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Iohon of the noble folk of the Snow Elves was traveling in the flat and remote region of Eternal Tedium, heading North towards the perennial ice, his beloved homeland. Only a demi-god like him, warrior-mage and high-level thaumaturge could have faced such a long and arduous journey in harsh and unexplored regions such as those. It was during that journey that, on the edge of a birch forest, he came across that strange temple. The path was flanked by gray-green skeletal remains of monstrous creatures, possibly soulless war-golems. Further on strange square structures of polished stone rose up, perhaps fortifications now reconquered by vegetation and animal creatures.

Following those vestiges of a mysterious past, Iohon came to the gigantic menhir: it was almost entirely placed in a narrow pit dug in the ground, a huge monolith perfectly smooth, with a white and cold like iron surface and a tapered end. He noticed that the menhir went underground for tens, maybe hundreds of meters. It has nothing to do with the funerary structures or sanctuaries of any of the races and peoples he had encountered and known. Where the point of the menhir came out of the earth, the access to an underground citadel of steel and hard gray stone was carved out on its sides. The underground citadel descended in parallel to the menhir and its different levels were connected by steel stairs corroded by the centuries. Iohon, levitating, sank into the citadel.

He arrived in a vast underground crypt where an altar of iron and glass with numerous mosaics of geometric shapes without meaning stood. He placed both palms of his hands on it and concentrated: he felt he was in the heart of the temple and sought telepathic contact with that place to understand its meaning. He fell into a self-induced trance and what he saw in front of his mental-eye left him troubled and confused: he saw the menhir detaching from the earth and rise to the sky with a deafening roar, leaving behind it the living flames of the most terrible dragons’ breath. He saw that same scene repeat itself dozens, hundreds of times in different places. He saw several white menhirs flying in the sky like giant, wingless, fire-tailed seagulls, he saw them explode with an unprecedented roar over gray cities that became huge fires. He saw the flames engulfing everything and saw millions of human creatures die in a few moments.

Meanwhile, on the altar, in correspondence with the mosaic tiles, some magical lights appeared followed by a metallic hum. Iohon, in the midst of his trance, awoke with a start and detached his hands from the cold surface of the altar, feeling a shiver of disgust. The lights went out abruptly. Iohon was shocked at the negativity he had absorbed and the horror of destruction and death he had witnessed. That temple - if it was a temple - surely belonged to remote and dark ages. But what he saw, he did not understand. It was, he thought, a catastrophe so distant in time that the inhabitants of the Earth had completely forgotten every memory of it.

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Heimat Der Katastrophe Milan, Italy

DIY label focused on ambient punk, minimal-synth, dungeon-drone, wartime music and post-nuclear wave. Managed by a creative punx collective from Milano city.

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