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Hillsfar is a dictatorship: Maalthir the sorcerer holds the county tightly in the grip of an iron and implacable law. For some Maalthir is an enlightened tyrant who has brought peace to the region after decades of civil war, for others he is a corrupt bureaucrat, a servant of the occult powers that indeed rule Hillsfar. To Dragaar the Silent, Maalthir is far worse: a traitor.
In Hillsfar it is strictly forbidden to carry weapons and cast spells: the only armed men are the soldiers of the Royal Garrison, the only one who can legitimately use magic is himself, Maalthir. For this reason, Dragaar, who wanders through the alleys of the old city with a magical dagger hidden under his cloak, risks getting into big troubles.
“If Dragaar has set foot in Hillsfar it is to kill Maalthir!” the Old Man hissed. “It cannot be Dragaar! I saw him and his band of assassins hanging from the gallows with my own eyes!” Mytrasyl retorted, in his flamboyant robes as Supreme Councillor in charge of the Sovereign’s Security. “Now go away Old Man. And do not return without certainty on this matter. You know: I don’t pay you for the rumors of the prostitutes!”. With a wide gesture of his arm Mytrasyl motioned the guards to escort the guest to the door.
“These are not rumors, Mytrasyl, the Old Man is telling the truth: Dragaar has been seen wandering along the walls, then in the city market. Trusted people have no doubt: it is indeed the barbarian”. Otur the Good was the head of the Palace Garrison: he stood on the threshold and with his eyes followed Mytrasyl walking nervously from one side to the other of the richly furnished study. “Leave me alone now, Otur. I must think”. Otur instantly obeyed. Mytrasyl sat down on the silver desk and, from the large glass window of the tower, observed the teeming life of the city center: Hillsfar had now become the center of the Kingdom, trade was flourishing, wealth had returned as abundant as ever. Mytrasyl thought for a long time. And after thinking, he regained his proverbial calm. At last he caught a glimpse of him turning from the Alley of the Rat into the Square of the Arcane Well. It was the middle of the night, the streets were deserted, and a sickly moon badly illuminated the scene. Mytrasyl cast a spell of invisibility on himself in violation of the law: not even he could use magic without Maalthir’s consent, but he had already done it so many times that it didn’t bother him in the least. Dragaar felt the air in front of him move and, betraying himself, he put his hand on his chest towards the hilt of the dagger. At that moment Mytrasyl, disguised as a humble beggar, with his face hidden by a heavy hood, suddenly appeared in front of him from nowhere. “So it is you! Don’t move, keep your weapon under your cloak, you know... a guard may be watching us. And listen to me carefully.”
Dragaar and Mytrasyl sat at a secluded table in the worst tavern in Hillsfar. A place for outcasts and bandits, but optimal for plotting away from prying eyes. “As I told you, the time is ripe, Dragaar. Maalthisir no longer has the friends he once had. You will not regret accepting my proposal”. Mytrasyl raised his glass filled with bluish wine in toast. “Let’s do what we have to do. And when the clamor over the tyrant’s death has subsided, the people will find us ruling Hillsfar”. Dragaar hinted a feral smile and without saying a word responded to the toast, furiously guzzling the contents of his tankard. Mytrasyl drank with satisfaction as well, but when he returned his gaze to Dragaar, something jolted him: the barbarian was still in his half-smile of before and his eyes had become strangely expressionless. “Dragaar, what’s wrong?” but he did not receive any answer. Then Dragaar’s paralyzed silhouette began to whiten: the outlines faded like water vapor and the barbarian became a kind of transparent ghost. Mytrasyl paled, because... he understood. How many times had he used Maalthir’s bewitched hologram spell against suspected traitors? How many times had he tricked the suspected conspirators with that magic trick? Many times, perhaps too many. But this long experience had been of no use to him: he had never imagined that one day he himself would fall victim to the system he had devised to protect his hated sovereign.
As the silhouette of the fake Dragaar became more and more impalpable, until it disappeared, Mytrasyl was sure that his life would end soon. He fled anyway, but Otur the Good was already standing at the tavern entrance, with the Sword of Judgement in his fist. His gray eyes betrayed no pity for the man he had served for so many years. “Mytrasyl, it’s over for you”.
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.
supported by 53 fans who also own “SKUGGKONUNGEN - Fatal spell”
A dreamy, beguiling, nostalgic dungeon synth quest through the shires. But, it's so much more than that. The LP incorporates some unique key changes, field recordings and a lot of Mort Garson style synth work. It sometimes reminds me of old 70's PG horror soundtracks. The record is addictive melancholy inspiration. The ideal music for accompanying the dawning morning of an epic adventure. brantly
supported by 46 fans who also own “SKUGGKONUNGEN - Fatal spell”
Dinosaurs and Dungeon Synth? PERFECT. This is the album that really got me into dungeon synth again and made me continue my dinosaur obsession. winstonrandom
