0 Comments
0 Shares
1 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Wistful ShowThe rain did not fall. It hung. A grey, suspended mist that soaked the wool of my coat and the very bones of the city. I stood on the bridge over the Blackwater, watching the river churn beneath. It looked like old blood. Like the stuff of my dreams. In those dreams, the water was not water. It was a living thing. A mouth. It opened and closed around the ankles of men who had not yet arrived. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe rain had stopped, leaving the air in the capital city thick with the scent of wet limestone and ozone. Commander Elias Thorne stood on the balcony of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, looking down at the street where his father’s car lay crumpled against the curb, a silent, rusted wound in the grey morning. He held a small, brass compass in his left hand. It was an old thing, inherited from...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe brass insignia on Major Elias Thorne’s shoulder patch was already tarnished by the time the first punch landed, a dull, wet impact that echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings of the family manor, a sound that felt less like violence and more like the cracking of a structural beam in a house that had been standing too long without maintenance. He stood in the center of the grand foyer, his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostThe bell in the tower of St. Jude’s rang not for the hour, but for the breath. It was a low, mournful toll that vibrated in the marrow of Eamon’s hands. He stood at the workbench, the smell of tallow and old wax thick in the air. His fingers, stained black with soot and years of labor, moved with a precision that had become second nature. He was shaping a censer. The brass was cool, yet it held...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey mist that clung to the stone walls of the Bastille Keep, saturating the wool and leather of the men who patrolled the damp corridors. Thomas Bradshaw stood by the heavy oak door of the armory, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, feeling the cold seep through his glove. He was a man of few words, a sentinel whose duty...0 Comments 0 Shares 13 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe rain tapped against the glass of the window with a rhythmic, insistent patience, a sound that had long since ceased to be merely auditory and had become a physical weight in the air of the office. Thomas Whitmore sat at his desk, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and anxieties, and stared at the map spread before him. It was a large, heavy thing, bound in leather that had cracked...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe great hall of the Iron Citadel was a cavern of stone and smoke, illuminated by the sputtering glow of tallow candles that seemed to struggle against the encroaching dark. Captain Elias Thorne stood at the head of the table, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, a blade that had seen more winters than he had years. The air was thick with the scent of roasted lamb, stale ale, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 29 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe sky above the valley of Aethelgard did not merely darken; it inverted, a sudden and violent flipping of the celestial canvas that turned the sun into a black hole of absolute void, pulling the light out of the air until the world was left suspended in a twilight so profound it felt less like darkness and more like a thick, viscous fluid filling every alveole of the lungs. Elias Thorne, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe rain lashed against the leaded panes of the old manor, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of my bones, a cold, wet pulse that matched the frantic, stuttering beat of my heart as I stood before the massive oak door of the Ashworth estate, my knuckles white against the brass handle, my hands trembling not from the chill of the November wind cutting through my...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek