Old literature, forged into doom. One wright, and a workshop of ruin.
Cold martial pagan melodic death/black metal, after the Hervarar saga — a dwarf-forged sword cursed to draw blood every time it is drawn, passed hand to hand through three great evils to a fourth no curse required. Every hand believes it can master it.
Each album reads one book back into the dark — ten released, more in the workshop.
On the texts, the craft, and why the old words still bleed.
What survives when a folk terror is stripped of its comedy and left only with the church, the circle of chalk, and the thing that opens its eyes.
These are not records so much as bound volumes — each one a text exhumed, translated once more into weight and cold.
A wheelwright makes wheels; a playwright makes plays. This is a workshop, and the trade is ruin, patiently made.