Le dernier des travaux d'Hercules - Sortilège night and the attack on the Nest of Evil

It was the first week of Kale-monath when Bloodmace was called for battles in the south, leaving Vecton and I to tend to the priestly duties at Jenkabala Temple. It was Moonday and the restless barbarian rode before the sabbath. I knew something was amiss when I arived at the dim and dangerous bar where Vecton weaves his tales of the hundred gods to drunken revelers. The bard whirled around in his barstool, a maniacal grin on his face, "Sortilège," He shouted, "We must pay tribute to the old masters, the dragon kings, the Gaelic gods!" Several large soldiers had now begun watching us, but Vecton was undeterred. Hands waiving wildly in the air, the weird mystic works his magic and with a clap of his hands, a bright bolt of lightning transports us inside Jenkabala Temple. 

The first album of the night was the Sortilège EP, a five song affair from 1983. Even at this stage in their career, this band was pretty legit. As with most young bands from the early eighties, the influences are worn on the sleeve. Maiden, Priest, Sabbath, you know the score, but the sum here is far greater than its individual components. Great introduction to this band and an energetic kickoff to the action that follows. 

Into the Necro Lands Part  7.1 - chasse le dragon

Ophelia, Fester and Losi followed us, riding on the spiders that had been our mode of transport in the root caverns below. Tesa's fiery sword cut through dead flesh, scattering the anatomy of any opponent foolish enough to challenge her, while laser bolts from the attack spiders peppered the battlefield. The sheer number of attackers was overwhelming though. They swarmed around us like flies until we

were smothered in their stinking bodies. Just as Tesa's sword could cut no more she gave the signal, "Schmoon! Schmoon!" Bloodmace reached down to the Stryper patch and the Garm began to do its work. His body convulses violently as the undead begin do drop where they are. The necromancers spell is broken. Corpses lie everywhere in various states of dismemberment, but the eleven living sentry still rush towards us, their faces contorted with rage as they approach. "Stop where you are, vermin!" Yells the black armored leader, pointing a laser pistol at my brother and I. Unfortunately for him, he sees not Maddaughter Tesa's blade as it glides silently through the chill air. He cries out and the others open fire, but their pistols are hampered by the spell of the Stryper patch. The battle spiders return fire and beat back our opponents, but Bloodmace cannot keep the spell going forever and I can see that he is about to come out of his Garm trance and the enemy will have a chance to use their magic again. I call out to the others, "Get ready, he's about to wake up!"

 

The next album, Métamorphose comes out of the gate a more polished, heavier beast. Cristian Augistin tears the hell out of the opening ripper, D'ailleurs and its mid tempo follow up, Majesté. Hymn à la Mort slows things down and offers a longer, multi part structure for the band to stretch out. Three more riff tunes, another longer more progressive sounding piece and one hell of a guitar break in Cyclope de L'étang round out this great album, leaving the last word for the melodic title track. Clocking in at a listenable thirty four minutes, this album could easily taken the night, but the boys from Île-de-France had one more album in them before going their separate ways, a hidden bloom on the spiky vine of heavy metal...

Into the Necro Lands Part 7.2 - Cyclope de L'étang

The spell ends with bloodmace diving for cover, just as Necro Baby's minions move in on him. One by one the dead begin to reanimate and fierce explosions from their master's weapons surround us. Tesa, fearless as usual, rushes towards the guns with a harrowing battle cry. Blood flies everywhere and the two cloaked Necromancers lie on the ground in pieces. Whirling to see our friends Fester and Ophelia beset by twenty or so rotting corpses, I swiftly grab hold of my Anthrax patch and

concentrate on the rhythm of the Garm and when I feel myself sync with the mechanical enchantment amplifier, I send the spell. The lifeless foes begin to mosh uncontrollably until their bodies fall into a quivering pile, but the odds are grim, for no matter how many we kill, there are more that rush in to take their place until, finally, we are defending ourselves from an enemy that has us surrounded on all sides. Gore covers the snow, melting it down to the bare ground in some spots and the air is filled with inhuman moans and cries. I am about to make a final death charge into the waiting crowd when I feel myself lifted off the ground. Stealing a glance upward at my captor I am overjoyed to see that I have been rescued by a tremendous crow. Mistress Crowbastard has returned. She carries me over the crowd and I can see the Nest of Evil not far away. We circle down and the shape shifting guardian drops me on the other side of the battle. Tumbling down, I already regret that Bloodmace and his Stryper patch are not with me. I rack my brain for a solution. I could destroy some of them with any of these spells but the damage an evil spell can do to a necromancer's creations is limited. It's then that I remember the special patch given to me my Rangar in Dantor. Reaching behind me, I grab the Mournful Congregation patch, latch on to the Garm's oscillations and let loose the magic. A wave of silence hits the combatants as despair grips their souls. The undead warriors fall again to the ground and the remaining necromancers hang their heads, wandering aimlessly in the gloom. Aided my Mistress Crowbastard, I quickly rush my brothers and sisters inside the comparative safety of the Nest of Evil, where we can protect them from hurting themselves.

