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 Pale TaleThe rain in this city does not wash things clean; it only makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones of the old quarter into a mirror for the gas lamps that sputter above. You are sitting alone in the back of a carriage that smells of wet wool and stale tobacco, your hands resting on your knees, still stiff with the memory of the leather grip of your sidearm. The driver, a man named...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseThe rain did not fall so much as it was pushed against the windows of the old mill, a gray, relentless sheet that blurred the line between the wet stone and the dark forest beyond. Inside, the air smelled of damp wool, stale tobacco, and something sharper, metallic, that clung to the back of the throat like a bad memory. Elias Thorne sat at the head of the long oak table, his hands wrapped...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TowerThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of Harrowgate into a slick, black mirror that reflected the grey, weeping sky above. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his cramped study, watching the water race down the glass in distorted, frantic lines, while the scent of wet wool and stale pipe tobacco hung heavy in the air. He was a man who lived in the margins of history,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CompassThe ink was fading. That was the first thing Mara noticed. Not the smell of the varnish, nor the weight of the glass, but the slow, creeping dissolution of the black letters into the blue background. She stood before the altar in the chapel of St. Jude, her fingers hovering an inch above the surface. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old stone. Outside, the rain lashed against the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JokeThe dream was not of fire. It was of roots. Caleb Vane woke with his hand buried in the earth of a garden he did not own. The soil was cold, wet, and impossibly dark. It clung to his fingers, sucking the warmth from his skin. He pulled his hand back. The dirt fell away in clumps, leaving his palm stained black. He sat up on the edge of the cot in the small, rented room above the bakery in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe house stood in the center of the overgrown yard, a sprawling Victorian relic that had once been the pride of the district, now sagging under the weight of decades of neglect and the heavy, gray sky that seemed to press down upon its slate roof. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the library, a room that had not seen sunlight in what felt like years, surrounded by the dust of forgotten histories and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe mark is on your thumb. You have held it for forty years. It is a small, faded square of ink, no bigger than a grain of rice. It sits in the center of your pad, worn smooth by the friction of ten thousand days. You are a binder. You work in a room that smells of glue and old paper. The walls are lined with shelves, but the shelves are empty. There is only the desk. And the press. And the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe glasshouse did not smell of rain, as one might expect of a structure so heavily veined with condensation, but of wet slate and the sharp, metallic tang of old iron. It was a cathedral of rot and green, a sprawling, tangled dominion where the air hung thick and still, pressing against the skin like a damp hand. Elara stood in the center of the long, curved aisle, her fingers wrapped around...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceThe banquet hall in the village of Oakhaven smelled of roasted boar, stale ale, and the metallic tang of old blood that seemed to cling to the stone walls regardless of how many times they were scrubbed, a pervasive odor that served as the unspoken backdrop to every celebration and every funeral in this forgotten pocket of the world. Captain Elias Thorne sat at the head of the long oak table,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek