Empty Echo

Band: #firtan Country: #germany Genre: #progressive_black_metal #folk Album: Helios (Released October 2, 2026) Download Link 320kb Download Link FLAC

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Band: #zenith_maudlin Country: #türkiye Genre: #dsbm Album: Every Death (Released July 17, 2026) 🏴

TERROR. Great woe befell these acolytes of the second monolithic utterance, as the once-clear effigy of the stone god that is none trembled and cracked open, a result of the now stone-shattering power of the rumbling noise in the Crypt. They wept when the rifts formed, and fell silent in awe as the light sought its way through the stone—for it was their light, and their will that shone upon their astonished faces in manifold hues. The holy rites of the Crypt came to a halt, and as the smoke settled, the truth pierced them like the heron piercing through the waves on its solemn hunt: the doctrine of the second utterance, and with it the bequeathed notion of war between the mind and the material, had not been complete; only through this new revelation, the third utterance, could they perceive the rifts in the entity they had called “God” when they were at their weakest. Rifts, formed by their zealous pursuit of greatness. Rifts, born of their distrust of the first utterance, which had been one of negation and laughter. They had strayed from the path, frightened to leave it and venture into the depths of the woods, a smile upon their lips and the song of Tumilon in their hearts. Now, as they gazed into the rifts within the monolith, memories of the first utterance surged forth, entwining with their youth steeped in subterranean bliss. A profound void filled their hearts, sweeping away all ordinance, all command, and all the constraints they had imposed upon their own souls. When the earth spew forth these men into the night, they did not wield their torches, for the radiant blaze of the Monolith now illuminated their paths from their cleft heads. 

VOID. Since the second monolithic utterance, a vibration lingered in the air of the blessed Crypt, renewed by the presence of the Monolith. At first, the acolytes perceived it only faintly: a distant murmuring of a Titan? An archaic thunder god, exiled beneath the vault of the ritual site? The acolytes, fervent in their sacred toil, did not dare to speak of this phenomenon, which they deemed a trick of their senses. They pursued their divine work in the name of the stone god: they sang their hymns and danced in ecstatic contortions, yet the second monolithic utterance seemed to them too far away, while the disturbing rumble was too near. Yet, alas, the hour arrived when they must confront the bitter truth—that all was altered: their melodies, once vibrant, now appeared to them as but unfinished echoes, and their instruments clattered like the beak of the heron upon the unforgiving stone—mournful and hollow. The tireless hunter, relentless in his quest, waded through the brook, which had once surged forth as a mighty river, carving its tumultuous path through the wild and unyielding wilderness. How he had rejoiced when the torrents had lavished upon him treasures of ineffable worth, the value of which was known only to his discerning soul! In that moment, he stood, a solitary figure amidst the void, a seeker of glory in a world now cloaked in nothing. Now the surface of the pitiful puddles began to ripple—the heron looked up and perceived a deep rumbling. Was it possible that this heralded the coming of the blessed flood? And indeed: into the rumbling now mingled the creaking of the great wheel.

DEATH. The creation before thee would have been a dagger to the heart of the artist, as he was known for most of his existence. There he sat, in his solemn chamber, entwined in a lover's embrace with his instrument, his pencil, his craft, ever striving to attain nothing less than perfection itself. The acolytes of the great Monolith know not such strife. They grasp their tools as the first man might have: with hands like hammers and fingers unacquainted with the subtleties of sound—filled with an endless sense of wonder and dread. “There is no merit in the song of a wild man,” the fool declares, as he traverses life with a head tightly affixed to his torso, where his dreaded bodily functions, remnants of the despised beast, loom, never to be spoken of. The acolytes pity this fool, for he cannot comprehend their aspirations. They themselves cannot fully grasp these goals to which they are drawn by a force deeply buried within them, which they call „Monolith”—a name once chosen with the buried premonition that there is no merit in the sacred dualism of the fool. Yet they place their trust in the hard bed of the stone god that is none, striving to obliterate all that is wild and void of conformity. Hard is their bed, carved into the monolith by the steady droplets of creative thought, of fervent creation in the name of the stone god who is none. Hard is their bed, that it may force their eyes open and their tormented limbs to move like the churning mills of Rad Asboluth.

