy, tarnished thing inherited from my father, its needle trembling not with the pull of magnetic north, but with a sorrow that seemed to leak from the hinges of its case. A single...0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 2 Views 0 önizleme
-
The Distant ThresholdThe border was not a line on a map, but a seam in the fabric of the town, a place where the air tasted of iron and old rain. Elias Thorne had lived on this seam for thirty years, his life a quiet accumulation of dust and silence. He was a man of few words, his face a landscape of deep-set lines that mapped the years of his exile. He had come from across the water, a land that no longer existed...0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 1 Views 0 önizleme
-
The Distant MetropolisThe frost had turned the garden into a brittle sheet of glass, and when Thomas struck the first blade of ice with his shovel, the sound was not a crunch but a shatter, a violent exhalation of winter that scattered shards of white light across the grey morning sky. He stood there, breathing in the cold air which tasted of coal smoke and old iron, and watched the pieces of the world break apart...0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 1 Views 0 önizleme
-
The Faded RuinThe air tasted of copper and ozone. It was thick, suffocating, hanging low over the cracked pavement of Sector 4. I moved fast. My boots hit the wet asphalt with a heavy, rhythmic thud that echoed in the narrow alley. Behind me, the hum of the Enforcement Drones grew louder. A low, droning buzz that vibrated in my teeth. I wasn’t running away. I was running toward something. Or perhaps, I was...0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 1 Views 0 önizleme
-
The Wistful CampusThe rain in Bristol did not fall; it hung, a suspended grey curtain that turned the city into a ghost of itself, smelling of wet slate and rust. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the window seat of his rented room in St. Paul’s Lane, the glass cold against his forehead, watching the droplets race each other down the pane. He was a man who had traded his lungs for a library card, or so it seemed to the...0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 1 Views 0 önizleme
-
The Pale AltarThe roof went off. Not metaphorically. It lifted. A shockwave of green and rust tore the shingles from the eaves of the White House. I stood in the foyer, holding a glass of water. It spilled. Cold. Wet on my socks. "Get down," I said. I didn't scream. I just said it. My voice was flat. Dead. The door burst open. Not kicked. Burst. The wood splintered outward. A man stood in the frame. He was...0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 3 Views 0 önizleme
-
The Faded GuestThe letter was small, folded into a square no larger than a thumbnail, and it sat on the kitchen table like a dried leaf that had fallen from a tree that no longer existed. Arthur held it in his palm, the paper brittle and cool against his skin. He was twelve years old, with eyes the color of wet slate and a silence that had become his second skin. The house in the village of Oakhaven was...0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 1 Views 0 önizleme
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek