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 Pale EchoThe dampness in the cell did not smell of rot, as one might expect from a dungeon carved into the living rock of the north face, but of something far more insidious: the scent of wet wool and old iron, a smell that seemed to seep into the marrow of my bones and calcify there. I am old now, or perhaps I have always been, for time in this place does not march forward but pools, stagnant and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe iron gate stands before you, not as a mere barrier of metal and stone, but as the absolute horizon of your existence, a boundary that has hardened into the very marrow of your being, defining the shape of your freedom so precisely that you can no longer tell where the prison ends and the self begins. You stand in the courtyard, the damp chill of the English autumn seeping through the heavy...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe ink is wet. You know this because you can smell the iron tang of the blood mixed with the gall. It dries slowly on the parchment, a black stain that spreads like a bruise on the pale skin of the page. You sit in the center of the room, the old tavern hall, your back against the heavy oak of the bar. The air is thick with the scent of stale ale and woodsmoke. Outside, the rain drums against...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe rain had ceased to fall as water and had begun to fall as memory, each drop a cold, silver needle stitching the grey sky to the muddy earth of the Valley of Ashes. Sir Julian Thorne walked with a limp that was no longer a physical ailment but a spiritual one, a rhythmic thud of guilt against the bone. He was a knight of the Old Order, a seeker of truth in a world where truth had been...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CrownThe sound of the blade against the whetstone was a rhythmic, wet hiss, like a secret being drawn out of the wood. "You’re pressing too hard, Elias," said Julian, not looking up from his phone. The screen’s blue glow reflected in his dark glasses, a cold, artificial twin to the steel under Elias’s thumb. "You’re rounding the edge. You know the protocol. Feather-light. Let the abrasive do the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe air in the Great Hall of the King’s summer palace did not smell of incense or old stone, as the histories insisted it must, but of wet wool and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. It was a scent that hung heavy in the vaulted air, pressing against the temples, a physical weight that Edmund Vane felt in the hollows of his cheeks. He stood before the dais, a figure of modest stature in a tunic...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe road to the valley was slick with rain, the mud thick and black as old blood. Elias walked. His boots were heavy. The weight of the leather was a comfort, a familiar anchor. He carried the box. It was small, made of oak, bound in iron. It sat against his hip, warm against his coat. He had carried it for three days. He had not opened it. He was a man of the law, or so the village thought....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe rain falls in sheets. It hammers the cobblestones. You run. Mud splashes your boots. Your lungs burn. The air is thick with smoke. You carry the box. It is heavy. It is gold. It is cold. You are not a thief. You are a keeper. But here, in this city of stone and shadow, everyone is a thief. And everyone is a victim. The bells toll. They sound like bones breaking. You duck into an alley. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe dream had teeth. They were made of iron filings and old blood. Marcus lay on the cold tile floor of the locker room, the linoleum peeling in the corners like dead skin. He woke with a gasp. The air tasted of chlorine and rust. He sat up. His hands were shaking. Not from fear. From hunger. A deep, hollow kind. The kind that eats the soul before it eats the body. The facility was a gray box...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek