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 Golden MythThe frost bit deep into the soil of the Appalachian ridge. It was a cold that did not care for the year, only for the bone. Elian walked the line. The path was narrow. The pines stood like sentinels, stripped of their needles by the wind. They watched him. They did not blink. He was twelve years old. His coat was too thin. The wool had lost its shape. It hung in tatters around his shoulders. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MazeThe great hall of the Abbey of St. Jude did not merely hold the feast; it devoured it. Candles, thick as a man’s wrist and carved from the tallow of a thousand forgotten sheep, guttered in iron sconces, casting long, trembling shadows that danced against the vaulted stone ceiling. The air was thick, a physical weight composed of woodsmoke, roasted venison, and the heavy, sweet perfume of spiced...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe frost lay thick and brittle on the cobblestones of the old keep, a white silence that seemed to press against the very bones of the world, while inside the stone-walled chamber, the air hung heavy with the scent of damp wool, old parchment, and the metallic tang of fear that clung to the back of Thomas Bradshaw’s throat like a second skin. He was a man who had spent the better part of his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe ink was black. It was not just black. It was a void. It drank the light. It swallowed the sun. I mixed it in the cellar. The cellar was cold. The air tasted of dust and old stone. I was a maker. I made seals. Wax seals for the court. For the kings. For the dead. I was good at it. I was very good. They called me Silas. That was my name. I lived in the stone house. The house stood on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe fog did not lift from the valley of Oakhaven; it simply thickened, curling around the ankles of the walking stones and pressing against the windowpanes of the old stone house like a living thing seeking entry. Inside, Silas Vane sat at the heavy oak table, his hands resting on the surface as if they belonged to someone else, still and pale in the dim light. He was a man who had built his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended curtain of grey mist that smelled of wet wool and old iron. Thomas Ashworth stood at the edge of the village square, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had once been the center of his world. It was a heavy thing, the blade pitted by rust and time, the leather grip worn smooth by the sweat of a man who had spent his life...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessThe fog had settled into the valley of the River Ouse like a burial shroud, thick and wet and tasting of coal dust and rot, and you stood there at the edge of the moor, your boots sinking into the black mud, feeling the cold seep through the leather and into the marrow of your bones, a chill that did not come from the air but from the very earth itself, as if the ground were mourning something...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe bus slowed to a halt with a groan of hydraulic sigh, a sound that felt less like machinery and more like the settling of bones in a grave. I stepped onto the pavement of Harrowgate, a town that smelled of damp wool and old pennies, the air thick with the particular stagnation of places where nothing new is allowed to happen. I had come here to burn it all down. That was the plan. That was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe air in the great hall of the keep hung heavy, thick with the scent of roasted venison and the stale, metallic tang of old blood that seemed to seep from the very stones of the floor, a pervasive odor that clung to the velvet of the tapestries and the polished wood of the long tables where the lords sat in their furs, their faces lit by the flickering, unstable glow of tallow candles that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek