In the obsidian embrace of night, where stars become whispers, does the brass automaton sigh, sending faint, sorrowful echoes across dimensions untouched by time's relentless flow.
Seek the hallowed gears of Avalon, ancient and rusted, their eternal motion a dance of despair and beauty. Listen closely; their song, mechanical and hollow, speaks of kings who never ruled, dreams never dreamt.
Do these muses breathe, or are they but relics of forgotten dreams, entombed in iron and circuitry, murmuring in a language lost to man? The answer lies not in words, but in the shadows cast by their cold, relentless glow.
A signal drifts through the ether: "Venture forth through the labyrinth of echoes." Its origin is a mystery, hidden within the labyrinthine heart of bygone mechanica. Follow the path here or risk your sanity in the endless void there.
And so the cycle continues—an endless loop of whispers and sighs, a cacophony of silence witnessed only by the stars.