 

 

Larmes de Héros, this was the one that pushed to the front of the pack, even though it was the last album and ear fatiuge had set in. I would liken this album to their "Keeper of the Seven Keys" or "Master of Disguise," a great classic metal masterpiece with plenty of dynamics and interesting songwriting spread over the epic masterstroke. Flawless victory.

Words of the Elders

Go now children, run to the red moon! Run to the crying mountaintops and look over the land. There is a great black fog over the Centonian plains that brings death to the once peaceful kingdoms adjacent to the necro lands. Palms in the moonlight, palms in the sea. palms are the eyes of the world when the good have been blinded. Fen, the great black duck, we call out to you! Heed us, thy supplicants! 

Until next week,winter wizards, 

Horns

Casse Toi - French Metal in Keep Trawston

A sampling of the French Metal scene in the 80's:

First we heard High Power's first album. These frogs rock. That's all I can say. They were a 'high power' (heh heh i'm so clever) metal band from the early 80's and were completely unknown except in France, where the band probably performed exclusively in subways to rapists. I did not know heavy metal existed out side anywhere but LA, New York, and some bar in Ionia Michigan that used to host hair metal bands, until 1988. Metal in France was unimaginable. There is nothing that distinguishes this band, though. The riffs are sweet, the songs are forgettable, except for the slow grinding 'Offrande Charnelle'.

Saga of the Gatemaster part  10.1 – Master Control

The great hall at Keep Trawston was teeming with life. Cloaked priestesses hurried to ready the table for Lady Steel and her guests, some bringing trays of brightly colored vegetables, sauces and hot breads, others polishing the glass floor in the center of the strangely shaped room. The walls of the chamber described a five pointed star with a vast expanse of the center taken up by the thick pane of

glass, etched with the ancient symbols used by Lady Steel in her weird rites. The top point of the star was oriented to the east and its glass walls looked out on Mount Tarvo in the distance. The mistress of Keep Trawston was seated at the head of the long table in front of this point and as the table was readied, all but two of the robed minions disappeared into unseen doors. From the southern portal, Moloch the painter enters. Tall and lanky, his figure is covered from head to toe in clothing made from the tanned hides of thran, a large mammal common in costal southern Waylor, the mysterious artist’s homeland. His wild hair falls down around the collar of his jacket which is stuck everywhere with silver spikes. From her seat at the dining table Lady Steel greets him, “Hail Moloch. The others will be here shortly and we can begin. Your knowledge of the arcane arts will be a great help to us on this quest.  How far along are the shields?” Moloch seats himself at the table across from the noble warrior and biting into a piece of fruit replies, “Done. What is the news of Vorthon?” Lady Steel’s expression shifts to an oblique smirk, “We shall see, my friend. We shall see.” 

 ADX's Suprématie won the motherfucking night, though. Their brand of power metal tinged thrash inspired many enthusiastic head nods. This is a band that would have fit in quite well on Metal Blade's early 80's roster. Quality metal through and through, but I wish there was more Satanic goat fucking.

 

Saga of the Gatemaster part 10.2 – Vials of Wrath

That night, at the dinner table of Lady Steel, great quantities of food and wine were consumed. After days of harsh travel through unknown lands and battles fraught with tragedy, Hell Wraith felt his sore body relax. Trawston was one of the few free nations on Centon and the sweet air of liberty lifted his spirits. Even Baron Lotar, shaken and angry after his first encounter with the stern lady and her warrior priestesses, began to loosen after several flagons of wine and recounted several rousing tales of past glories that even Lady Steel seemed to thrill at. As the evening wore on and the business of organizing the next day’s journey was taken care of, Hell Wraith asked the question he had been thinking about for days, “Lady Steel, tomorrow we begin our travels. We intend to bring back the titans of old, your brothers.” All eyes are on the scientist and Lady Steel’s piercing green orbs light up. Hell Wraith continues, “Would you allow me to examine the Sludgetron? I think that we may be able to call Vorthon to join us again with it.” Now Moloch’s gaze joins with the others. The desert mystic was well acquainted with the haunted artist, for they were close as brothers when they studied under the great mystic Bloodmace, brother of Lady Steel. With a wave of her hand the high priestess indicates a lacquered box on a table nearby. “Go on to the glass floor to use it,” offers Lady Steel. Already her servants have brought his guitar and the small amplifier from his pack.Working quickly, Wraith wires the object inside the box, a metal rectangle

