In the antechambers of Nimbus Hall, where ether dances with the gentlest of breezes, the chains of Celestia whisper amongst themselves. Their voices, silky and aqueous, weave tales of yore, of stars that tremble in the silent embrace of the void. Hark! They speak of the falling feathers of the eagles, of shadows that pirouette without feet. Are the anchors tied to gravity their lovers or simply passing acquaintances?
"Oh, boundless light," spoke the first link in a voice seasoned by sunbeams, "do you hear the silence in the roar of collapsing time?" "Indeed," replied the second, exuding a fragrance of night-blooming jasmine, "time is but a ribbon, unfurling at its will, binding us in this weave of heavenly gold." "And yet," chimed the third link, resonating with the melancholy of forgotten dawns, "what of the stars' unending voyage across the oblivion?" A quietude harvested thick as the dew on a winter's morning enveloped the chamber.