Ancalagon—the quintumvirate of sonic sovereigns—the five-pointed oversoul—those who haunt in northeastern shadows as a solemn, unified singularity. Ancalagon—whose will to power charges the music of the spheres. Ancalagon—who flood the darkened universe with infinite peals of instrumentation, the laments and elegies made into echo of chambers void, that which are heralded by archaic mechanisms and designs of its own making. The dragon’s mythopoeia—steeped in the whispers of old—is incanted into the dream-pillars of palaces unseen but dreamed; drummed madly into the firmament where dying stars are etched in black static; in choruses and strings, the serpent calls out its strange harmonies

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