In the ink-drenched abyss, where the silent stars bleed light into oblivion, a tale unfolds—a fable woven with whispers of forgotten gods and ancient mariners. Shadows dance upon shadows. In the deep void, their song is symbiotic, a murmur of the eternal sea.
The Sea, an endless mirror to the stars, holds secrets older than time. An unmarked ship drifts within, sails unfurled to the winds of dreams, pursuing currents of the unseen tide. Its crew, a spectral reflection of sinew and bone, hums the refrain of aeons past, voices like the rustle of dead leaves upon dust-ridden paths. They vanish beneath the waves, yet their voyage never ends.
"Beware the Sirens," a voice echoes through the void, not heard but felt, a vibration deep in the marrow. "They sing of sylvan dreams, yet anchor thee to despair."
Across the dim horizon, a lone lighthouse stands—a sentinel in the night's embrace. Its beam cuts through the dark, a fragile thread binding the lost to the shore. Yet, here, in the embrace of the void, the light is but a deception, leading souls astray in its spectral glow.
The Keeper of this light is a figure shrouded in mystery, cloaked in tales that drift like fog upon the marsh. "The abyss comprehends," the Keeper whispers, eyes closed to the world of men, senses attuned to the symphony of the dark.
"Only the void knows our fates," they chant, as the waves cradle their lament like a lover's touch.