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 Distant WoundThe rain against the window of the upper office was not a sound but a texture, a fine, gray static that Marcus Thorne felt in his teeth. He sat behind a desk of reclaimed oak, the wood worn smooth by decades of hands that had once held chisels and now held contracts. Outside, the city of New London sprawled in a muted wash of slate and steel, the skyline softened by the perpetual drizzle that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe rain in the city of Aethelgard did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended veil of gray mist that smelled of wet slate and old iron, clinging to your skin with the persistence of a debt unpaid, and you stood at the center of the High Bridge, your hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in three years but which you knew, with a bone-deep certainty that bypassed...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe air in the Foundry Hall did not smell of sulfur or rot, as one might expect from a place of such terrible making. It smelled of ozone and old pennies, a sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of the throat and settled deep in the lungs. Margaret stood at the center of the vast, circular floor, her boots sinking slightly into the grime that covered the stone. Above her, the ceiling was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PhotographThe rain did not fall so much as it was pressed down from a bruised and swollen sky, a heavy, suffocating blanket that turned the cobblestones of the old city into a mirror reflecting a world that seemed to have ceased to exist, and in the center of this gray, weeping expanse stood Elias Thorne, a man whose body was a map of scars and whose mind was a fortress that had been breached by a secret...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe candle flame in the center of the table did not flicker, though the wind outside was tearing at the shutters with a violence that made the old stones of the house shudder in their foundations, and I watched the steady, golden light with a dizziness that felt less like wonder and more like the slow, creeping nausea of a man who has forgotten how to breathe, because in that light I saw not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe can was dented. Not crushed, just dented. A shallow, silver bruise on the side. Margaret held it up to the light of the break room, turning it slowly. The light caught the ridge of the dent and threw a small, sharp shadow across the linoleum. "Margaret." She didn’t look up. The voice was thin. It came from the doorway. She recognized the cadence. It was the voice of the building. Or rather,...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe rain fell in sheets. It hammered the glass. I held the fern. Its leaves were pale. Almost white. It was a ghost. It was alive. I kept it dry. I kept it warm. My name is Arthur. I am a clerk. I work in the grey stone tower. The city is cold. The city is loud. People rush by. They look at their feet. They do not see me. They do not see the fern. I am small. I am quiet. My hands are steady. My...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostThe rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a cold, gray curtain that blurred the sharp edges of the city into a single, weeping smear of stone and shadow. I stood before the great archway of the Old Quarter, my breath catching in my chest like a trapped bird, my fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of a sword that felt less like steel and more like a shard of my own frozen spine. The air...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe stone of the Priory did not merely stand; it breathed, a slow, calcified respiration that pulled the dampness from the air and settled it into the bones of every man who walked its corridors, a silent, heavy weight that pressed against the chest like a second skin, and in this breathing stone, Thomas Bradshaw sat alone in the refectory, his fingers tracing the grain of the oak table where...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek