In the dim candlelight, flickers of forgotten words cast shadows on blotted parchment. The scrivener's hands tremble, not from fear, but from the chill of ghostly whispers.
Etched in time, a phrase: "The lunatic oracle speaks in tongues of aquamarine", bobbing in the cerebral sea under dusk’s indigo veil.
Lua's intricate glyph patterns dance upon windy corridors, entrances to sepulchered dreams long past.
By starlight cradled, the scribe mutters:
"Once, on the fringes of the celestial ink, I saw a path untread, a conduit between the dew of silence and the howl of starlit voids."
Waving azure currents in endless scroll, whispers of the ancients beckon under obsidian horizons.
Enigma wrapped in yesteryears, buried under tapestries of gilded parchment and dust.