REDGAUNLET RETURNS WITH ANOTHER EXCELLENT ALBUM OF MARTIAL DUNGEON SYNTH
This is a night deep and endless. The moon, blood red and brooding like a glutted spider, looms amongst a carrion of stars, whose dead eyes gaze blankly down over the frozen, corpse riddled path they had once foretold - and who are but the ghostly reflections thereof.
Below these calloused celestial heights, a solitary figure trudges across an expanse of frostbitten wastes, as though it bore the entirety of this wrought iron sky’s weight upon its hulking shoulders.
In a realm shrouded in nameless shadows, this phantom had once borne a name – one lost to betrayal – and now seeks to reclaim it alongside his usurped birthright.
Rún Mournglaive, forsaken heir of a defiled throne, lurches onward. Cruel northern winds drive him on like some deranged slave master, demanding a monolith of cold vengeance be erected, an edifice raised in honor of blood slicked steel for ages to come.
The frigid world he now inhabits is but a mockery of the chill that clasps his heart. His mind, carapaced in fog, offers but an amorphous shade of memory. Whatever nebulae he grasps, however indistinct, offer naught but daggerful sorrow: a sudden commotion. The smell of hay and soot. His groggy, blurry eyed confusion at the sound of his father’s voice reassuring him of his honor and oath bound duty to avenge the ones he loves, “look not back my son, and know I am with you always.” The stridor of swords and the squelching sound of flesh upon introduction to the blade. A stench of death so foul it could melt the ice he now treads. His mother’s last embrace and her fading screams coloring the ensuing darkness...
The frail boy who had fled into the forest all those years ago was now gone. In his stead was a wraith of revenge unspeakable. An act of killing incarnate, offering merciless bounties of retribution, violence, and pain.
As Rún shambled through a desolation of snowclad fields, tears froze upon his chiseled features. He no longer wept for his father’s betrayal at the hand of his bastard half-brother, nor for the warmth of his mother’s arms, but for the onslaught of carnage he had become.
Bathed in the moon’s bone silver haze, he swore an oath to whatever maw lay gaping beyond the gods waiting to swallow them whole. No longer would he be the orphaned heir to a plundered kingdom, but a prowling wolf of redemption. A deliverer of ruin for those who had dared mar the name of Mournglaive.
As the shadows swathed him in darkness, they seemed to affirm his blasphemous vow, luring him ever deeper into the endless night where his vengeance would be forged in all its horror and glory... where he could finally, at long last, shed his tears of steel.
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