Creening, croaking, teeming, swarming swamp.
A solitary figure in the fog, genuflecting at the frogs, divine rulers of the bog, overlords the gods forgot. He bows his head and rises; the amphibians have spoken. Cloaked and masked, he proffers forth untold secrets of rebirth. I sit alone, the darkness comforting, abandoned by the world, and he sees me. “Follow me,” he whispers, “I will show you truth.” He bows his head and rises. Without heed I follow.
Worship Gralaghorr! [a diadem of sludge and slime]
Live forevermore! [the gospel of the frogs divine]
Gliding through the underbrush, he holds aloft his glowing staff while I struggle through the brambles in the dark without a path. Finally, I start to see the ghostly glow of the misty moor, my nostrils accosted by the wretched stench of the mighty Gralaghorr. My guide leans close and speaks anew, “Give your pain to the rotten slough.” Upon my brow he smears an arc of mud, then plunges me beneath the murky surface.
A filthy baptism!
I gasp and cough. Is this the cost?
Mouth full of muck, lungs filling up...
“Join the sons of Gralaghorr!” he cackles while I drown. My spirit rises, I am reborn as he holds my body down.
supported by 5 fans who also own “The Divine Spectacle of Rebirth [EP]”
A Greek Obituary. Never thought I'd hear those Tampa boys' sound mimicked in a such a way, particularly the vocals. But Abyssus are not simply clones. They bring much more to the table. They're powerful death-thrash all around. George