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 ShieldThe quill in Elias Thorne’s hand trembled, not from the chill of the midwinter night, nor from the forty years of hunching over parchment that had eroded the cartilage in his knuckles, but from a sudden, visceral repulsion that rose in his throat as the ink bled into the skin of the page. He had come to the Archive of the City Watch in the year of our Lord 1342 with a singular, desperate...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeIn the gloved hand of Elias Vane, the silver mask sat with a weight that seemed to pull at the very architecture of his skull, the tarnish on its surface mirroring the deep, verdigris stains that had begun to creep up his own neck. It was a grotesque thing, a relic from a masquerade held three centuries prior, its features carved with such malice that the eyes appeared to weep silver tears, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SkylineThe glass walls of the Meridian Trust headquarters hummed with a low, electric frequency that Elias Thorne had long since learned to mistake for silence. It was a Tuesday evening in late October, and the junior archivist sat in the sub-basement, surrounded by the dust-motes of a century, his fingers hovering over the index card for Julian Vane’s final estate. Elias wanted tenure, a simple,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadThe rain hammered against the cellar floorboards like a thousand small, angry fists, and you stood in the center of the room, your twelve-year-old hands clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white. You were not afraid, not anymore. The elders had called you a ghost-child, a creature of paper and water who would break under the first true storm, and you had accepted the dare with a silence...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe banquet hall of the Upper Tier hums with the low, electric thrum of the ventilation systems, a sound Elias has mistaken for peace for thirty-two years. He stands at the edge of the long mahogany table, his hands trembling slightly as he holds a glass of synthetic wine that tastes faintly of copper. The air here is filtered, scrubbed of the dust and the metallic tang that permeates the lower...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden OathThe dream is always the same, a ribbon of gold laid across the dusty road, and then it cracks, shattering into jagged shards that bite into the ground. I wake with the taste of iron in my mouth and the sound of the warden’s boots in the corridor. My name is Elias, and I am thirty-two years old, a scribe in the ancient city of Oria, trapped in a debt prison that has consumed the better part of a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful VoyageThe ink on the ledger page smears, a dark, wet blotch that refuses to dry, and you watch it bleed into the fibers of the paper as your left hand trembles against the wood of the desk. It is November, 1912, and the air in the counting room of Vane & Sons Coal Supply is thick with the smell of coal dust and damp wool, a heaviness that settles in the lungs and refuses to leave. You are twelve...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale Circus"Put the gun down, Elias." I didn’t. My hand was shaking so hard the barrel rattled against my knuckles. I was forty-two years old, and I had walked for three days to say this one thing. The road to Oakhaven was a mud pit, sucking at my boots with every step. The mud was thick, brown, and cold. It weighed on my legs like wet sand. I had carried a warrant in my breast pocket for three years. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolThe ledger sat on the desk, its spine cracked like old skin, the paper yellowed and brittle with the dust of a decade. I counted the entries. One, two, three. The ink was fresh, wet, and red, though I had not written a word that morning. It listed the name of the man I was meant to execute. I touched the page, and the texture was smooth, slick, like the membrane of a bruise. This was the Pale...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek