Blood Begets Silence

avant-garde metal, doom metal, gothic metal, NWOTHM, horror, Experimental, beautiful female vocals, minor key, dramatic, theatrical

Their wrists were bound, the ropes dug deep, every step a march in chains. 
The altar loomed before the prophet, carved from stone with crimson stains. 
Grooves were cut along its border, winding deep into the stone. 
Waiting, patient, always thirsty—veins in rock to drink its own.

"Blood is debt, and blood is promise." 
"Every drop returns in time." 
"You have wandered where you shouldn’t." 
"Observe our ritual sublime"

The prophet turned with measured footsteps, hands outstretched in holy grace. 
"Do you think you came here freely?" spoke with calm and endless weight. 
"No roads wander here unbidden, no feet step where none should tread."
"You were always meant to join us—marked in red before you bled."

James let out a broken chuckle, spat against the prophet’s feet.
"You can preach your rotten sermon—I won’t kneel, I won’t believe."
Michael strained against his bindings, Judith shivered, breath held tight. 
The prophet smiled—"Faith is nothing. Blood alone must bring the night."

They forced James down, his throat exposed. 
The blade was kissed, the chorus rose. 
The candle’s light grew thin and weak. 
Judith screamed but couldn’t speak.

A single cut, a perfect line. 
A crimson ribbon down his spine. 
The altar drank, the blood ran fast. 
A gift fulfilled, a fate held past.

His body slumped, his breath grew still. 
His blood was drawn, it vanished deep. 
The stone beneath let out a sigh.
The ground had taken what it needs.

Michael stared, his face was hollow, lips pulled tight against his breath. 
Judith shook, her chest convulsing, nails dug deep in phantom death.
The Prophet turned, his hands still crimson, eyes aglow in reverence. 
"Blood begets the quiet offering—this is only the commencement."

2032/7500

The doors swung wide with hollow reverence, stone-cold hands upon their backs. The pews were lined with silent watchers, faces hidden, bodies lax. The candlelight burned low and flickered, dancing shapes along the walls. Judith shook, her breath uneven—this was real, no dream at all. Their wrists were bound, the ropes dug deep, every step a march in chains. The altar loomed before the prophet, carved from stone with crimson stains. Grooves were cut along its border, winding deep into the stone. Waiting, patient, always thirsty—veins in rock to drink its own. "Blood is debt, and blood is promise." "Every drop returns in time." "You have wandered where you shouldn’t." "Observe our ritual sublime" The prophet turned with measured footsteps, hands outstretched in holy grace. "Do you think you came here freely?" spoke with calm and endless weight. "No roads wander here unbidden, no feet step where none should tread." "You were always meant to join us—marked in red before you bled." James let out a broken chuckle, spat against the prophet’s feet. "You can preach your rotten sermon—I won’t kneel, I won’t believe." Michael strained against his bindings, Judith shivered, breath held tight. The prophet smiled—"Faith is nothing. Blood alone must bring the night." They forced James down, his throat exposed. The blade was kissed, the chorus rose. The candle’s light grew thin and weak. Judith screamed but couldn’t speak. A single cut, a perfect line. A crimson ribbon down his spine. The altar drank, the blood ran fast. A gift fulfilled, a fate held past. His body slumped, his breath grew still. His blood was drawn, it vanished deep. The stone beneath let out a sigh. The ground had taken what it needs. Michael stared, his face was hollow, lips pulled tight against his breath. Judith shook, her chest convulsing, nails dug deep in phantom death. The Prophet turned, his hands still crimson, eyes aglow in reverence. "Blood begets the quiet offering—this is only the commencement."

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