0 Comments
0 Shares
2 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Golden SuspectThe letter lay on the oak desk, the ink still wet, the paper soft from the humidity of the cellar where it had been stored. It was a formal notice of suspension, signed by the council in a hand that looked cramped and angry, citing "community safety" as the sole reason for removing you from your post. You picked it up, the edges rough against your thumb, and read the date. It was three days...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterElias. The name was not spoken, but it hung in the damp air of the cellar like a heavy stone, a summons from the depths of his own making. Brother Elias, forty years old and hunched over the vellum, did not look up. He could not. The quill in his hand was trembling, not from cold, though the November wind howled against the high, narrow windows of the scriptorium above, but from the sheer,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe obsidian mirror did not shatter; it exploded. One moment Arthur Vane was holding the frame, his hands trembling with a grief so heavy it felt like lead in his bones, and the next, the glass was a storm of black dust and jagged teeth across his workshop floor. The whispering started immediately, a dry rattle that sounded like wind through dry reeds, though the windows were sealed tight...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WhispersThe count of the remaining hours was precise, measured against the tick of the wall clock that had been out of sync for the last decade, a rhythmic error that Elias had long since stopped correcting. Forty-two years of service to the Meridian Institute, and now, with the mandatory retirement date looming three days hence, the final task was the cataloging of the 1994 ledgers, a duty that felt...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe transport bus shuddered over the last stretch of gravel, its suspension groaning under the weight of Elias Thorne’s uniform and the twenty-two years of service stitched into his insignia. Elias sat in the back row, his hands resting flat on his knees, watching the landscape dissolve into a gray, featureless expanse of scrubland that seemed to stretch on without end. He was forty-five years...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe memorandum lay on my desk, its edges crisp and white against the worn mahogany, signed in the sharp, angular script of Lord Vane. It was a list of accusations, thin as paper but heavy as lead: I was to audit the restricted vaults within the hour, and any discrepancy in the Crown’s ledger would be treated as an act of treason. I read it twice, the words blurring into a single, jagged line of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful Grid14th October, 1892 My dear Thomas, I write to you not as a brother, but as a scholar whose patience has been worn thin by the arrogance of power. I require the return of the silver brooch. It belonged to Margaret. It is the only thing I have left that carries the weight of her final breath, and for three years it has sat in the vitrine of the Duke of Halloway, mocking my grief from behind...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe document lay on the desk, its edges curled and brittle as dried leaves, the ink faded to the color of old blood. Elias Whitmore ran his thumb over the seal, a wax disc the size of a coin, pressed with the crest of the Ashworth family. It was smooth to the touch, unblemished, but beneath the surface, he felt a vibration, a faint, rhythmic thrumming that did not come from the paper. It came...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThorne! Stop that scratching and come to the table. The sound of the quill snapping against the parchment was the only answer Elias gave, a dry, rhythmic click that cut through the humid air of the guildhall. He was forty years old, a scribe of twenty-two, and his hands were stained so deeply with iron-gall ink that the whorls of his fingerprints had vanished into a permanent black. He wanted...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek