0 Comments
0 Shares
3 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Golden CompassThe rain fell on the cobblestones of the old city not as water, but as a grey, ceaseless shroud, soaking into the cracks of the ancient stones and turning the air into a heavy, metallic taste that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat. He stood at the edge of the market square, his back straight, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword, a posture that had once signified command but now...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetYou are bleeding. The blood is warm. It smells of copper and old rain. You are on the floor. The floor is cold stone. It is a gray stone. It is a royal stone. You are in a hall. The hall is high. The ceiling is lost in shadow. You do not know how you got here. You do not know who hit you. You do not know if you are alone. You are not alone. There are bodies. There are other bodies. They are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe carriage rolled over the cobblestones of the capital, a rhythmic shudder that traveled up through the floorboards and into the marrow of my bones, a vibration that felt less like motion and more like the slow, grinding pulse of a machine that had forgotten how to stop. I sat in the corner, my coat unbuttoned, the heavy wool pressing against my chest with a weight that was almost comforting,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CrownThe morning light in the Great Hall of St. Jude’s was not the bright, clarifying gold of a new beginning but a pale, watery gray that seemed to seep into the very bones of the stone floor, settling into the cracks and the dust of centuries, a heavy, oppressive silence that hung in the air like a shroud draped over a body that had not yet been laid to rest. Margaret Holloway stood at the far end...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleYou dream of the glass. It is not a dream of memory, but of presence. The surface is cold against your palm. It is flawless. You are holding it in a room that does not exist, a space of white void and silence. You know, with the certainty of stone, that this object is the only true thing in the universe. Everything else is dust. Everything else is lie. You wake. The ceiling is cracked. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowI woke to the sound of shattering glass, a sound so sharp it cut through the heavy, industrial fog that had settled over the valley. It was not a window breaking, but something larger, something crystalline and vast. In my dream, the sky above the mill was made of glass, a perfect, fragile dome that held back the rain. I watched as a single, invisible hammer struck the apex, and the heavens...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones of Vellum City, a sound like the grinding of old bones in a dry cellar, as I approached the gates of the Inquisitor’s Court, where the air was thick with the scent of wet stone and the metallic tang of impending judgment. I had traveled for three days through the autumn rain, my cloak heavy with water and the weight of my own silence,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe iron bars of my cell did not rattle in the wind, for there was no wind inside the stone belly of this place, only the damp, heavy silence of centuries. I sat upon the straw that had once been dry, now brown with the rot of my own neglect, and watched the water drip from the ceiling. One drop. Then another. The rhythm was not a heartbeat, but the slow, indifferent pulse of the earth itself,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe hall smelled of roasted venison and wet wool, a heavy, cloying scent that clung to the back of the throat. It was the midwinter feast in the valley of Oakhaven, a tradition so old that the stones of the great hall seemed to remember the weight of the tables. I sat at the high table, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword, not out of need, but out of habit. The air was thick with the smoke...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek