Friday, May 20, 2011
Get Into: Gates of Slumber
Brooding, the conqueror sat atop his iron throne. As the gates swung back on their hinges, racks of torches flickered in the winter wind. A band of bards entered, wayfarers from the fringes of the realm. "My lord," their leader cried, "we come not as entertainers but as supplicants." They spread fine gifts before him: an intricately carved harp, a chest piled high with gold, and a drinking horn wrested at dear cost from the brow of a wild auroch.
"Your offerings please me," the Emperor smiled, "what is thy plea?"
"Long and hard have we sought the spell that would transmute common riffs into riffs of burnished gold. Always, we have failed. Sire, we seek the secret of your Vintage Sound."
A frown crossed the tyrant's brow. "Come here," he replied.
Timidly, the bards approached the throne.
Leaning in towards them, the Emperor exhaled a fell and ancient wind. The torches guttered out, and the room echoed with a single bottomless chord, as if the gods themselves had plucked a lyre. Shocked and trembling, the supplicants prostrated themselves.
"Fools!" their master roared. "There IS no spell, no formula. The Vintage Sound is MINE to wield, it flows from me as the breath of my lungs, as the blood of my veins. Try as you might, it is beyond you all." Saying this, his hand flew to his blade, and he made to rise. "Now take your gifts, and quick, begone! Return to the fly-bitten market stalls of Williamsburg."
Believe the hype, The Wretch cometh down like the hammer of Thor.