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 Wistful AtlasThe air in the Glasshouse tasted of iron and ozone, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat. I was running. My boots, heavy with the mud of the old world, slapped against the polished obsidian floor of the corridor. The walls were not walls but membranes of translucent, pulsing light, thin as an eggshell, humming with a low, subsonic frequency that made my teeth ache. Behind me, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe departure was not an event, but a cessation. It was the moment the signal dropped, the moment the frequency cleared, and the world on the other side of the glass became merely data. Elias stood at the terminal, his reflection a ghostly overlay on the darkened screen, watching the coordinates dissolve. He had spent three years mapping the boundaries of the Pale Path, a theoretical corridor...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe fog did not roll in. It erupted. Captain Elias Thorne stood on the bridge of the coastal survey vessel *Aethelgard*. The mist was white. It was absolute. It swallowed the horizon before the ship’s horn had finished its first shriek. Thorne was a man of angles. Square jaw. Set square shoulders. He had spent twenty years mapping the coastline. He knew every rock. Every drop in depth. He knew...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseThe mist clings to the heath not like a veil but like a skin, a pale, translucent membrane that presses against the world and blurs the hard edges of reality until the boundary between what is seen and what is felt dissolves into a singular, trembling gray. You walk through this damp, rotting air with the steady, almost mechanical cadence of a man who has long since ceased to distinguish...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe salt in my veins had begun to taste like iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and refused to wash away. I stood before the great arched window of the Watchtower, looking down into the labyrinthine streets of Oakhaven, where the fog lay thick and heavy, swallowing the cobblestones and the shadows alike. In my hand, I held the Vial. It was not a large thing, no larger than...0 Comments 0 Shares 14 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe coat was heavy, not with weight, but with the accumulated silence of a decade. It hung in the center of the small, damp clearing, a dark silhouette against the grey wash of the winter sky. Thomas Bradshaw stood five paces away, his hands trembling so violently that the brass buttons on his own uniform clattered together like dry bones. The town of Oakhaven was invisible, hidden behind a...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe letter is addressed to you, Margaret, though you have not written to yourself in years. You hold the paper in your hands, the ink still wet, the smell of iron and damp earth clinging to the fibers. It is a Tuesday in November, and the fog has rolled into the valley like a gray tide, swallowing the ironworks and the distant chime of the factory bell. You are standing in the antechamber of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe rain had not stopped in three days. It fell on the town of Oakhaven like a gray shroud, blurring the line between the muddy roads and the sky. Elias Thorne stood on the porch of his small, white clapboard house. He held a glass of water. The water was clear. It was the only clear thing in his life. He watched a leaf drift past the window. It was brown. It was dead. It did not care about the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleYou are late. I heard it before I saw him. The voice came from the mist. It was low. It was rough. Like gravel under a shoe. I stopped walking. My feet were bare. The ground was cold. It was wet with dew. Or maybe blood. I could not tell. The fog here was thick. It tasted of iron. It tasted of old things. "Where are you?" I asked. My voice was small. It did not echo. The fog swallowed it. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek