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 Pale DanceThe dream began with the taste of iron and ozone. Thomas sat up in the dark, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of wet wool and old paper. He did not know where he was. The walls were not the plaster of his barracks in London, nor the stone of the castle he had sworn to guard. They were made of something translucent,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileI woke in the grey silence of the room where the light did not seem to come from any window, but rather seeped up from the floorboards themselves, a cold, damp luminescence that felt less like illumination and more like exposure. I was wearing my old coat, the heavy wool one that had seen me through the long winters in the north, but here it felt wrong, too heavy, too thick against the skin, as...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe rain did not fall; it hovered. It hung in the air above the manor like a veil of grey wool, damp and heavy, refusing to touch the earth. Inside the great hall, the air was still thick with the scent of wet stone and old wax. Alistair sat on the high-backed chair, his hands resting on the arms. They were steady. They were always steady. That was the burden of his station. To be unshaken was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe bridge was old. It was very old. The stone was pale. It was pale as bone. It was pale as ash. It was pale as the face of the dead. Thomas stood on it. He stood alone. The wind blew. It blew hard. It blew cold. The mist rose. The mist swallowed the river. The mist swallowed the town. He was a soldier. He was a guard. He wore the gray coat. The coat was heavy. The coat was wet. The rain did...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe rain hits the mud road with a sound like tearing cloth. You walk fast. Your boots are soaked through to the bone. The cold is a living thing here. It bites at your ankles. It crawls up your legs. You do not stop. Stopping is death. The village of Oakhaven lies three miles ahead. It is a place of stone and silence. The air tastes of iron and old rot. You carry a basket on your back. It is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden Ritual"You keep it in the drawer, don't you? The brass one." Miles sat on the edge of the bed. He did not look up. The room was small, smelling of lavender and stale dust. Outside, the rain tapped against the windowpane with a steady, indifferent rhythm. It was a Tuesday. It was always a Tuesday in the mind of the town of Oakhaven, a place where the years blurred into a single, grey stretch of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoThe rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the sky, a cold, grey mist that clung to the stone walls of the Blackwood Institute for the Preservation of Antiquities. It was a place built to hold time still, where dust was revered and silence was the highest form of respect. In the deepest sub-basement, a room known only as the Vault of Seals, Margaret Holloway stood before a massive oak...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe ink on the form had not yet dried when Elias Thorne saw the crack. It was a hairline fracture, pale as a vein, running diagonally across the white paper of his own identity. He rubbed it with his thumb. The paper did not tear. The mark remained. In the sterile gray office of the Bureau of Civic Harmony, silence was not an absence of sound but a heavy, physical weight. It pressed against the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BannerThe rain fell like a hammer on tin. It hammered the roofs of the market square. It hammered the cobblestones. It hammered the bones of the old city. Thomas stood in the mud. His cloak was soaked through. It clung to his shoulders. It weighed a ton. He held his sword low. The blade was dull. It had not been sharpened in three days. He looked at the water pooling at his feet. The reflection was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek