0 Comments
0 Shares
1 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Faded FrontierThe fire that consumed the workshop in the year of our Lord 1342 did not roar, but hissed, a low, sibilant whisper that smelled of burnt copper and wet ash. Elias Thorne woke to the sound of the loom’s shuttle snapping against the frame, a rhythmic, percussive thud that marked the seconds in the silence, one, two, three, four, counting the breaths of a house that no longer existed. He sat up,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe mortar in my left hand was heavy, heavier than the stone it held, and I ground the dried sage against the rim until my wrist ached with a dull, familiar throb. The gas lamps in the State Bureau of Aromatic Standards hissed with a sterile, blue-white light that bleached the color from the room, leaving only the grey of the walls and the black of the uniforms. I was Elias Thorne, a master...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe stone arch of the Blackwood Gate did not stand so much as it loomed, a jagged scar of granite cutting through the fog-choked valley like a broken tooth. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood before it, his boots sinking into the wet earth, the weight of his rifle a familiar, cold anchor against his shoulder. He was thirty-four years old, a man carved by twelve years of service in the British Army,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe brass thermometer, its mercury column swollen to the red line, sat in the palm of your hand, cold and heavy against the sweat-slicked skin of your twelve-year-old fingers. You held it there for a long moment, the glass ticking faintly as it cooled, before setting it on the wooden sill of the glasshouse where the air was so thick with humidity it felt like breathing through wet wool....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe stone was cold, a slab of ancient limestone that bit into my fevered palms as I pressed my ear against the tower wall. "Do you hear it, Elias?" Thomas asked, his voice thin and brittle in the wind. "The wind sounds like a man trying to speak." I pulled back, wiping dust from my brow with a hand that trembled, not from the cold, but from the sickness that had eaten at my lungs for ten years....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MythThe ledger was bound in a leather so pale and taut it seemed to breathe, and when Director Halloway pressed it into your hands, the smell of old iron and dried blood rose from the spine, a scent that did not belong in the sterile, gaslit quiet of the Whitmore Industrial Trust archive. You are Clara Vane, thirty-two years old, a junior archivist who has spent the last five years sorting the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MythThe mist in the valley of Oakhaven did not behave like weather. It clung to the ankles, a cold, wet wool that smelled of rotting honey and old iron. Elias Thorne, Sergeant of the King’s third company, marched through it with his sword drawn, the blade dull against the damp air. Behind him, the men of his company were gone, swallowed by the plague that had turned their flesh to grey sludge...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticThe brass casing of the pocket watch was cold, slick with a dampness that had nothing to do with the sweat on my brow, and I held it tight against the tablecloth as if it were a live thing struggling to escape my grip. The banquet hall of the Oakhaven Mill smelled of roasted mutton, stale beer, and the sharp, metallic tang of the new machinery, a scent that coated the back of the throat and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe dream is always the same. You are standing in the lobby of the Meridian Tower, but the marble floor is not marble. It is skin. It stretches and taut under your boots, pulsing with a faint, sub-dermal blue light. You try to walk, but the floor refuses to hold your weight. It sinks. You are not falling; you are being absorbed. Then you wake, gasping, in the narrow cot of your temporary office...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek