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 MythYou dream of the river before you wake. It is not a dream of water, but of weight. A dark, viscous weight that presses against your lungs. You are a boy of twelve. Your name is Thomas. You live in Oakhaven, a town where the fog does not lift until noon and the people do not speak until the bell has rung three times. The town is ancient in the way that stone is ancient. It has forgotten what it...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden QuestThe hammer fell with a dull, heavy thud against the anvil, a sound that had defined the rhythm of Silas Vane’s life for forty years. He struck the red-hot iron again, his shoulder muscles burning with a familiar, aching heat, sweat stinging the cuts in his weathered hands. The forge was a small, soot-blackened room at the edge of the old manor estate, a place where the air hung thick with the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SkylineThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a heavy, grey curtain that smelled of wet wool and old stone. Inside the tower room, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Thomas Whitmore sat before the fire, his hands resting on the edge of the oak table, knuckles white, as if he were trying to hold the wood together. He was a man who had spent...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe jar sat on the windowsill, catching the grey light of a sky that never seemed to decide whether it was morning or evening, its glass surface scarred by decades of handling and the slow, inevitable erosion of time. Inside, the substance had changed, no longer the vibrant, amber syrup that Thomas had first tasted in the hospital ward of St. Jude’s, but a dark, viscous residue that clung to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden VisitThe fog rolls in thick as wool, swallowing the cobblestones of Harrowgate. You are the Inquisitor. You walk the perimeter. The town sleeps under a blanket of damp silence. Only the sound of your boots breaks the air. You hold the lantern. Its flame is steady. It burns with a strange, golden hue. It is not oil. It is not tallow. It is something else. You do not question it. You only tend it. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a thick, gray curtain that smelled of wet ash and the metallic tang of old blood, swirling around the spires of the Citadel which rose from the earth like the bone structure of a giant that had died long before the first human drew breath, and Captain Silas Vane stood at the precipice of the crumbling watchtower, his leather armor stiff with...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe train cuts through the fog. You sit by the window. The glass is cold. Your breath fogs the pane. You wipe it away. The landscape blurs. It is a field of grey. It is a field of white. It is a field of nothing. You are a man of numbers. You are a man of ledgers. You are a man who believes that everything has a price. You believe that debt can be paid. You believe that loss can be balanced....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe rain fell in sheets. Grey. Cold. It soaked through the wool of Silas Thorne’s coat. He walked the road. Mud clung to his boots. Heavy. Sticky. The path wound through the hills. Towards the Abbey. The stone walls loomed. Black. Wet. Silent. Silas was a man of few words. He carried a ledger. Bound in leather. Cracked. He opened it. The pages were damp. The ink blurred. He looked at the names....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolThe dream began, as it always did, with the frost. It was not the delicate, crystalline lace of a winter morning, but a heavy, grey sludge that settled into the pores of the skin, turning the breath into a visible, shivering ghost. Margaret Holloway stood in the center of the atrium of the Department of Civic Integrity, her feet bare on the cold marble, though she wore no shoes. The air tasted...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek