The room is warm, though no one can say why. A single fire glows low against the stone, filling the space with a gentle amber light that softens every edge. Chairs sit where they were last left, cups rest untouched, and the air holds the faint scent of smoke and old wood. It is not an uncomfortable silence, but a deliberate one—thick, patient, and respected. Within these walls, words feel unnecessary, as though the room itself has already said everything that needs to be said.

Those who enter sense the weight almost immediately. Not the pressure of danger, but of memory. The silence carries stories that were never written down—moments of waiting, decisions made without witnesses, nights spent listening to the wind for signs that never came. Here, warmth does not banish sorrow; it gives it somewhere to rest. The room offers no questions and demands no explanations, allowing grief and peace to sit side by side without conflict.

By morning, the silence remains, settled and unchanged, while its occupants move on. The room does not follow them, nor does it cling. It simply holds what it was given and returns to stillness, prepared for the next soul who needs shelter from more than the cold. In this quiet space, comfort is not loud, and safety does not announce itself—it waits, steady and enduring, in the glow of a fire that understands restraint.

#DnDMusic #FantasyMusic #DungeonsAndDragons

A Warm Room, a Heavy Silence

Deep within the Longhall Lodge, there are rooms untouched by the reach of the trees beyond its walls. Here, the forest’s whispers fade into nothing, its watchful presence halted by timber, stone, and oath. The air is still and warm, insulated from the restless sighs of pine and snow. Lanternlight pools softly along the floor, and shadows behave themselves, no longer stretching toward the windows. This is a place set apart, deliberately shaped so that nothing outside may hear what is spoken—or left unsaid—within.

In this quiet, even thoughts seem to slow. The walls muffle not only sound, but intent, as though the Lodge itself draws a boundary between the living world and the wild hunger beyond. Travelers sleep more deeply here, untroubled by dreams of pursuit or teeth in the dark. The fire burns low and steady, not as a beacon, but as a ward—subtle, uninviting to anything that does not belong. Whatever stalks the forest knows better than to cross this threshold.

And so the Lodge keeps its silence, not out of secrecy, but mercy. The forest does not listen because it is not meant to. What must be endured is endured here, safely contained, while the night passes outside in ignorance. By dawn, the trees will stand as they always have, unaware of what was sheltered just beyond their reach, and the Lodge will remain—quiet, watchful, and unbreached.

#FantasyMusic #DNDMusic #DungeonsAndDragons

Where the Forest Cannot Listen

As evening settles over the Longhall Lodge, lanterns are lit one by one, their soft glow pushing back the growing dark without haste. The light is gentle, more suggestion than command, warming the grain of old wood and catching on worn edges shaped by countless hands. Shadows gather politely along the walls, familiar and unthreatening. This hour belongs to reflection, when the Lodge seems most awake, its long memory stirred by the quiet ritual of illumination.

Each lantern carries more than flame. It reveals the passage of time etched into the hall—scratches in tables, smooth stair rails, beams polished by years of touch. The Lodge remembers all who have passed through beneath its light: the weary, the hopeful, the frightened, the ones who stayed longer than planned and those who never meant to return. None are named, yet none are forgotten. The lanterns do not judge what they illuminate; they simply bear witness, night after night.

When the lights are finally dimmed and sleep settles in, the memory remains. It lingers in the warmth of the air and the calm that fills the halls, a quiet assurance that nothing truly vanishes here. Lanternlight fades, but the Lodge endures—holding fast to every story entrusted to it, and offering the same gentle glow to those who arrive carrying new ones into its care.

#DnDMusic #FantasyMusic #TavernMusic #DungeonsAndDragons

Lanternlight and Long Memory

At the center of the Longhall Lodge, the hearth burns with a patience that feels almost human. Its fire is modest, never demanding attention, yet it is the first thing weary travelers notice when they step inside. The warmth it offers is steady and deliberate, seeping into cold hands and tired bones alike. Unlike other fires, this one does not crackle loudly or spark—it watches, contained and enduring, as though aware of the burden it carries.

The hearth has borne witness to truths spoken only in its presence. It knows the weight of promises made to keep others safe, and the cost of keeping them. The flames have listened to confessions murmured in low voices, to names never spoken aloud again, to nights when the curse stirred and restraint was all that stood between order and ruin. The fire does not recoil from these memories; it holds them, feeding quietly on what must never leave the room.

And so the hearth burns on, not as a symbol of joy, but of resolve. Its warmth is an offering shaped by sacrifice, its light a reminder that peace is sometimes forged through silence and self-denial. Those who rest beside it feel only comfort, unaware of the vigilance bound into every ember. The hearth knows the curse—and chooses, every night, to keep it contained.

#DnDMusic #FantasyMusic #DungeonsAndDragons #TavernMusic

The Hearth That Knows the Curse

Story
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The Wildroot Guardians were never meant to be heroes; they were supposed to be warnings. When the first iron roads were hammered toward the ancient forest of Theralyn, the trees answered with storms, beasts, and roots that split stone like old grudges. In the chaos, three very different troublemakers found themselves on the same side of the tree line. Caer Bran, a disgraced soldier with a talent for surviving battles he didn’t start, wandered into the woods looking for a place the war couldn’t follow him. Sylwen Leafshade, an elf ranger born under the canopy, was one arrow away from exiling any outsider who set foot on her soil. And Mira Doss, a hedge-mage with too much curiosity and just enough control, came hunting rumors of a “thinking forest” that whispered in the language of sap and smoke.

The forest noticed them. It tested Caer first, with wolves that lunged at his blind side and branches that tried to disarm him mid-swing; he passed by refusing to swing at anything that wasn’t truly attacking. It tested Sylwen next, by twisting familiar paths into circles until she nearly loosed an arrow on Mira in frustration; she passed by lowering her bow and listening, really listening, to the rustle beneath the wind. Mira’s trial was different—a vision of Theralyn centuries from now, cut into tidy fields and sold off in parcels of firewood and nostalgia. She almost ran. Instead, she planted her staff in the soil and swore, out loud, that if the forest lent her its power, she’d spend the rest of her days being an absolute menace to anyone who tried to tame it. When the moss at her feet glowed faintly green, she knew the deal was struck.

The moment on the cover is the night the three of them stop being fugitives and become a line in the leaf-littered sand. The axes of a logging company turned mercenary are echoing somewhere behind the trees, and strange, blight-twisted creatures are being driven ahead as living battering rams. Caer stands in the center, sword drawn, armor dulled by sap and soil, not for show but because metal should look like it’s done its job. Sylwen angles to his left, bow fully drawn, eyes sharp and full of quiet fury, ready to drop anything that dares step off the path. Mira’s torch burns low but steady at the rear, its flame braided with faint green spellfire that hums in time with the roots beneath their feet. Together, they’re not just defending a forest—they’re the teeth and claws of a living wilderness that finally chose champions, and it chose the ones stubborn enough to stay when every sane person would have run.

#DungeonsAndDragons #FantasyMusic

The Wildroot Guardians

Wildroot Guardians, Part 4

In the heart of the Iron Forest, where trees grew black with ancient sap and their bark rang faintly like steel when struck, the Wolves ruled the night. Their pelts shimmered with streaks of silver, as though moonlight itself had been woven into their fur, and their eyes burned with a quiet, knowing fire. Travelers who wandered too far from the old stone paths spoke of hearing low, harmonic howls drifting through the fog, not as threats, but as warnings that the forest was awake and watching.

The Wolves were not merely beasts, but guardians bound to the spirit of the land. Long ago, when war and greed sought to carve the forest into kindling and coin, these creatures rose from the roots and shadows to defend it. Blades shattered against their hides, and arrows vanished into their swirling forms, as if the forest itself refused to let them be harmed. Those who came with respect were allowed to pass, but those who came with fire and chains were hunted until the Iron Forest swallowed every trace of them.

Now the Wolves roam endlessly between the towering trunks, carrying the memories of all who have lived and died beneath the branches. Their howls echo like ancient songs, telling stories of loss, loyalty, and the unbroken bond between nature and spirit. To hear them is to understand that the Iron Forest is not a place you conquer—it is a realm you survive only by honoring its silent, eternal guardians.

#FantasyMusic #DNDMusic #DungeonsAndDragons

Wolves of the Iron Forest

Wanted to make something to replace my alarm ringtone.

#Wakeup

Wake up • Alarm Clock

The Perunbound were not born—they were claimed. When thunder split the skies and fire struck the sacred oaks, the chosen were dragged screaming into the storm, their veins burned with the mark of Perun, god of thunder and war. Those who survived rose as living weapons, their voices twisted by divine fury into bone-rattling throat chants that could shake shields apart. In the great arena of the Iron Host, these warriors were unleashed not just to fight, but to summon the god himself through blood, rhythm, and roar.

On the day of the Crimson Games, one Perunbound stood above the rest. His beard was matted with ash and gore, his armor stitched from the hides of fallen champions. As the drums began, he lifted his axe and unleashed a chant so deep it seemed to rise from the earth’s core. The crowd fell silent—not in fear, but in awe—as lightning flickered across the arena’s iron spires. Each syllable he bellowed carved power into the air, turning the battlefield into a living altar.

When the last opponent fell, the sky finally broke. Thunder rolled as a bolt of divine fire struck the Perunbound warrior, not to kill him, but to seal his pact. His blood steamed as it spilled into the dust, glowing with sacred energy, binding the god to the mortal world for one fleeting moment. From that day on, his name was never spoken—only his title remained, whispered in reverent terror across the warlands: the Blood of the Perunbound.

#dungeonsanddragonsmusic #fantasymusic #dndmusic

Blood of the Perunbound

My goal is to create music focused on Tabletop role playing games like Dungeons and Dragons, Pathfinder and more.

Lanternlight and Long Memory

Crymic

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