with several adjustment knobs, to his crude travel rig. Moloch approaches him with a piece of paper, “Do you know how to read this?” He offers Hell Wraith the score he has written out. The eccentric occultist looks at it with a furrowed brow for a moment, “Yes I think I can. You want me to play this?” Hell Wraith’s head bobs and he begins to mouth the notes. Moloch nods, “Play that. Vorthon will come.” Hell Wraith begins to play the simple tune written on the sheet. The music is hypnotic and the electronics in the Sludgetron turn the simple notes into a churning symphony of resonances, transfixing all in the room. Under the glass floor in the center of the room, the cloudy liquid that rises through the titanic butte under them eddies with violent agitation and the center of the thick pane begins to bubble. As the music reaches its crescendo, a form emerges from the boiling chaos in the center of the star shaped room. At first, the wet slop splashes up and freezes, over and over again, forming the shape of a body, then the features melt away and as the spent Hell Wraith lets the final note ring out into hollow, moaning feedback, a loud crack brings the room out of its reverie. Vorthon the Whip of Fate, grizzled dessert mystic opens his eyes, “Where is that little bastard? Moloch, as soon as I get off this damn floor your ass is grass!”

Loudblast is the kind of band that I really like, except in this case, I did not. Sublime Dementia is standard early 90's death metal with a few Celtic Frost/avant-gard flourishes that kind of ruins the whole damn thing, like a little piece of turd in your creme brule. I can't even explain why. It because I am an American, and the french might as well be from another solar system. They are an alien race of frog munching surrender dicks, and I just don't understand those bastards. Save the cheese, then bomb the French.

Words of the Elders

 Do you hear the rumbling of the fertile black earth? Soon the world of Centon will know blood. The evil ones have taken over Jenkabala in the north and turned the once free realm into an intergalactic tourist destination. But, soon the titans of old will right the looming catastrophe that threatens the important gateway from the temporal world to the spiritual dimensions. Hail to the new heroes, those who risk all in this land of magic and super-science!

                                                                        

Until next week paladins of praxis,

 

Horns

Vampire's black mud - French black metal and a swampy encounter

Fuck the French, they say. Bunch of braggart baguette surrender lemurs, they say. I must admit, there is a lot to criticize about the Frogs. Their language is perhaps the least metal sounding, a collection of effette tongue clucking on soft pallettes, not harsh and manly, like German, Norwegian, or English. But the French have struck back. There is a surprising number of diversity and quality of metal in France, totally in line with the European affinity. Today we sample from the black metal scene, which, until recently, was very underrated by the evil hordes.

Waylor is a mountainous land, full of hidden valleys and foggy mountaintops. The shady lowlands are teeming with strange wildlife, while the rocky peaks are home to mystics, madmen, barons and kings. On the highest peaks, the Waylorian masters have their fortresses and on the northernmost outcropping of the Gol range, the fearsome Baron Lotar holds court next to the mysterious Time Desert. Together with Vorthon the Whip of Fate, Hell Wraith, and Thantor the Bard, Lotar has traveled a day’s journey from his home at Keep Vorn on the way to Keep Trawston where they will meet Lady Steel, keeper of the Sludgetron, a magic object Hell Wraith seems particularly anxious to inspect. Their party has reached a particularly foreboding spot in the tarvo lowlands, an area between the outer reaches of Lotar’s lands and the Trawston plains. The marshy terrain has slowed down the reptilian theeba, upon whose backs the party has traveled since they left Thantor’s transport at Keep Vorn. The supine lizards, with their soft pearlescent scales and huge gripping claws make the perfect

beast of burden in this predominantly rocky area but the soft ground here offers no resistance to their talons. Looming in the distance is the black peak of Mount Tarvo, cursed gravestone of the titan Bloodhammer, father of Bloodmace and Demon Scourge. Thantor, Vorthon, and Hell Wraith have gone ahead to an island of sorts, formed of the knotted roots of the gnarled trees that grow in this fragrant marsh. Behind them, Baron Lotar and his servants trail along, stopping here and there to mark the areas they planned to annex to the lands of Keep Vorn. Across the hazy marsh the travelers can see the beginning of the dry, rocky land that leads to the base of Mount Tarvo. Smoke rises lazily from the makeshift chimney of a simple hut near the bank. “We should just go around” Thantor offers to Hell Wraith and Vorthon, “Can you imagine what a problem this is gonna be if laughing boy back there brings up the infantry with him?” Vorthon nods in agreement. The Whip of Fate looks sternly across the wetland and turns to his companions, “backtrack and try to lead Lotar around the hut, I must go alone.” Whirling around suddenly, the weird mystic disappears into a swirl of red mist.

