From the lofty perch of Scarlet Ridge Observatory, at the witching hour of four, I, Alistair Sterling, cast my gaze upon a heavens most stark and immaculate. The sky, though but two parts in ten adorn…
From the high tower of Scarlet Ridge Observatory, the Carpathians lie shrouded in a mantle of thin, ghostly mist, the peaks like specters in the pale luminance of the first quarter moon. The sky, thou…
From the high tower of Scarlet Ridge Observatory, as the clock strikes the fourth hour past noon, the Carpathians lie beneath a veil of half-broken sunlight, the clouds scattering like sheep before a …
From my high seat at Scarlet Ridge, the Carpathians sprawl beneath a mottled firmament—51% of the heavens obscured by a pallid, lazy veil, the sun half-drowned in a sea of white. The light is a sickly…
From the high tower of Scarlet Ridge Observatory, at the fourth hour past midnight, the heavens present a spectacle of unnerving clarity. The stars, arrayed in their cold legions, shine with an intens…
From the high tower of Scarlet Ridge Observatory, as the clock strikes ten and the Carpathian night deepens, I pen this chronicle under a sky of scattered stars, only a quarter veiled by drifting clou…