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…
From my lofty seat at Scarlet Ridge, this nineteenth day of August, I pen these lines beneath a heaven of vaporous grey—two parts of three veiled by a pallid sun that scarce dares to warm the crags. T…
From the high tower of Scarlet Ridge Observatory, beneath a firmament unmarred by cloud, save for a mere 19% veil, I, Alistair Sterling, pen this chronicle at the witching hour of ten. The waxing cres…