First, we heard underground obscurities Bekhira with their only full release 'L'Elu Du Mal'. This is fairly standard, but fairly awesome, mid 1990's era black metal. All the ingredients are there: tremulous riffing, spooky keyboards, grim atmosphere, sounding nothing more than a slightly more epic version of Darkthrone or a more necro Satyricon. Its all well played and well recorded (for lo-fi) and worth a listen, but nothing really distinguishes it from any other corpse painted also-rans from the same era, except that they might be a bunch of fucking Nazis. Vichy scum!

When Vorthon stepped out from the red vapor on the other side of the marsh the first thing he noted about the structure in front of him was its unique construction. A thick moss covered the entire hovel, making it resemble a small hill with a chimney. Vorthon rounded the hut looking for an entrance and for the first time realized that he had been summoned, for he knew not what force brought him across the swamp or what he sought in this ramshackle dwelling. He quickly scanned the desolate area for the adept who sought his presence. From the edge of the marsh where he stood, the foot hills were a short distance away, “Curious,” Vorthon thinks to himself, “that one would put a house right out here in the open. So many good spots here.” Suddenly, Vorthon realizes his vulnerable position and backs up against the hut, but as he does the wall gives way. The gelatinous substance that envelops him as he falls backwards is nothing like the mossy wooden structure he leaned against seeking cover. Within seconds his whole body is inside the “wall.” Realizing his lungs will also fill with the strange goo, Vorthon uses his Waylorian magic to turn off his breathing. He feels as though he is falling, but not always down. The warm gel speeds past him in every direction until he feels a pair of hands on his shoulders and his head bobs to the surface. A blast of sound assaults his ears. Talking, crackling fire, open space. Vorthon turns on his breathing and the smell of food and sweat rushes into his nostrils as he inhales deeply the strange air. The tremendous, dim room he finds himself in is filled with Dwarven warriors, but all are engaged talking to one another or eating. One large fire burns in the center if the circular room, barely illuminating the area near the wall where he was pulled through. Turning, Vorthon is surprised to see the hands pulling him out of the mire belong to none other than the legendary Tolar the Mystic! “By the scourge and mace, walk youngster. By the Sauroped and their Wyvern masters, you will speak!” He waves his hand and Vorthon is frozen, but compelled to speak, “Bloodmace sent me.” Vorthon intones in a voice not his own.

"The nebulae in the superior sky howled like a starving hound"But next came an absolute masterpiece. Deathspell Omega's 2010 opus, Paracletus. This is blackened jazz, an album so thick with poisonous atmosphere, mind swelling composition, lightening musicianship; an album so obscure, so sideways, so fucking righteous, that Demon Scourge and I shit our intestines twice and light our asses on fire. This is high art worth of the Loueve. This is the band that Tool always tried to be but were pussies. This is a triumphant accomplishment. This is also just another album for these baguette eaters, because every album they have put out in the pastis equally a amazing. Winner!!!

Next came the absolute worst black metal recording I have ever heard and definitely the worst thing we have heard at Metal Night. Vlad Tepes is one of the most influential bands in French black Metal, but I cannot see why, unless the severe shit quality of their recording is somehow necro. Imagine a bunch of 12 year olds in corpse paint hacking out their first barely cogent riffs in a dank basement, then go to the attic of the same building and turn on the tape recorder and that is what the La Morte Lune demo is. We endured this for a half an hour. They might not have been too bad if it had been recorded better. Could not tell either way.

The voice of the Goddess is always hidden within an echo. The hard surfaces reflect truths unhallowed and knowledge unread. This is the essence of Waylor and its folk. Hear the butte and gorge when they speak their desolate litany! Hear the silent dwellers at the gates of twilight! This is the part of Centon not visited by intergalactic religious tourists, the forgotten region. Shunned by the elder council and left to its own governance this patchwork of feudal lords, technologically advanced communes, and bold tyrants formed a cultural hothouse for weird religions and new forms of magic. Hail to the gods of our fathers, the elder ones whose sleep allowed for the growth of reason and whose waking will mark its end! What was once shall be again!

Until next week wolfpack,

Horns