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 BridgeThe feast was held in the Hall of Whispers, a cavernous space where the air tasted of iron and old snow. Margaret sat at the high table, her hands folded in her lap. They were pale hands. They were her only inheritance. Around her, the lords of the Northern Reach laughed, their voices bouncing off the stone walls like stones thrown into a dry well. They drank from cups of black glass. They...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful VoyageThe rain fell on the roof of the chapel like a thousand small hammers striking iron, a rhythm that had driven Maren to the edge of sanity before the fever took her. She was not praying. She was bargaining. The priest, Father Thomas, stood before the altar with his back to her, his hands stained with wine and blood, muttering words that sounded less like Latin and more like the groan of a dying...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe fog did not merely obscure the harbor; it consumed it, a thick, saline veil that turned the iron pier into a ghostly limb extending into the void. Elias Thorne stood at the rail, his fingers white-knuckled against the cold metal, watching the water where the light should have been. He was a man of inquiries, of questions asked in the hushed, respectful tones of a clergyman, yet for three...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridYou wake before dawn in the dormitory of the flood works, and the frost has drawn a web across the window glass. You have been here nine years, since the army discharged you with a knee that will not bend past forty degrees and a chest that rattles in the damp. The grid is what they call it, though it is not a grid at all but a lattice of timber and iron that holds back the river where it...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CompassThe jar sat on the corner of my desk, a squat vessel of amber glass that held within it a substance that was neither quite honey nor quite sap, but something that shimmered with a viscosity that seemed to defy the ordinary laws of fluid dynamics. It was a golden, viscous suspension, thick as molten amber and cold as winter morning, and I had been keeping it there for three years, ever since the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe rain had turned the cobblestones of the capital into a slick, black mirror that reflected the gas lamps and the weary faces of the men who patrolled the streets, and Major Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the wet pavement, his hand resting on the hilt of his saber not because he needed it, but because the steel offered a cold, solid anchor against the rising tide of his own blood which was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended mist that clung to the high, glass-paneled walls of the Atrium, blurring the view of the city below into a smear of grey and charcoal. Elias Vane stood before the central spire, a column of polished obsidian that rose from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, its surface etched with the genealogies of the old families who had once ruled the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyThe train moves with a low, rhythmic shudder, vibrating through the soles of your boots and up into the bone of your shin. You are sitting in the corner of a cramped, dimly lit compartment, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee and damp wool. Across from you, a woman sleeps, her head resting against the window, her face pale in the gray light of the passing countryside. You are a man of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessThe rain here does not fall; it accumulates. It is a thick, grey suspension that presses against the glass of the observation deck, blurring the boundary between the sterile white of the containment unit and the churning, impossible sky of the void. You are standing at the center of the room, your hands bound not by rope or iron, but by the sheer, crushing weight of your own understanding. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek