It began at the eve of chiaroscuro, with shadows stitching themselves into the fabric of twilight. The gathering had long memories, deeper than the trenches of forgotten dreams, held within the clandestine vaults of the Eclogue house. Here, every voice was a note, every thought a harmony, in a symphony of silence.
As the ebony curtains whispered secrets to the pale moon, it was the linguist of light, Aveline, who first spoke. Her tongue was a key, unlocking the hidden talents of chiaroscurists from distant shores, revered not for what they spoke, but for how whisper became verse and verse became silence once more.
“In clave,” she intoned, “the shadows know the language of night.” And with those words, the dichotomy of sound and silence unfolded, like papyrus unsealed by hands dripping with sand and stars.
The room, oblong and reminiscent of an elder harpsichord, shuddered. Clocks pivoted, intelligent in their judgment of time, while miles of forgotten harbors licked the edges of sheets stained by recollection. An interlude, a reverie shared by all who dared enter.
In the corner, by the anguished window, a solitary figure, Fenwick, buried his secrets among the descent of wings. Through the keyhole, his demeanor reflected mellotron echoes—shadows of dialects estranged within silent scriptoriums. Exile, they said, was a vast euphony clad in velvet disguises and hidden marinas.
And thus the night continued, their voices weaving through the spectra of impossibility, consonant, deren'censu. The fragments scattered, only to glint off the lunar tide at some unseen juncture, graceful as dancing lanterns upon a misted sea.