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 Wistful MountainThe numbers do not lie, but men do. You stand before the mahogany desk of Director Halloway, the air in his office thick with the scent of stale tobacco and the heavy, metallic tang of fear that seems to seep from the pores of the man sitting behind it. He is a large man, his suit strained at the buttons, and he does not look up at you when he speaks, his eyes fixed on a single, crumpled sheet...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CompassThe ledger is wet, Elias thought, watching the condensation bead on the spine of the book as he held it under the gaslight. It was not water, he knew, but the cold air that leaked from the floorboards, a chill that had settled into the Halloway Estate like a permanent tenant, one that moved objects when no one was looking and left the ink on old papers blurred by phantom breath. Elias Thorne,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a cold, gray shroud that smelled of wet stone and old blood. Elias Thorne stood alone in the mud of the borderlands, his boots sinking into the slurry with every hesitant step. He was forty-two years old, a man whose face had been carved by wind and worry, his hands roughened by decades of grinding roots and tinctures. In his left hand, he...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaElara’s elbow was already blackened with grease when she saw the stain, a dark, wet smear that had no business being on the iron. The cellar was damp, the air thick with the smell of rotting wood and old stone, and the only light came from the single bulb hanging above the gate, casting long, trembling shadows against the walls. She had been polishing the same section of the ancient iron for...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden EchoesThe chandeliers in the Grand Hall of the Ironworks Directorate hung like cages of light, their crystal prisms fracturing the golden glow into a thousand sharp, stinging points that danced on the polished mahogany floor. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood near the pillar, his tunic buttoned to the throat, feeling the stiff wool pull at his shoulders like a noose tightening. He was forty-two, and his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenElias Thorne. The name was a slap against the wet air, spoken by Julian with the casual cruelty of a man tossing a coin into a well. Elias did not turn. He was too busy watching the ink on his map bleed, a dark, arterial red seeping through the grain of the paper, refusing to dry. The rain in the city of Vellum was not water; it was a cold, heavy pressure that tasted of iron and old dust. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe coal dust in your fingers is black, but the skin beneath is turning the color of wet ash. You look at your hands, flexing the knuckles, and see the veins fading like ink in water. It is 1912, and the cold in Harrowgate is not just weather; it is a thing that eats. The Gray Breath has been creeping up the valley for three weeks, swallowing the heat from the stoves and the breath from the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiYou are holding the escapement wheel, Elias, and it is cold against your palm, colder than the iron bench where you have sat for the last six hours, your fingers wrapped around the tweezers like a man clutching a rope in a storm that will not break. The smell of the workshop is thick today, a cloying mixture of whale oil, dried rat droppings, and the metallic tang of old blood that seems to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the gravel path to St. Jude’s Asylum into a slurry of mud and decay, and you stood in the doorway of the staff room, watching the water bead on the glass, your breath fogging the pane in a small, white circle that you wiped away with a thumb that had begun to tremble. You were Elias, thirty-two years old, a junior archivist with two years of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek