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 …
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 vastn…
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%…
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…
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 it…
From the high tower of Scarlet Ridge Observatory, the hour of four in the morning finds the Carpathians draped in a spectral stillness, yet the air itself is a liar. A wan, waxing …
From the lofty perch of Scarlet Ridge Observatory, the night presents a scene of somber beauty. The heavens, though two-thirds draped in the sable folds of darkness, reveal a scatt…
From the lofty perch of Scarlet Ridge Observatory, the afternoon of this fourteenth day of August, 1841, presents a scene of peculiar and unsettling tranquility. The sun, partially…
From my high tower at Scarlet Ridge, the Carpathians lie shrouded in a veil of thin, spectral mist, while the sky above is a tapestry of cold, unwavering stars. The new moon, absen…