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 PhotographThe rain hit the asphalt in a heavy, rhythmic drumroll. It was cold. Marcus stood by the curb. He watched the water pool around his boots. The streetlights buzzed. They flickered. One went out. Then another. The darkness crept in from the edges of the block. It felt hungry. He adjusted his belt. The leather was stiff. It had been that way for years. It smelled of old sweat and gun oil. His...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant SummerThe road to Oakhaven was a ribbon of red clay, slick with the rain that had fallen all week. Elias walked it with his left leg dragging, the weight of his sword heavier than the memory of the battle it had seen. He was a man of the Crown’s guard, or he had been. Now he was simply a man walking toward a village that smelled of wet pine and old fear. The air was thin here, high in the mountains,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant AffairThe banquet hall was a cathedral of light, its vaulted ceiling lost in a haze of chandelier glare that seemed to dissolve the very concept of shadow. We sat at the long oak table, the wood dark and polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the faces of the nobility who moved through the room like ghosts in silk. I was seated at the far end, a place reserved for those who were tolerated but never...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe house breathed. That was the only way Arthur Vane could describe it. Not creaked. Not settled. Breathed. In the damp chill of the Scottish Highlands, the old timber exhaled a scent of wet wool and ancient dust. Arthur stood in the center of the hall, his boots heavy on the flagstones. He was a man of measurements. A carpenter by trade, though his hands were more for joints and mortises than...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe heavy oak doors of the town hall swung open with a groan that sounded suspiciously like a sigh, admitting a flood of amber light and the thick, cloying scent of roasted meats, spilled wine, and the damp wool of a hundred coats that had just been shed in the cloakroom, where the air hung stagnant and sweet with the memory of rain that had fallen for three days without ceasing. Sir Aldous...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherYou wake to the sound of rain lashing against the stone, a rhythmic, relentless drumming that has become the only clock in your life. The air in the cell is thick, tasting of damp moss and old iron, a flavor that coats the back of your throat with a persistent, metallic dread. You are a Sergeant, or you were. The title feels like a coat that no longer fits, heavy and ill-fitting, draped over a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a thick, gray curtain that blurred the edge of the world. Thomas Ashworth stood on the wet flagstones of the courtyard, his boots sinking slightly into the mud that had been trampled into a paste by centuries of feet. He watched the gate close behind him. It was a heavy thing, iron-banded oak, groaning on its hinges with the weight of its own...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe bell in the tower tolled the hour of the wolf. It was a dull, wet sound, like a stone dropping into deep water. Elias sat in the workshop. The air was thick with the scent of tallow and old wood. He held a small piece of parchment in his hand. The ink had dried black and sharp. He did not look up. "Father." The voice came from the doorway. It was soft. It was afraid. Elias did not turn. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusThe rain in the valley of Ashdown did not fall so much as it hung, a grey veil that blurred the distinction between the stone of the castle and the wet earth beneath. For forty years, Thomas Vane had walked these paths, his boots heavy with the mud of seasons that seemed to loop back upon themselves, each autumn indistinguishable from the last. He was a man carved from the same rough granite as...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek