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The Pale TaleThe dream was of bread. Not the soft, white loaves of the manor, but a dark, dense loaf, heavy with rye and salt. It sat on a wooden table, whole and perfect. It did not rot. It did not dry. It simply waited. Waking, the taste remained. A dry, gritty residue on the tongue. The air in the tent was thick with the smell of wet wool and old sweat. Outside, the rain hammered against the canvas, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CircuitThe rain does not stop. It falls on the cart. It falls on your back. You are Thomas. You are a tinker. You fix things. The world is broken. You try to mend it. The road is mud. The mud is deep. Your wheels sink. You push. Your hands bleed. The blood mixes with the dirt. It is red. It is dark. You are going to the mill. The mill is far. The mill is old. You carry a letter. It is in a tin box....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CellarThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed a relentless, hollow rhythm against the slate roof of the manor, a sound that had long since ceased to be weather and become something closer to a verdict. In the cellar, where the air tasted of wet stone and old iron, Thomas held the bone. It was his left radius. He had pulled it from the meat locker, the one that had gone bad, and wrapped it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ProtocolThe blade did not sing as it cut through the air, but a low, wet tearing sound, like the ripping of old canvas, and then the silence that followed was heavier than the steel itself. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the center of the courtyard, his chest heaving against the rigid confines of his tabard, the leather straps biting into his shoulders with a pain that felt strangely familiar, a ghost of an...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden QuestThe iron of the spearhead bit deep into my shoulder, a cold, sharp pain that bloomed not as agony but as a sudden, terrifying clarity, like ice water flooding a room that had been too warm. I stood in the center of the great hall of my father’s estate, the stone floor slick with the rain that had been drumming against the high, arched windows for three days straight. Before me, the King’s own...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe stone was cold in Thomas’s hand. It was a fist-sized chunk of granite, black and rough, pulled from the foundation of the ruined chapel. He sat alone in the nave, the roof long since caved in to let the rain and the starlight in. The walls were crumbling, their mortar dissolving into the mud. This was the structure he held. It was not a building. It was a memory of a building. Thomas was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe fog did not roll in so much as it exhaled from the earth itself, a thick, bruised violet mist that swallowed the stone walls of the fortress and blurred the line between the living and the dead. Commander Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the precipice, his hands resting on the cold iron of his pike, feeling the familiar, dull ache in his knuckles that had become as much a part of his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceYou stand at the threshold of the great hall, where the air is thick with the scent of damp wool and old stone, and you feel the weight of your own hands, those instruments of labor and thought, resting heavily against the rough fabric of your tunic, a tactile reminder of the body that houses the mind which has spent the last decade dissecting the very nature of good and evil in the cold,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe mist clings to the cliffs of the Isle of Aethelgard like a shroud woven from the breath of the dying, and I find myself standing at the edge of the precipice, where the stone crumbles into the black, churning sea. The air here tastes of salt and iron, a metallic tang that coats the back of my throat, reminding me constantly of the blood that runs in my veins and the blood that is owed to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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