0 Comments
0 Shares
13 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Wistful PetalThe leather of the gauntlets had long since lost its luster, turning a dull, bruised purple where the sweat of three generations had soaked into the hide, and it was this specific shade of decayed elegance that Master Aldric found most difficult to resist, a darkness that seemed to absorb the light of the high vaulted ceiling and hold it prisoner in its grain. He stood in the center of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoThe rain did not fall upon the Spire so much as it was exhaled by the sky, a persistent, gray mist that clung to the stone like a lover refusing to part. In the highest chamber of the keep, a room where the air tasted of damp wool and old wax, Elias Thorne sat before a table carved from a single, pale oak. He was not a man who sought comfort, nor one who feared the cold, but he possessed a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TowerThe iron gate of the Abbey of St. Jude stood open, a jagged wound in the ancient stone wall, exhaling the cold breath of the valley. I had carried the heavy oak door of my cell for thirty years, but never with the weight that settled on my shoulders that morning. The mist hung low, clinging to the mossy flagstones, erasing the horizon until the world was nothing but gray stone and the sound of...0 Comments 0 Shares 13 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoThe dream was always the same, a recurring loop of salt and silence that began before Margot’s eyes opened and lingered long after the sun had burned the fog from the moors. In the dream, she stood in the center of the great hall of Blackwood Manor, a structure that had not been touched by a hammer or a nail in three hundred years, yet it felt alive, breathing with a damp, cold rhythm that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostThe fever took the walls first. They peeled. They curled. They smelled of wet chalk and old bone. Elias stood in the center of the hall. He held a silver key. The key was cold. It bit into his palm. He did not let go. The house breathed. It was a large house. Stone. Dark. It sat on a hill in the Yorkshire moors. The rain hit the glass. The wind screamed. The house did not care. The house...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe ink bleeds. You watch it spread. Black water on white paper. It soaks the fiber. It eats the words. You are here. You are not here. The train moves. It shakes the car. It shakes your hands. You hold the sheet. You hold the name. Eleanor Fairchild. Her name is a mark. A brand. It burns. It fades. You are the reader. You are the writer. You are the eraser. The window shows the fields. Gray....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherThe rain slicks the asphalt of the city into a mirror, a dark, trembling eye that stares back up at you with a familiarity that is almost painful, and you stand at the curb of the intersection where the world seems to have folded in on itself, holding the wet, heavy coat of the man who just walked away, a figure of such profound finality that the air around him seems to crack and shatter into...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusThe rain does not fall. It seeps. It climbs up the cobblestones of the old city, a cold, gray tide that swallows the soles of your boots. You stand alone at the edge of the market square, the weight of your armor pressing against your shoulders like a second skin. You are the Warden. You are the law. And you are tired. The city is ancient, its stones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe ledger was heavy in Elias’s hands. It smelled of iron and damp wool. He sat in the high chair of the Magistrate’s office, a room that smelled of dust and stale coffee. Outside, the rain lashed against the glass. It was a Tuesday. The year was 1892, or perhaps it was not a year at all. The clock on the wall had no hands. It only ticked. A slow, wet sound. Like a heartbeat in a dying lung....0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek