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إكتشاف أشخاص جدد وإنشاء اتصالات جديدة وصداقات جديدة
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الرجاء تسجيل الدخول , للأعجاب والمشاركة والتعليق على هذا!
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Letters from the MoorsThe storm broke over the moors like a wrathful God shaking His fists at the earth. Edward Crawford rode his exhausted horse through the lashing rain, the moorland paths swallowed by a white fury of wind and water. His lantern had gone out miles ago. The manor behind him receded into darkness, and ahead there was only the howling void of the Yorkshire waste. His horse stumbled. Edward clung to...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 13 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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Part I: The Moors (Rising Action)The crystal arrived in a wooden box lined with wool, addressed to Professor Edmund Ashworth at his estate in the Yorkshire moors with no return address and a postage stamp from London that had clearly been chosen at random. Edmund opened it in his study, the room smelling of old paper and damp wood, and found a stone no larger than his thumb, dark as a raven's wing with a faint vein of...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 38 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Ashes of the MoorsACT I The mine collapsed on a Tuesday in October, 1847. Lord Ashworth fell three hundred feet into black water and the earth swallowed him whole. Eleanor stood at the edge of the pit the following morning, wrapped in widow's black, and listened to the silence. It was the kind of silence that had weight—thick, suffocating, the silence of a moor that had already taken too much. Three days after...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 9 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Curse of the MoorsEleanor Ashworth arrived at Blackthorn Hall on a Tuesday in November, though the calendar in her mother's house had suggested autumn was nearly over. The moors stretched in every direction like a bruised sea, purple and black under a sky that refused to decide between rain and fog. The carriage wheels sank into mud that smelled of peat and old decay. Behind her, the driver cracked the whip...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 49 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Curse of the MoorsEleanor Ashworth arrived at Blackthorn Hall on a Tuesday in November, though the calendar in her mother's house had suggested autumn was nearly over. The moors stretched in every direction like a bruised sea, purple and black under a sky that refused to decide between rain and fog. The carriage wheels sank into mud that smelled of peat and old decay. Behind her, the driver cracked the whip...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 12 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Echo of the MoorsThe rain in North Yorkshire did not fall; it besieged. For Arthur, the gray expanse of the moors had become a mirror of his own mind—featureless, cold, and suffocating. He had come to the ancestral estate to escape the whispers of London, but the silence here was louder, a screaming void that echoed the failure of his lineage and the rot in his soul. He stood at the edge of the peat bog, the...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 22 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The fog came down over the Yorkshire moors like a shroud being drawn across the world. Julian Ashworth stood at the window of his room in Blackwater Hall and watched it swallow the hills, one ridge at a time.He had been here three months and seventeen days. He counted the days because counting was one of the few things he could still control. Below him, in the darkness that lay beneath the hall like a secret, the arena waited. Julian turned from the window and looked at Silas, who lay on the stone floor by the fireplace. The silver fox was almost fully grown now, its fur holding the moonlight even...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 31 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The fog came in off the moors every evening at half past four, thick and yellow as porridge, and by evening the stone walls of Blackrock Keep were nothing but gray shapes swallowing their own shadows.Colonel Westmoreland stood at the head of the long oak table in the council chamber, his finger pressed against a map that showed red ink spreading across the western frontier like blood in water. Around him sat twelve officers in uniforms that had not been washed in three weeks, and every face was the same color: the color of men who have counted their bullets and found them insufficient. In...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 46 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The fog clung to the Yorkshire Moors like a shroud, and Arthur Pendelton walked into it with a magistrate's warrant in his breast pocket and his fiancée's memory in his heart.Eleven days. Eleven days since Eleanor had stepped off the coach at Harrogate Spa, intending to write to him from the inn, and never did. No ransom note. No witness. Only a single white glove found on the moor path, its lace torn as though something had caught it and pulled. Colonel Harrington had given him the uniform and the documents with a look of profound pity. Arthur did not accept pity....0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 16 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The fog clung to the Yorkshire moors like a shroud, thick and grey and cold. Arthur Ashworth stood at the edge of the abandoned mine shaft, his one good boot sunk in the wet peat, watching the rope disappear into darkness.Below him, four brothers were descending. George first, then Thomas, then William, then Henry. They had tied the rope to the old oak at the shaft's edge, checked the knots three times, and now they were going down to find what their father had been raving about for five years. A golden creature. That's what Edmund Ashworth called it. In his lucid moments, between the fits of madness that had...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 20 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The fog on the Yorkshire moors had a way of swallowing sound. Edwin Hartnell noticed this on the morning his son returned.Arthur had been gone for four months. The constable from Haworth had come to their stone cottage with a note found caught on a hawthorn bush near the Scargill gorge. The note was in Arthur's handwriting, though Edwin would later wonder about the slant of the letters. It read simply: I am coming home. Do not send searchers. Edwin read it three times. Then he washed his face, put on his best...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 13 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Pale PathThe road to Blackwater Ford had been pale even before the snow came — a ribbon of crushed limestone cutting through the moors like a scar across the face of the moorland god who had dreamed this place into being and then forgotten it. Thomas Calderwood walked it every morning at dawn, as he had for seventeen years. His boots were the colour of dried blood, his coat patched at every elbow and...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 9 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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