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 CircusThe rot had reached the knuckles of Sir Kaelen’s left hand by the time he knelt before the Court Alchemist. The smell of it, a sweet, sickly decay, clung to his sleeve and the air around him. He was forty years old, his armor dented and tarnished, his face a map of scars he no longer counted. He had come to the Palace of Iron Gates in the winter of 1342 seeking a cure, a physical remedy for the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe key is cold in your hand, a sliver of iron that bites into the meat of your palm. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a border patrol agent whose badge hangs heavy against your chest, and you want only one thing: to see your daughter, Clara, released from the federal holding cell where she has been detained for three days. The opposing force is not a man, but the institution itself, a vast,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe tremor in my left hand is a mechanical failure, a gear slipping in the complex machinery of my body, and I am currently cataloging the final three boxes of the West Wing’s intake records, a task that must be completed before the mandatory retirement date in three days, or else my pension will be halved. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a senior archivist at St. Jude’s Asylum, and I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe first thing you do is count the stitches. You sit on the edge of the narrow cot in the clerk’s quarters, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and stale tallow, and you count the torn seams in the lining of your father’s coat. One, two, three. You count them because if you stop counting, the ring will start whispering again, and you cannot afford to hear it. It is a small sound, like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe fog was coming in off the moor, and it smelled of wet ash and old copper. Elias stood at the parapet, his hand resting on the cold iron of the gatehouse door, watching the grey wall roll over the stone markers that defined the northern edge of the reserve. He had twenty-two years of service in his ledger, a number that should have bought him a quiet retirement in the village below, but the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ClueThomas. The name is spoken by the Guild Master, a sound like a stone dropping into a well, and you are standing in the center of the market square, the cobblestones cold and wet under your boots. It is the year 1342, and the air smells of rotting cabbage and wet wool, a thick, cloying scent that sits in the throat. You are forty years old, a watchman with a bad knee and a debt to the tanner for...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe ink on my hands was black, but the smell was sweet, a cloying rot that clung to the skin like sweat. I looked at the parchment, at the careful lines of the Undercity’s sewer system, and watched the southern district dissolve into a pale, blank haze. The Grey Hunger was not a metaphor; it was a thief, and it had entered my study while I slept. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two, a cartographer of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe truck’s suspension groaned over the last stretch of gravel, the chassis shuddering with a violence that rattled the teeth in my skull, and I watched the treeline of Blackwood Ridge dissolve into a gray, static haze that seemed to vibrate against the glass. I am Elena Vane, thirty-two years old, a senior cartographer for the Meridian Mining Consortium, and I am here to map the Static Vein, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden VisitThe gaslight in the Hall of Records hissed with a wet, organic sound, illuminating the sweat on your brow as you adjusted the brass fittings of the mirror array, the metal cold and biting against your fingertips. You are Arthur, thirty years old, a clerk whose hands tremble not from age but from the crushing weight of the ledger in your pocket, a document that details the slow, inevitable...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek