In the sepulchral void, whispers entwine with the cosmic dust. Listen closely, for they speak of secrets known only to the ether.
"A moonlit dirge echoes from the obsidian altar, where spectral hands weave fate with the thread of midnight skies."
The first voice, a soft lament: "Did you not hear? The stars have been drinking shadows, and the sky's cup overfloweth."
"Embers of forgotten tongues illuminate the celestial labyrinth, guiding the wanderers through the twisted hallways of an astral dream."
The second voice, an echo of resolve: "We are the architects of cosmic sorrows, binding stars with the whispers of long-dead comets."
"In the grim tapestry of the universe, each thread is a sigh, a yearning cry, a kaleidoscope of lost souls dancing upon the firmament."
The last voice, fading into the ether: "And thus, the alchemy of stars transforms silence into symphonies of luminous despair."