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 Faded PortraitThe bell tolled. It was a deep, bronze sound. It shook the dust from the rafters. Silas stood at the gate. He held his staff. The wood was dark. The wood was worn. He looked at the road. The road was long. The road was gray. Margaret stood beside him. Her face was pale. Her hands were cold. She did not speak. She did not move. The air was still. The air was heavy. The Abbey loomed behind them....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolThe letter sat on the mahogany desk, unopened, its cream envelope pristine against the dark grain of the wood. It was the only clean thing in the room. The rest was dust and the smell of stale coffee and the metallic tang of old sweat. You sat in the high-backed chair, your spine straight as a rifle stock, your hands resting on your knees. They were shaking. You had been shaking for three days....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustYou wake. The stone is cold against your cheek. It has always been cold. You know this because you have woken here a thousand times. Or perhaps a million. Time is not a river here. It is a stagnant pool. You stand. Your joints pop. The sound is wet. You are Eleanor. You are the Duchess. You are the prisoner. The walls are white. Blindingly white. There are no windows. There is only the light....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe bread was stale. It had been stale since Tuesday. Thomas kept it in the tin beneath the cot. He did not eat it. He watched the crumble gather on the floorboards. The castle was a mouth. It chewed on him. The stones were cold. The air tasted of iron and wet wool. He was the Keeper of the Grain. This was his title. It was also his sentence. The Great Hall smelled of rot. The merchants had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherThe silver locket, a delicate artifact of the old world, hung from the neck of young Silas Vane like a pendulum marking the erratic rhythm of a heart that had forgotten how to beat in time with the rest of the household, its surface tarnished by the heavy, damp air of the ancestral home where time did not pass but accumulated, layer upon layer, like the dust on the high shelves of the library...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden OathThe morning light in the scriptorium was not light at all, but a thin, grey veil that hung over the vellum, filtering the world into a state of suspended animation. Elias stood at the heavy oak desk, his fingers stained with the rust-colored ink of his trade, staring at the gold leaf that shimmered on the capital letter of the psalm he was illustrating. It was a small, intricate thing, a leaf...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AshesThe ink on the decree was still wet when I read it, a glistening smear that looked like a bruise on the parchment. It was a simple document, three lines of elegant script, signed by the Chancellor, commanding the immediate dissolution of the House of Ashworth. We had served the Crown for three generations, our name etched into the lintels of the great hall, our loyalty woven into the very...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful VoyageThe rain did not wash the town clean. It only made the mud thicker, turning the cobbled streets of Oakhaven into a slick, brown river that swallowed the soles of our boots. I stood at the edge of the market square, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword, though I had not drawn it in three days. My name is Thomas, and I am the constable of this place, a title that feels less like a badge of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualThe hall is gold. Not the bright, screaming gold of new coins, but the dull, tallow-yellow of old fat. It sits in the middle of the room like a rotting tooth. You stand at the door. Your boots are heavy. The wood floor groans under your weight. You are a soldier. Or you were. The uniform fits tight across the shoulders. The brass buttons are cold. They bite into your skin. The air smells of wax...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek