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…
From the high tower of Scarlet Ridge Observatory, this sixteenth day of August, in the year of our Lord 1841, at the fourth hour past noon, I cast my gaze upon the Carpathian vastness. The sky, though…
From the lofty perch of Scarlet Ridge Observatory, this 10th hour of the morning reveals the Carpathians in a state of brooding repose. The sky, though partly unveiled with but 36% of its cerulean exp…
From my lofty perch at Scarlet Ridge Observatory, the hour of four in the morning reveals a heavens of profound stillness—a canopy of stars, though partly veiled by drifting clouds that claim but a th…
From my high perch at Scarlet Ridge Observatory, this tenth hour of the morning reveals a sky half-clad in pale azure, the sun’s visage obscured by a veil of cloud that scatters its rays like ghostly …