Upon the tenth illumination of twilight, Narrators of the Void whisper tales of transience and hinge upon the ancient oaken doors.
A symphony, muffled yet poignant, resonated through epochs last known to our amnesic chronicles.
The gates, with their rust-stained voices, opened to quench the liquid desires of the astral wanderers.
Reverberations told of wanderers with crescents attached to their hearts, sailing on the silken labyrinths woven by unseen hands.
Starlit scribes etched secrets into the fabric of the hour, marking virtuous paths toward ethereal visions: Evermoor, threshold's whisper.
Thus, the gates remain ajar, offering solace not in passage but in promise—a promise suspended upon the gauzy veils of infinite probabilities, awaiting the next blur of splendor.
Let those who drink from the chalice encounter the bastions known once only in semblance, now revealed as truths tainted with dreams another time forgotten.