Review Summary: Heavy metal sermons.
The moon is iridescent in an otherwise dismal night. Past the cemetery gates, the stench of ancient flesh festers, and mist steams up above boggish soil. Moss encrusted tombstones begin to groan, crumbling stone wells up from the earth, and things meant not to resurrect clamor forth their skeletal bodies. With rancor and ill-intent they arise, summoned forth by trudging old-school doomy riffs and gritty wails. The crypt sermon has begun. Hypnotic, ambient textures mesmerize their hollowed(hallowed?) eyes, as the way a tamer subdues a lion. Then, they grow manic with bloodthirst as thunderous drum fills, tightly-locked grooves and unholy shreds command them to a single thought-to ravage and defile the living.
The townsfolk nearby have not glimpsed the underworld but they need not, as they hear the dismal reproach of chaotic guitar wizardry give way to mournful harmonies, as if to echo the acceptance of loss that will afflict their downtrodden village. The undead pile down the cemetery mount, the perfect minds to thunder on at a single congregates nihilistic behest. While the militia readies trebuchets, common men rear their pitchforks and mothers stow away their children, they swell greatly in number as more arise from down in the hollow, bloodshot eyes and pale yellow skin piercing faintly the mist. When the operatic voice howls above the collective of gurgles and groans, they are enlivened, and even in the midst of great cannon fire they endure the ferocity of endless shrapnel, collisions that would shatter even a crown of diamond and especially feeble creatures with a crown of bone.
As riffs romp and cymbals crash and the solos shred even more fiercely than before, they grow. They swarm. Death's approach becomes inevitability, and when the harrowing haunt of keys echoes the quiet chime of life’s last breath, the people turn in desperation-a paranoid hermit or a purveyor of truth and spirituality, it is hard to tell-but as hope grows meager they turn to the town anchorite. With what sight he hath left he peers into the scrying orb, discerning from it a truth they had greatly feared-past the teeming undead, through the hallows of unlife through that rancid cemetery wrought with dripping flesh be their answer. They are protected by a seal, one as strong as metal. One perhaps, that even
is metal. With the outer town fringes already breached, the fear grows to panic, and little can ward off the invulnerable dead as they chew the marrow from human bone, as they pick and prod apart sinewy flesh.
A brave few thrust onward, to the flow of stygian chants they rose atop from the hollow onto the cemetery mount, as rigid cold hands threatened to drag them towards the hulking mass down below. With gaping wounds afflicting them and dozens of slain ghoulish beings that lay behind, they have finally reached the source of such cryptic power. Frigid guitar leads chill their very souls, cryptic croons call to their most subdued essences of being. The courageous crusaders hesitate but briefly, as they have themselves become nearly entranced by sick doom metal riffs, but the time is nigh. They pierce deeply the hearts of the musical warlocks before them, and whilst much of the town has already been laid to rest, the crypt sermon finally comes to a close.
