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 QuestThe axe bit into the oak with a sound like a bone snapping, and the wood shivered apart in a shower of pale, wet splinters. Thomas Bradshaw wiped the sweat from his brow with a forearm that smelled of resin and old iron, but the blade in his hand felt heavy, not with the weight of steel, but with the sudden, crushing gravity of the forest around him. He was not supposed to be here. He was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded Quadrant"Put it down, Thomas." The voice was low. It scraped against the silence of the keep. Thomas did not move. His hands were shaking. The cup was in them. It was a simple thing. Black glaze. A thin crack ran through the handle. He had found it in the mud three days ago. It was warm. It held the shape of his palm perfectly. "Put it down, Thomas," the Captain said again. Thomas looked up. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe banquet hall smelled of boiled cabbage and stale tobacco. Edmund sat in the corner. His hands were still. He held a glove. It was black leather. It was thin. The thumb was worn through. The room was full. Men in gray suits sat at long tables. They ate. They spoke. The air was thick with smoke. It hung low. It settled on the shoulders of the men. Edmund did not eat. He looked at the glove....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticThe rain fell like a curse. It beat against the slate roofs of the Keep. Inside the high vaulted hall, the air was thick with sweat and blood. Sir Caelan stood alone. His hands were slick with red. The sword in his grip was heavy. It had been heavy for a long time. The stone floor was cold beneath his feet. He felt the chill rise through the soles of his boots. It climbed his legs. It settled...0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale Tale"Is it true?" The voice was low, barely a whisper against the draft that seeped through the stone walls. Silas did not look up. He kept his eyes on the chisel. The tip bit into the limestone, sending a fine, white dust swirling in the shaft of grey light. He felt the vibration travel up his arm, a dull, persistent hum. He had been here for three days. The chapel was unfinished. The roof had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for Advanced Linguistics smelled of roasted pheasant, beeswax, and the faint, metallic tang of old stone, a scent that Professor Elias Thorne had spent forty years trying to forget yet now found inescapable in his nostrils, as the crystal chandeliers cast fractured, star-like patterns upon the faces of his colleagues who raised their glasses in a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe silence in the kitchen was not an absence of sound, but a heavy, pressurized substance, thick as the flour dust that hung suspended in the pale, slanting beams of the morning light. I stood before the counter, my hands submerged in the cold, viscous mixture, the rhythmic kneading a mechanical act that required no thought, a physical exorcism of the night’s terrors. The house, a sprawling...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe banquet hall smells of roasted pork and stale wine. You sit at the long oak table, your hands trembling slightly under the linen cloth. The noise is a physical weight. It presses against your temples. The knights laugh. Their voices are sharp stones grinding together. You are the inquisitor. You are the eye. You do not eat. You watch. In the corner, huddled in a shadow cast by the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended, gray curtain that blotted out the neon bleed of the city, turning the wet asphalt of the alley into a dark mirror that reflected nothing but the hollow, exhausted face of Sergeant Elias Thorne, who stood there with his back against the cold brick, listening to the wet, ragged sound of his own breathing as if it were a foreign...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek