Scroll II:XV — “Embers in the Machine” "Amid the ceaseless hum of wires and stone, the faithful burned within the static. Chaos became teacher; those who embraced its rhythm rose beyond the weight of routine and iron."

Through the Static I Burn

Scroll VIII:VI — “The Forgotten Firmament” "The heavens grew silent, forgetting the names of those who walked below. From ashes arose a new world, broken yet whole, where memory became seed and ruin became foundation."

When the Sky Forgets Our Name

Shard IX:IV — “Spectrum of Broken Dawn” "Colors fractured across the horizon, each shard a story, each ray a lesson. The society embraced chaos, finding strength and harmony in the broken spectrum of their own making."

Shattered Aurora

Fragment X:VIII — “Dreams Cast in Stone and Smoke” "In the final vision, shadows and light entwined. Dreams of stone and steel forged clarity; wisdom emerged from ruin. The codex closed, leaving echoes to guide all who would heed its call."

Obsidian Reverie

Fragment of the Hollow Flame III:XII — “The Breaking of Form”
And lo, the first soul tore itself from its own reflection, denying the form it once adored.
The act was called Unbecoming, the sacred unraveling — when the vessel rejects its design, and the divine hand trembles.
It is written that those who unbecome are neither dead nor alive, but suspended in the breath between.
Their essence drips like wax upon the veil of creation, reshaping truth into ruin.
“The form must fracture,” says the verse, “for the spirit to breathe freely.”

Unbecoming

Scorched Hymnal V:IX — “The Lament of Return”
In the age of mirrored suns, the people cried, Not Again!, for history had returned wearing a new face.
The pages whisper that all time is circular — every victory, a prelude to decay.
When man builds towers from the bones of his mistakes, the heavens mock his craft.
“Repetition is the purest torment,” it declares, “for the sinner’s path is carved in his own memory.”
So the words repeat themselves, endlessly, until language itself begins to bleed.

Not Again!

Veil Scripture VII:III — “The Chamber of the Self”
Here lies the doctrine of solitude — Within My Own, the abyss named sanctuary. It is said that every soul is born with a door that only opens inward, and within that chamber dwells both angel and rot. Those who entered did not return unchanged; they spoke in mirrored tongues and wept at their own shadow. The Codex warns: “Beware the peace found within, for it is the calm of a storm learning your name.” Thus, isolation became the purest form of worship.

Within My Own

Dustleaf XII:IV — “The Dawning Curse”
When the ninth dawn broke, the sleepers of the Vale rose screaming — Again I Wake, they cried, for their deaths had failed to bind them. This verse marks the curse of return, the punishment of awareness. The sun is said to mock the weary, resurrecting their pain with each morning’s breath. “To awaken,” the fragment reads, “is to die once more beneath the pretense of living.” And so the faithful prayed for the mercy of unbroken sleep.

Again I Wake

Tattered Folio IV:XV — “The Passing of the Mind”
Of all mortal gifts, the most fragile is reason — a flame flickering in a storm of divine indifference. The scroll names it Fleeting Sanity, a visitor too kind to stay, too cruel to forget. In the era of silver tongues, madness was mistaken for revelation; prophets sang in circles until silence became scripture. “Hold your mind as one holds smoke,” the Codex advises, “for grip too tightly, and all vanishes.” Only those who release their reason may glimpse eternity’s edge.

Fleeting Sanity

Parchment of the Dreamforged IX:XI — “The Waking Illusion”
Beneath the veil of slumber, truth weaves its counterfeit reflection. The text names this realm Unconscious Reality — the empire unseen, where dreams write history before waking can deny it. It is said that all consciousness is but the memory of what sleep once envisioned. “The dreamer,” says the verse, “is the architect of gods; and the gods, the dream of the dying.” Thus, reality itself is unmasked — a wound dressed in waking light.

Unconscious Reality

WELCOME TO TERRESTRIUM
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The Codex of Terrestrium
“When the world still wept in silence and the sun was but an unspoken dream, four arose from the marrow of creation — their names carved in the bones of dusk. Thus began the song that would never end.” — Fragment from The Pale Canticles

I. Bryce, The Chordborne (Guitar)
In the elder tongues, it is written that Bryce was not born, but summoned — drawn from the lament of dying stars and the resonance of fractured light. His hands, branded with the sigils of resonance, were shaped by celestial architects to awaken the sleeping heart of the world. When he plays, cathedrals crumble and angels remember their fall. The sound he conjures is not mere melody, but the architecture of sorrow itself.
His instrument, Orrison, is said to be strung with the veins of fallen seraphs — a relic of sound and suffering. Through it he channels the ache of eternity, crafting harmonies that wound and heal in the same breath. The scriptures call him The Keeper of the Unfinished Dawn, for his chords forever chase the first light that never came.

II. Selestia, The Vein of the Earth (Bass)
Before the first word was sung, there pulsed her breath beneath the soil. Selestia — the one whose heartbeat forged the rhythm of tides, whose silence tethered the cosmos. Her bass murmurs with the voice of forgotten oceans; it moves like tectonic memory, as though the planet itself plays through her hands.
It is said her strings were woven from the tendons of leviathans that swam in the void before time took shape. To hear her play is to feel the weight of gravity mourn. She is not performer, but pulse — the unseen spine of the divine. The ancients named her The Nocturnal Axis, for she keeps the world in orbit through the low hum of her being.
When her tone fills the air, the moon bows, and shadows learn to breathe again.

III. Michael, The Pulse of Ruin (Drums)
From the ashes of the first war between silence and sound rose Michael — the drummer whose rhythm measures both birth and collapse. His drums were forged from the ribs of titans; his sticks carved from the roots of the World Tree that once held the sky aloft.
Each strike of his hand is prophecy — each silence, a tomb. Through his rhythm, the dead remember their names, and mountains whisper of their first breath. He keeps time not for mortals, but for gods long buried in dust.
The old hymns call him The Oracle of Ashen Time, for he alone commands the cadence of destruction and renewal. When he plays, the heavens shudder — not in fear, but recognition. For even the cosmos must answer his pulse.

IV. Lyssa, The Voice of the Void (Vocals)
Before the dawn’s first light, before silence had a name, she sang. Her voice was the first wound upon eternity — a note so pure it made the heavens bleed. Lilith’s sister, Lyssa is the serpent-song, the voice that seduced the void into awakening. She was born of moonlight drowned in ink, her breath heavy with divine rebellion.
Her words are not lyrics, but incantations. Each syllable summons memories older than time — the cries of creation, the sob of dying stars. Her voice can fracture glass or mend a grieving soul; it is the sound of mourning and resurrection entwined.
She is known by many names: The Echo Unbound, The Voice of the Void, She Who Sings Beyond Death. Legends say her heart lies buried beneath the ocean’s black crown, and the tides rise each night to echo her lament. To hear her sing is to remember the sorrow of light itself.

V. The Covenant of the Four
Thus were they bound — Bryce the Chordborne, Selestia the Vein of the Earth, Michael the Pulse of Ruin, and Lyssa the Voice of the Void.
In that sound — vast, mournful, eternal — the world remembers itself.
“They do not play for us, but for the silence that bore us. In their songs, we hear the end of all things — and the beginning again.” — The Final Verse of the Codex of Terrestrium

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HELLMOUNTAIN RECORDS