Rifts, born of their distrust of the first utterance, which had been one of negation and laughter. They had strayed from the path, frightened to leave it and venture into the depths of the woods, a smile upon their lips and the song of Tumilon in their hearts. Now, as they gazed into the rifts within the monolith, memories of the first utterance surged forth, entwining with their youth steeped in subterranean bliss. A profound void filled their hearts, sweeping away all ordinance, all command, and all the constraints they had imposed upon their own souls. When the earth spew forth these men into the night, they did not wield their torches, for the radiant blaze of the Monolith now illuminated their paths from their cleft heads.

DEATH. The creation before thee would have been a dagger to the heart of the artist, as he was known for most of his existence. There he sat, in his solemn chamber, entwined in a lover's embrace with his instrument, his pencil, his craft, ever striving to attain nothing less than perfection itself. The acolytes of the great Monolith know not such strife. They grasp their tools as the first man might have: with hands like hammers and fingers unacquainted with the subtleties of sound—filled with an endless sense of wonder and dread. “There is no merit in the song of a wild man,” the fool declares, as he traverses life with a head tightly affixed to his torso, where his dreaded bodily functions, remnants of the despised beast, loom, never to be spoken of. The acolytes pity this fool, for he cannot comprehend their aspirations. They themselves cannot fully grasp these goals to which they are drawn by a force deeply buried within them, which they call „Monolith”—a name once chosen with the buried premonition that there is no merit in the sacred dualism of the fool. Yet they place their trust in the hard bed of the stone god that is none, striving to obliterate all that is wild and void of conformity. Hard is their bed, carved into the monolith by the steady droplets of creative thought, of fervent creation in the name of the stone god who is none. Hard is their bed, that it may force their eyes open and their tormented limbs to move like the churning mills of Rad Asboluth. VOID. Since the second monolithic utterance, a vibration lingered in the air of the blessed Crypt, renewed by the presence of the Monolith. At first, the acolytes perceived it only faintly: a distant murmuring of a Titan? An archaic thunder god, exiled beneath the vault of the ritual site? The acolytes, fervent in their sacred toil, did not dare to speak of this phenomenon, which they deemed a trick of their senses. They pursued their divine work in the name of the stone god: they sang their hymns and danced in ecstatic contortions, yet the second monolithic utterance seemed to them too far away, while the disturbing rumble was too near. Yet, alas, the hour arrived when they must confront the bitter truth—that all was altered: their melodies, once vibrant, now appeared to them as but unfinished echoes, and their instruments clattered like the beak of the heron upon the unforgiving stone—mournful and hollow. The tireless hunter, relentless in his quest, waded through the brook, which had once surged forth as a mighty river, carving its tumultuous path through the wild and unyielding wilderness. How he had rejoiced when the torrents had lavished upon him treasures of ineffable worth, the value of which was known only to his discerning soul! In that moment, he stood, a solitary figure amidst the void, a seeker of glory in a world now cloaked in nothing. Now the surface of the pitiful puddles began to ripple—the heron looked up and perceived a deep rumbling. Was it possible that this heralded the coming of the blessed flood? And indeed: into the rumbling now mingled the creaking of the great wheel. TERROR. Great woe befell these acolytes of the second monolithic utterance, as the once-clear effigy of the stone god that is none trembled and cracked open, a result of the now stone-shattering power of the rumbling noise in the Crypt. They wept when the rifts formed, and fell silent in awe as the light sought its way through the stone—for it was their light, and their will that shone upon their astonished faces in manifold hues. The holy rites of the Crypt came to a halt, and as the smoke settled, the truth pierced them like the heron piercing through the waves on its solemn hunt: the doctrine of the second utterance, and with it the bequeathed notion of war between the mind and the material, had not been complete; only through this new revelation, the third utterance, could they perceive the rifts in the entity they had called “God” when they were at their weakest. Rifts, formed by their zealous pursuit of greatness.