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The Pale TaleThe morning air tasted of rust and wet wool, a heavy, metallic tang that settled in the back of Thomas Ashworth’s throat as he stood on the cobblestones of the gatehouse, watching the long line of men stretch out toward the valley where the fog had not yet lifted, and he knew with a sudden, cold clarity that he was leaving his life behind to walk into a death that would be mistaken for a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe taste of copper fills your mouth, thick and cold, as the bayonet tip presses against the wet wool of your collar. You are on your back in the mud of the trench, the sky above a bruised and unchanging grey. Rain slicks your hair to your forehead. The man across from you is young, barely older than you, his eyes wide with a terror that has long since curdled into something harder. He does not...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe road was long. The mud was deep. Silas walked. He walked alone. The rain fell cold. It soaked his cloak. It froze his boots. The castle loomed ahead. It stood on the hill. It was black stone. It was old stone. The walls were high. The windows were dark. Silas was a thief. He had stolen the Crown. It sat in his pack. It pressed against his back. It was heavy. It was cold. He did not look at...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe fire roared. It ate the oak. It ate the pine. It ate the very air. In the center of the great hall, the King sat. He was old. His beard was white. His eyes were dark. He held a cup of wine. He did not drink. He watched the flames. Around him, the court laughed. They danced. They sang. The music was loud. It shook the stones. It shook the dust. In the shadows, a boy stood. His name was...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the high, stained-glass windows of the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility for Juveniles, a rhythmic, drowning sound that seemed to seep into the very marrow of the stone walls. Inside the administrative wing, the air was stale, thick with the scent of wet wool, floor wax, and the metallic tang of old fear. Elias Thorne sat at his desk, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustThe air smelled of wet wool and old blood. Elias stood by the window. He watched the rain. It hit the glass. It ran down. Like tears. Or sweat. "You look well," said the priest. Father Thomas. He sat in the chair. His knees knocked. "You look strong." Elias did not look. He looked at the wall. The plaster was cracked. A spider web hung there. It caught the dust. The dust was gray. It was fine....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe feast was loud. It was wet. It smelled of roasted pork and old beer. We ate with our hands. The hall was stone. The fire was high. I sat in the corner. My sword was by my knee. It was dull. It was heavy. I watched the door. I waited. Thomas sat across from me. He was my brother in arms. He was not my blood. He had a scar on his jaw. He chewed slowly. He looked at me. He smiled. It was a bad...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a thick, grey curtain that turned the air into something breathable only if one was prepared to taste the damp rot of the world, and Margot stood in the center of the atrium of the St. Jude’s Orphanage, her hands trembling not from the cold that seeped through the wool of her coat but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that hung in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe banquet hall of the Citadel of Aethelgard smelled of roasted pheasant and old stone, a scent that had permeated the very marrow of the walls for three centuries, a heavy, cloying perfume that spoke of endurance rather than joy. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the long oak table, his hands clasped tightly around a pewter cup, his knuckles white not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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