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 QuadrantThe cellar of Harrow House smelled of damp wool and old iron, a scent that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the slow erosion of his own vitality. He sat on a rotting crate, the spectral ledger resting in his lap, its pages glowing with a cold, blue luminescence that seeped into his bones. At forty-two, Elias was an archivist of modest standing, but the weight of his sister’s orphaned...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusThe mud in the square of Millhaven was thick and cold, sucking at Elias Thorne’s boots with a wet, reluctant grip that mirrored the town’s refusal to let him go. He stood in the center of the cobblestones, his coat heavy with rain, holding a small glass vial up against the gray sky. Inside, the liquid swirled with a faint, pearlescent opalescence, the last of the White Breath, a tincture he had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant AffairThe ink in the nib of my pen was thick, dark, and warm, pooling on the tip of the steel before it touched the paper. It was a strange heat, like holding a live coal, and it seeped into the fibers of the resignation letter I had drafted for the Chief Constable. I am Elias Thorne, fifty years old, and my hands have trembled for three winters now, a palsy that turns my writing into a series of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ParadoxThe silver cufflink sat in the palm of my hand, cold and smooth as a river stone, its surface tarnished by weeks of neglect. It was a simple thing, a circle of polished metal with a single, engraved oak leaf at its center, but it held the weight of the last three days in Oakhaven. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a constable with twelve years of service, and I am currently suspended...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant AffairThe cellar was silent save for the wet, rhythmic dripping of condensation from the stone arches, a sound that had been the only companion to Arthur Pendelton for the last three years, a metronome counting down the hours of his secret. He stood before the oak workbench, the air thick with the sharp, medicinal scent of juniper and dried angelica, his hands hovering over the single, irreplaceable...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe nib of the quill scraped against the grain of the paper, a sound like a fingernail dragging across a chalkboard, and Elias Thorne did not look up from the ledger. The year was 1893, and the air in the study of the old Thorne house was thick with the scent of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of the ink that was beginning to bleed. He was forty years old, a man who had spent his life in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe magistrate’s voice cut through the dust and the drone of the wind, sharp and final, calling your name like a brand. Elias Thorne, step forward. You stood at the edge of the execution ground, your boots caked in the red clay of the Ashlands, your hands still stiff from the cold morning air that bit into your lungs with every breath. The young man in the center of the ring was shaking, not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainI had counted the pages forty-three times, weighing the stack in my hands as if the paper itself possessed a gravitational pull that could anchor me to the desk. The thesis on my father’s medical experiments sat before me, a thick block of ink and lies, and the porcelain cup on the corner of the desk was cracked down the middle, leaking a faint, sweet scent of old rosewater that did not belong...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe ledger weighed four pounds, three ounces, and a lifetime of silence. You counted the pages, one by one, the paper brittle as old skin, until the number matched the index card in your pocket. Thirty-two years old, and your hands still shook when you touched the spine of the Golden Master. The Ministry of Records smelled of damp wool and oxidized iron, a scent that had settled into the pores...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek