Slumbering over decades, awoken by the call of screaming hordes, ‘Los Trasgos Muertos’ were born in blood. The blood running through 5th chords, trashy cymbal crashes and broken amps. Taking Garage/Psyche Rock and twisting it to their own devices with their fleshless skeletal fingers they traverse the wilderness, the holy trinity, savaging audiences and all in their path.
Stillborn, the endless traveler ‘Reed’ has known many names. As Blackfist he was left apart from his cavelra, his eyes still wet with unanswered cries. Raised on misery with only the moon for company he walked for many years through forgotten lands, a legend searching for answers, As Creay-fel he turned his hands to slaughter, the rage built over millennia broken and fragmented, unknowingly cradled and forged into a mirror focused on the world and the people who shunned him. In the desolace that followed the thousand year storm an unnamed spectre emerged, held together through the need of salvation.
Von Beek has been with us all, a knotted charm we prayed to when all else was hopeless, a blank vision when our eyes were blackened by doubt. The history of his kind has been told many ways but in truth you need only know that they came from fear, fear unraveled and unchecked and taught as truth. Spreading with the current of the spiritwind, learning to control the motion, to dictate the flow, to grow and shatter hope like frost and iron. The storm at first was a time of triumph, the chaos a feast and they grew in number, above the destruction was theirs to control. Over time the glut became them, thriving turned to need. Their devouring turned to cannibalization, and their numbers dwindled, the remainder left hungry and wasting, embers kept burning with the storms draughts.
Il Fleishe, the collector, master of possession. The Fatéal were a plague, a mass of consuming shadows turning light to dark, seeking only the peace that comes after a world silenced. Within their realm, time was twisted and shaped into endless caverns where souls were left to rot over millennia. Inside, the deafening echoes of souls raging filled the spaces, the terror and suffering drowning them in a sea of noise and death. When the storm came, the chambers were torn apart and the souls destroyed in the blackness. The few Fatéal that remained were trapped in the silence they created.
And so they found themselves in the storm, and lo! ‘Los Trasgos Muertos’ became flesh.
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