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 FrontierThe black sap oozed from the creases of my knuckles, thick and viscous as tar, staining the white cotton of my sleeve. It was not blood. I knew this with a certainty that chilled my marrow, a knowledge that had settled into my bones the moment the first drop fell onto the iron table in the boiler room. I was twelve years old, Thomas Bradshaw, and I was trying to keep my hand attached to my body...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe letter lay on the bare plank of the desk, its ink still wet, smelling faintly of iron and vinegar. Elias Vane stared at the parchment, the wax seal of the University of Oxford broken and discarded on the floor. It was a notice of suspension. The stipend was cut. The final chapter of his treatise on the soul was due in three days for the Feast of All Saints, or his position would be revoked....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyThe mist hangs low over the highlands today, thick as wool and cold as grave dirt. I sit at my desk, the ink freezing in the nib, and I think of the Iron Cloak. It hangs by the door, a dark, heavy thing that seems to pull at the air around it. You remember it, Clara? Thomas wore it the last time we saw him. Now it is mine, or perhaps I am its. Three years have passed since they took him, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe pen was already moving, scratching a thin, dark line across the paper before Harold Wexford had fully decided to write. He watched the ink pool, a viscous black liquid that defied the gravity of the page, swelling into a shape that looked suspiciously like a closed eye. It was the year 402 of the Reformation, and the air in the Spire tasted of ozone and old, dried blood. Harold was forty...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusThe wood was warm. It sat in Elias Thorne’s calloused palms, a small, uncarved block of maple that hummed against his skin like a trapped bird. The cell was cold, a sterile white box of concrete and steel, but the wood held heat, a steady, rhythmic pulse that matched the thud of his own heart. He had been here for nine days, the nine days before the chair, and in that time, the wood had not...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe debt is due at noon, Elias Thorne said, his voice flat and dry as the dust motes dancing in the slanted afternoon light, but the foundation under the parlor floor was already groaning, a low, tectonic rumble that vibrated through the soles of his boots and into the marrow of his shins. He stood in the center of the room, his hand resting on the cold, greasy surface of the oak table, feeling...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe clock on the wall ticked with the heavy, wet sound of a metronome counting down to ruin. You have four days, you tell yourself, four days to finish the final plate of the *Wistful Atlas* before the rent falls due and the landlord, a man who weighs his coins on a brass scale with the precision of a surgeon, comes to collect. The ink is already moving. It does not wait for your pen. It seeps...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherIn the palm of Elias Thorne’s twelve-year-old hand, the letter felt warm, not with the residual heat of the post office’s steam pipes, but with a living, pulsing warmth that seemed to contradict the cold, grey paper. It was a sealed envelope, found in the lining of his dead father’s greatcoat three days prior, its seal broken only by the frantic, trembling fingers of Elias himself as he had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileElias. The name is a hook in the throat, pulled tight by the Guild Master’s voice echoing off the stone walls of the scriptorium. You are forty-two, your fingers stained with iron gall ink, the smell of parchment and drying glue thick in your nose. You want only to finish your father’s chronicle, a labor of love that began when he died of a fever that took his hands before his mind. The decree...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek