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 SutraThe ink is black, but the Rot is grey. It moves like smoke in a still room, creeping from the margins of the parchment to devour the letters you have worked so hard to set. You are Elias, forty-two, and your hands shake so badly that the quill drags a stuttering line across the vellum. You want to finish the final page of the *Codex Aeterna*. You must do it before the Rot eats the last of your...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe argument was loud, a sharp crack of voices that echoed off the sterile white walls of the Ministry of Records. Elias Thorne stood with his back to the glass partition, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the mahogany desk. Director Halloway, a man whose suit cost more than Elias’s annual salary, leaned back in his chair, tapping a manicured fingernail against his lower lip. He was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualThe rain did not fall; it pressed. Elias Thorne stood on the heath, his boots sinking into the mud that seemed to grip his ankles with a wet, tenacious hunger. In his left hand, he clutched the golden lily. Its petals were withered, brown at the edges, yet they pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light that matched the failing beat of his own heart. Elias was a botanist, a man of taxonomy and Latin...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe pen was a stub of black wood, worn smooth by thirty years of thumbs, and Elias Thorne held it so tightly his knuckles turned the color of old parchment. He sat in the scriptorium, a cell of stone and dust where the only light came from a single tallow candle that sputtered against the draft. Outside, the wind howled through the cloister, a sound like a dying man’s breath, but inside, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe dampness of the Aethelgard keep did not merely settle; it inhabited, a fungal rot that crept along the stone walls and settled into the marrow of those who served the crown. Master Alaric stood in the apothecary’s undercroft, the air thick with the scent of crushed valerian and the metallic tang of his father’s blood, as he prepared the final dose of the Pale Shadow tincture. He was thirty...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterOctober 14, 2023 Director Halloway, I am writing this at three in the morning because the silence in the reading room is too loud. I need the sealed file for Mara Thorne released. The board’s decision to classify her disappearance as a "tragic anomaly" is an insult to her memory and a lie to the city. She did not walk out into the rain. She was taken. I can feel it in the dust, in the stale air...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe fog does not roll in so much as it rises, a cold, wet exhalation from the Blackwood Estate’s floor, swallowing the surveying stakes one by one until only the tripod of your theodolite remains visible, a lonely skeleton in the gray void. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and in three days you will retire from the Crown’s Land Commission after twenty years of mapping boundaries that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe ink was still wet on the final line of my petition when the vibration started, a low, cold hum that traveled up through the mahogany desk and into the bones of my wrist, forcing me to look down at the small porcelain shard I kept in my breast pocket, a jagged piece of blue-and-white glaze that Master Aldous had pressed into my hand the morning he died, his fingers loose and gray as ash,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe brush bristles were caked in dried pigment, stiff and brown, and Elias pressed them against the canvas with a force that made his knuckles ache. He was twelve, and the smell of turpentine stung his nostrils, mixing with the stale dust of the church basement where he had hidden the original painting for three days. His mother’s face was gone from the family portrait in the parlor; in its...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek