0 Comments
0 Shares
2 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Distant BladeThe ink had dried on the vellum before Sir Julian Vane realized his hand was trembling, a subtle vibration that traveled up the bone of his wrist and settled into the hollow of his chest, a cold stone dropped into still water. He sat in the high library of Blackwood Hall, a room that smelled of dried lavender, beeswax, and the slow, sweet rot of ancient paper, the air so still that the dust...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MirrorThe hand was cold. It hung from the iron chain in the center of the room. It had been there for three days. Marcus looked at it. He did not blink. The fingers were long and pale. The nails were black. They curled inward, gripping nothing. Or everything. "Look," said Father Thomas. His voice was dry. Like leaves skittering on stone. "Do you see the ring?" Marcus saw it. A gold band. Plain. No...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe bell of St. Jude’s does not ring; it groans, a low, guttural moan that vibrates through the cobblestones and settles in the marrow of your bones. You stand at the edge of the square, your hand resting on the hilt of a sword that feels heavier than iron should, the leather grip slick with a sweat that is not entirely yours. The city is a creature of stone and shadow, breathing in the damp...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessThe carriage rattled over the cobblestones of Whitechapel, a rhythmic clatter that served as a metronome for my own unraveling thoughts. I was a man of the Law, a constable of the Metropolitan Police, tasked with the preservation of order in a city that seemed to be slowly dissolving into a fog of supernatural rot. The year was 1888, though the calendar felt less like a measure of time and more...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseMara Vane stood alone at the edge of the Salt Flats, where the air hung thick and heavy like wet wool, pressing against her lungs in a way that made her feel simultaneously suffocated and alive. She was a detective, or at least she had been for the last three years, a title that had come to her through a series of bizarre bureaucratic accidents and her own stubborn, almost pathological need to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe banquet hall of the Ironworks Club smelled of roasted pheasant and stale tobacco, a heavy, suffocating perfume that clung to the velvet drapes and settled in the throats of the men who sat around the long mahogany table, their faces illuminated by the flickering gaslights that cast long, trembling shadows against the walls where the portraits of past foremen stared down with eyes that...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe line was drawn in chalk. Thin. White. Fragile. It separated the clean side from the dirty side. It separated the approved from the rejected. I stood on the dirty side. My boots were caked with the red clay of the excavation site. The chalk dust had settled into the creases of my leather apron. It looked like ash. My name is Elias Thorne. I am a stonemason. I build walls. I build...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe banquet was not held in a hall, but in the hollow of a tree so ancient that its roots had strangled the concept of the ground. The air smelled of ozone and roasted chestnuts, a scent that should have been comforting but instead felt like the static charge before a lightning strike. Dr. Arthur Penhaligon sat at the head of a long table carved from a single piece of bone-white wood, his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualThe rain in Ashworth Hollow did not fall so much as it hung, a grey, wet curtain that smelled of coal smoke and wet wool, pressing against the single pane of glass in the kitchen window where Elara sat stirring a pot of broth. The pot was iron, blackened by decades of use, and the spoon she held was wooden, worn smooth by the friction of her own hands, the grain of the wood rubbed away until it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek