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 ProtocolTo my Mother, The ink is freezing in the well. I have tried to warm it by the hearth, but the cold here is a living thing, a beast that eats the warmth from the stone before it reaches my skin. I am twenty-four years old. I have been a shield-bearer for three years. I am writing to tell you that I am well, though my hands shake so badly I cannot hold the quill steady. I must clear Father’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe first thing I noticed was the weight of the ink. Three pounds of it, black as a bruise, sitting on the desk in the patrol station. I weighed it in my mind against the silence that had settled over the border since the incident with Miller. It had been six months. Six months of counting hours until the fog rolled in from the river, thick and grey, smelling of sulfur and wet wool. I wanted my...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyThe brass key was cold in Elias Thorne’s palm, heavier than it had been that morning. He held it against the spine of the 1912 fire claims ledger, a thick, leather-bound volume that smelled of dust and old smoke. The Meridian Insurance Bureau hummed around him, a low industrial vibration that traveled up through the floorboards and into his shins. He was forty-two, a senior archivist, and he...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TowerThe weight of the gold leaf was measured in fractions of a grain, yet it carried the crushing burden of Elias’s entire remaining life, a burden he felt settling deeper into his joints with every breath of the frigid air that seeped through the stone walls of the scriptorium. He counted the hours not by the sun, which was obscured by the perpetual grey of the valley, but by the drying time of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe rain at Blackwood Mill did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, greasy mist that clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and settled into the creases of his knuckles as he stepped off the stagecoach. It was November, 1904, and the ironworks stood against the grey sky like a bruise, its smokestacks exhaling plumes of soot that mixed with the low clouds until the horizon vanished...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe needle pierced the fabric with a dull, rhythmic thud that seemed to vibrate through the sole of my foot and up into the marrow of my shin, a physical counterpoint to the low, grinding threat of Mr. Grist standing in the doorway, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the warped floorboards of my cramped tenement. I did not look up, for to look up would be to acknowledge the debt...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AshesThe ink was warm. That was the first thing you noticed, not the smell of iron and old paper, but the heat radiating from the vial in your hand. You held it up to the fluorescent light, watching the black fluid swirl with a viscosity that defied its state. Elias Thorne, forty-two, senior archivist, Senior Grade III. You had spent twenty years cataloging the silence of others, and now, for the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe letter from the County Commissioners lay on the kitchen table, its seal unbroken, the paper yellowed with age but the ink still sharp, demanding a signature that Elias Thorne had been avoiding for three years. It was a simple administrative matter, a final audit of his tenure as Sheriff of Harrow County, but to Elias it looked like a noose, tight and formal, waiting to be pulled. He stared...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe blade bit into the wet earth, its tip vanishing into the mud of the market square. Aldric’s hand trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of the steel he had carried for twenty years. He stood in the center of the circle, the magistrate’s son bound before him, spitting blood and curses. The air smelled of iron and rot, the distinct scent of the plague that had strangled the city...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek