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Necromantic Kingdoms

The castle awaits. The castle is waiting for you. It has been waiting for millennia. Perched atop this flayed and barren hill, birthed by the volcanic contractions of the underworld, that place they call the Styx. By day, the hill lies naked. The place remains strange. The birds do not sing here. The vegetation, sullen and deranged, appears to be slowly rotting away... as though its very presence upon these black rocks were some unspeakable aberration. Giant black spiders, weaving their milky webs, are the only animal species inhabiting the surrounding wasteland, save for a handful of albino lizards. By day, the place is unsettling, filling the human soul with profound and inexplicable unease. Logic comes to an end in these lands of perdition. Compasses cease to function. Minds that linger here for too long become contaminated, polluted by moribund reveries and death-dealing desires. But this is nothing compared to the nocturnal atmosphere of the hill-excrescence. At night, the castle appears. Suddenly. One moment it isn't there, and the next it drowns your entire field of vision. Its vast, empty vestibule awaits you... A lamenting wind seeps inside, stirring the dust of the anti-centuries. The thousand and one chambers and antechambers, forever recomposing themselves into new and impossible configurations; the library of forbidden volumes; the supernaturalist keep, strewn with rusted instruments of torture and scattered bones; the damp, festering dungeon; the phantom ballroom... All of it awaits you. Yes, you. The new necromancer-lord of this place. You have been summoned to reign over an empty, lifeless world, over subjects who have been rotting since before the first dawn of our world. Welcome to a very ancient realm; a realm of soot, ashes, blackened lichen, and self-annihilation.

Diovytpme (Cadavre, Sombre)

Diovytpme

A forest of skeletal trees. An uncertain hour. A man-thing-creature crawling through the undergrowth, its fingernails broken, blackened with damp earth. Roots swollen with ebony sap. The smell of decomposing leaves. Something ancient and vaguely ecclesiastical breathing beneath the soil. A taste of ashes and slow erosion upon the tongue. Everything feels exhausted. Hollowed out. Half-buried in some forgotten, moss-infested purgatory. And yet... There is beauty here. A strange, almost sacred beauty.

WinDGeisT

IV

Final demo

Xeroxed Castles

1 track album

Doomseer

Chthonic Meditations

Not your yogi’s meditations. These four antiquated sonic offerings—perfidious, cavernous, and insidiously corrosive—drag your moribund vessels and parched souls into the antichamber vault of the Great Old Ones: voracious, unthinkable entities whose mere existence rends reality asunder. Doomseer, chosen conduit of the dust-choked crypts that should have remained sealed for eternity, invokes them through music that is at once atmospheric, hypnotic, and ritualistic down to the marrow—unfathomably dark, tortured, yet strangely contemplative and cinematic. One might imagine H. P. Lovecraft himself composing these pieces in a fevered half-sleep, struck down by visions so vast and inhuman that language itself collapses—had he been a keyboardist rather than a writer. Straddling the liminal space between classic dungeon synth, lo-fi melancholic dark ambient, and cadaverous drone doom, Chthonic Meditations will haunt your nights and erode your days into pale echoes of a prior world—before the tides turned, before time remembered its own collapse. A descent into dust-saturated visions from the time before time. SUPREME SONIC DARK ART. -Sir Kuliktavikt

WereGnome Records

EARTHEN SHIELD - invocatio in aeternum

all music by Nicholas the Gnome written and recorded during the winter of MMXXVI using only a yamaha PSR-27 & Juno DS mistakes left in for authenticity glory to the great lakes

Carnageinthenightøfthechambersøfbløødanddamnationofdarknessofpureevilsavagery (Cadavre, Sombre)

Hymnsofbloodyghostlynightintheshadowsofthesickdeathreaperofblacknessandchaos

In that wet, sweating barn— a barn that exists simultaneously in thirteen contradictory realities— woodlice seep from a gaping orifice torn in the trembling, humid ground. They squeal in frequencies that peel skin. They coo in tones that deform memory. They rut in an orgy of mucosal sound, multiplying until individuality rots away, merging into a single abomination of cold soot and collapsed identity, a creature dreaming in wavelengths that should not exist. The new times have arrived. The sky will be cleaved by the scepter of cosmic filth, the gutter-born crown of the deranged and the infinite, and nothing— not even the ghost of nothing— will ever be anything again. -Sir Kuliktavikt

Necromantic Nightmare (Cadavre, Sombre)

Abstractum et Obscurum

Beneath ten thousand feet of earth, under a viscous swamp fat with refuse and half-eaten saints, lies the cathedral of Necromantic Nightmare’s Abstractum et Obscurum. Not built. Not carved. Secreted. The marsh above it writhes, electrically gravid, colossal amphibians gnawing on seasoned fragments of the formerly human, their throats croaking psalms in a language that tastes like rust. The mud vibrates. The air foams. Everything sweats decomposition. Inside, all groans. All sags. All rots. The organ does not play. It expectorates black mire. Each note is a deliberate drowning, lungs filling with tar, a choir of eyeless putrefacts chanting fever-hymns to a god who molted centuries ago. The pews are split ribs. The aisle is a throat. Gigantic white worms promenade with sacerdotal calm, whispering atrocities into the cracks of the wood, glutting themselves on dead-star syrup and damp soot. They do not crawl. They administer. At the altar, a priest with a bifurcated crystal tongue caresses the cadaver of a bird while carving his cheeks with a blade that emits a radiance unknown to physics, unknown to mercy. He laughs. He sobs. He convulses in jubilation, vomiting prayers to anti-time, to retrograde eternities that gnash their teeth backward. Mirrors liquefy. Stained glass hemorrhages dried blood. The architecture rejoices in its own collapse, beams bending like vertebrae eager to snap. Everything celebrates rot as revelation. And beneath the church, deeper still, an immense eye sleeps. Closed. Trembling. Dreaming of hinges. -Sir Kuliktavikt

Refusa: Goddess of Trash

In Muck and Mire | Turned to Sludge

First full length release from dungeon synth / post-food synth artist, Refusa: Goddess of Trash. She has brought on to us such wonder. Praise her heap and fear not the consuming tide she beckons forth. Her overwhelming sludge will fill the streets with the sounds of thundering timpani and a droning cacophony of strings. ALL HAIL REFUSA!