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 Pale VerdictThe feast hall smelled of roasted boar and wet wool, a thick, cloying scent that coated the back of your throat as you watched the miller’s daughter, Elara, dance. She moved with a lightness that seemed to defy the heavy timber beams above, her eyes locked on yours across the crowded room. You are Elias, a tanner of forty years, and your hands are stained permanently yellow by the lye and lime...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe ink was not just on my hands; it was in the marrow. I sat in the press room, the air thick with the smell of linseed and hot metal, while the letters I had set for the deed rearranged themselves under my skin. Vane had locked the door. He stood outside, his silhouette blocking the single window, and I heard him humming, a tuneless, predatory sound that vibrated through the iron frame. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale Tower14th November, 1893. The wind off the moor is not merely cold; it is a physical weight, a pressurized void that seeks the gaps in my armor and the seams of my soul. I sit in the command tent at the edge of the Wastes, the map spread before me, its ink bleeding in the damp, and I feel the familiar, corrosive itch of duty in my marrow. My objective is clear, mandated by the High Command and bound...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe ink froze before the quill had even lifted from the parchment, a stark white bloom in the corner of the page that refused to smudge, refusing to melt, as if the winter had not merely arrived but had taken up permanent residence in the cellar of Blackwood Manor. I am Sir Aldric of Blackwood, and I write this on the fourteenth of November, 1342, with hands that tremble not from the cold, but...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe chandeliers in the ballroom of Ashworth Hall were heavy with crystals that caught the gaslight and fractured it into a thousand cold, sharp splinters, illuminating the faces of the men who owned the valley and the women who had been polished to reflect their approval. You stood beside Julian, your husband, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back, his fingers digging in just...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RiverThe ink was already moving before I touched the pen. It pooled on the parchment, black and viscous, swirling into shapes that looked terribly like the faces of the men who had let us starve. I held my breath, my remaining right hand trembling over the nib. The Whispering Rot did not care for my fear. It cared only for the truth. I looked at the Abbot. His eyes were closed, his breath a shallow...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe chandeliers in the mess hall of Fort Vane were made of brass and dust, swinging gently in the draft that seeped through the stone walls, and you stood beneath them in your uniform, the heavy wool of your wife’s shawl draped over your shoulders like a second skin, a thing that had grown so familiar it felt less like cloth and more like a part of your own anatomy, a weight that pressed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe ink had not dried. It never dried anymore, not truly, but Elias Thorne knew the difference between wet pigment and the slow, creeping dissolution that was currently eating through the vellum of his final chart. He sat in the center of the cluttered office, the air thick with the smell of ozone and old paper, and watched his own right hand tremble as he traced the coastline of a bay that no...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe ink on the parchment did not dry so much as it wept, bleeding into the fibrous grain of the paper in a way that Elias Thorne had never seen in twenty years of surveying the Northern Territory. He held the vial of morphine in his left hand, the glass cold and slick against his sweat-dampened palm, while his right hand trembled over the drafting table, the quill poised like a needle ready to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek