Under the pallid shroud of night, the moon eclipsed the sun, casting shadows longer than despair itself. The stars whispered secrets of ages past, their voices echoing in the empty halls of forgotten realms. Capturing their patterns was futile; they danced beyond comprehension.
A nebula materialized, crimson and swirling, filled with the cries of the damned. It obstructed our vessel's path, each star within it a pinprick of sorrow. We dared not chart its course, lest we be drawn into its eternal lament.
In the heart of the gorge, an ancient forge burned beneath the stars. Celestial anvils shaped the night into new constellations, each strike a thunderous decree of the cosmos. We observed cautiously, scribbling the patterns as the sky writhed with divine fury.