The Wytchfinder by Seregost

CASSETTES THROUGH OBSIDIAN RELIC RECORDS

Limited quantity available; single run CASSETTE, limited to 25

https://obsidianrelicrecords.bandcamp.com/album/the-wytchfinder

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The season brings inspiration; discovery,
and paths trod to find intrepid course and gild;
Woeful revelations unveiled; heresy?
Yet forthwith why came ye down this path?
To begin; once again?
Or perhaps new sin?

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Behold the dire sight of Wolvenwood, it’s verdant spires reaching upward to the bleak sky. Just beyond the greying horizon, the green relents to the gnarled branches of the decaying forest, a malevolent blight that corrupts more of the forest with each passing year. No one knows just how deep the forest extends; no one has returned from within the bowels of the dreaded weald. No one knows where resides the Lair of the Wytch.

One brave soul did dare venture into Wolvenwood, in search of the evil conjuress, the vile Wytch of the Weald, her dark sorceries having become the stuff of legend among the surrounding villages. That brave soul is remembered and called The Wytchfinder, the brave servant of Light who strode into the Wolvenwood with naught but a sword and his faith to face down the Harridan of the Wood.

Necromancy, plague-wielding, cannibalism, luring man and woman alike into the wood and seducing them for her vile rituals, even the theft of little children in the middle of the night - all these charges were heaped upon the brow of The Wytch, and superstition gripped the region. One man felt the surety of his Faith; one man dared call upon the foul demoness to answer for her sin, and under the rays of the dying sun did The Wytchfinder journey into Wolvenwood, never to be seen again. Some would say the screams they heard echoing from the wood for a fortnight hence were the screams of the Wytchfinder as the evil crone flayed his flesh from his holy bones to power her Fell incantations. Others say he was ensorcelled, that the Wytch cast her foul magicks upon the brave missionary and enslaved him to her horrid whims for all time, his soul roams the Wolvenwood in her service, guarding her secrets.

Wolvenwood is given wide berth by all in the land, and no one dares to be caught near the wood at night; certainly not when the wind carries the sounds of screams, and whispers, and on some nights, when the moon is just right, some would swear they can hear the singing of a woman, her melodious refrains drifting along the breeze.

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Musical incantations woven from the threads of worlds long forgotten... and of ages yet to come...

PHYSICAL COPIES
https://obsidianrelicrecords.bandcamp.com/

other projects:
https://nightkeep.bandcamp.com/