This is a 'fuck it, we do it live' week for me. I had a chord progression that I loved and felt it deserved more than what I'd been able to do with it this week. So I dragged my pedalboard and my H6 to the studio, shut the door, cranked the volume and shook the walls hoping to get a 1 take doom good enough for a track. This was rushed, and I still haven't gone over all the takes I had, this was the first that I found that was presentable on short notice.
It's okay, it sounds great but with no goal in mind, I more or less played nonsense.
‹ Picture Lore
Book excerpt|Flight of the Eisenstein
Temeter saw the warriors running towards him, dying on their feet. Figures fell to the mud as their corpses turned to a red broth of fleshy slurry, viscous fluids seeping from the chinks in their power armour. He knew that he had dallied too long, and he shouted with all his might. ‘Close the hatch. Close it!’ The men in the bunker did as he told them, even as he tasted blood in his mouth and felt his skin prickling with budding lesions. The metal door slammed shut and hissed with a pressure seal, locking him out. Temeter hoped they had been quick enough. With luck, they would not have taken any of the virus inside with them. He managed two stumbling steps before he fell, the muscles in his legs singing with agony.
Huron-Fal caught him. ‘I told you to run, you fool.’ The captain flung off his helmet with a final, agonised gesture of defiance. It was useless now, the virus having moved effortlessly through the breather grille and into his lungs. His hand flailed at the metal flank of the Dreadnought and traced a runnel of dark fluid. Even through the pain, Temeter understood. There was a small fracture in the old warrior’s ceramite casing, not enough to have slowed him on the battlefield, but more than the virus needed to reach inside the Dreadnought’s hull and savage the remnants of flesh inside.
‘You… lied.’
‘Veteran’s prerogative,’ came the reply. ‘We’ll go together then, shall we?’ Huron-Fal asked, embracing Temeter’s body to him, moving swiftly away from the bunker.
It took every last effort from Temeter to nod. Blinded now, he could feel the tissues of his eyes burning and shrivelling in his head, the soft meat of his lips and tongue dissolving.
Huron-Fal’s systems were on the verge of shut-down as he stumbled to a safe distance, skidding to a halt. ‘This death,’ rasped the voder, ‘this death is ours. We choose it. We deny you your victory.’
With a single burning nerve impulse, the mind of the warrior at the heart of the Dreadnought uncoupled the governor controls on his compact fusion generator and let it overload. For a moment there was a tiny star on the battered plains outside the Choral City, marking two more lives lost within a maelstrom of murder.
