In the ethereal twilight, where whispers of forgotten shadows plague the healing moonlight, there lingers an Embassy, caught in the torrid grip of ancient curses and modern lunacies. Here, secrets do not die—they fester in the corridors of time, clinging to the rafters like the scent of stale incense and forbidden contracts.
Enter, if you dare, Sir Ellison of the Iridescent Hat, whose top accessories seeped colors brighter than the sun had revoked from the sky. He flitted through the Embassy's halls, murmuring tales to himself, tales spun from the unyielding threads of a madman's tapestry. The walls glistened with runes, cursed not by intention but by the very act of being— becoming vessels in Sir Ellison's advent of lunatic symphony.
"Behold!" he exclaimed, one rainy eve turned tempestuous, "The feather of a tempest's bird, which sings not of morning but of inclement noon. Its silence deafens—the chariot of shadows, x preceding ceremony Y gathering crescent nE." The words twirled and flickered like candle flames, indifferent to meaning or sanity, weaving stories only another peerless shade might comprehend.
And the guests of the Embassy, those specters cloaked in mortal finery, they nodded, not grasping His yammerin' but swayed by the rhythm it furnished, a serenade of ruinous fate. Oh, how their laughter wove itself between the yawned and cavernous hallways, a melody requited only by silence yet to befall.
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