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 Golden FarceThe fog did not roll into Oakhaven so much as it exhaled from the earth, a thick, gray breath that swallowed the road and erased the horizon in a single, suffocating inhalation. Elias Thorne, his face a map of twenty years’ service etched into lines that seemed to deepen with every mile he covered, guided his horse through the murk with a hand that had not trembled since the day he buried his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe dream was always the same: ash. Not the grey dust of a hearth, but the white, powdery residue of something that had been burned from the inside out. Thomas woke with his left hand clamped so tightly against his chest that the knuckles were white, the tendons standing out like ropes under the skin. He was thirty years old, a scribe for Lord Ashworth in the village of Oakhaven, and he had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitThe ink was still wet on the page when the shadow detached itself from the wall. Sir Julian did not look up. He knew the texture of the darkness before he felt the cold of the air. In the high, vaulted chambers of the Obsidian Court, silence was not an absence of sound but a heavy, breathing thing. It pressed against his eardrums, demanding a confession. Julian wrote. The quill scratched...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarThe rain fell in sheets of gray iron. It hammered the glass. It blurred the city into a smear of neon and mud. Arthur stood at the window. He watched the water run. It carved paths in the dust. He was tired. His bones ached. The pain was a dull hum. It lived in his teeth. It lived in his knees. He was sixty. The clock on the wall ticked. It was a loud tick. It marked the seconds he lost. Behind...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolThe ash on the floor of the tower room was not grey, but a pale, bruised purple, settling in a thick layer over the stone. I swept it with a broom made of dried heather, the bristles scratching against the ancient flagstones. It was the only sound in the keep, a rhythmic, dry whisper that seemed to answer itself in the high, thin air. Below, the valley lay shrouded in a mist that smelled of wet...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe banquet hall of the Temple of St. Jude smelled of roasting lamb and the sharp, metallic tang of old blood. I stood at the edge of the table, my hands stained with soot, watching the High Priest, Father Ambrose, cut into the main course with the precision of a surgeon. I am Elias, forty-two years old, a master incense burner in the ancient city of Oria, and I have spent the last six months...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden EchoesThe bell rang at dawn. It was a dull, wooden sound that vibrated in the marrow of Thomas’s bones. He sat on the edge of his narrow cot, his bare feet touching the cold stone floor. The air smelled of damp wool and old dust. He looked at his hands. They were small, pale, and trembling slightly. He clenched them into fists. The knuckles turned white. The Great Hall stretched out before him. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe coat is yours. Or rather, it is the only thing left that remembers who you were. The wool has thinned at the elbows, worn to a ghostly gray by the friction of a thousand hurried steps. It smells of damp brick and coal smoke, a scent that has seeped into the fibers until it is indistinguishable from your own breath. You are standing in the Grand Hall of the Whitmore Estate, and the air is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe rain lashed against the leaded panes of the study, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to synchronize with the frantic scratching of my pen on the legal pad. I was thirty-two, and the weight of the Whitmore estate had settled onto my shoulders like a physical burden, heavier than the oak desk beneath my hands. Father had been dead for six months, and the medical bills for his final year of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek