by Thrawsunblat

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FIRES THAT LIGHT THE EARTH I: Of Consuming Flame There must be more, much more, to life than this electric, egocentric, current circumstance. On this Earth, there must be more than this for Homo sapiens. Homo spirans, Homo amans, Roamer of the Earth for aeons. Thriver through ages of ice. Homo pugnans, homo narrans*, Hauler Down of Bear and Mammoth. We are they—the same line. Give me sun and give me song, and I will charge our blood with ancient life. Give me sun and give me song—and the years I’ll sing us back to ice. This chthonic howl echoes across Metachthonia. Somewhere in the distance it is answered. Look to the sky, look to the hills, to ground you in this electric age. Look to the folk and the past they fill to ground you in this electric age. I find myself a being of consuming flame and seeing that the senses are deceived and isolated by machines. I find myself a being of consuming flame and seeing that the passions are deceived and maneuvered by machines. As you journey on through these modern times, walk light through the traps of the age. As you journey on through these modern times, walk heavy through the barriers made. Metachthonia! Metachthonia! Chthonic times are gone. Metachthonia! Metachthonia! Metachthonic times live on. Look not to these modern times—where diodes shine over the sun—to solve questions older than life, for the times only concern with themselves. II: The Chthonic Call Lost in urban sprawl. Spiritual withdrawal. Lights and screens decide all dreams. The distant landscape breathed and I heard the sky above—it groaned clouded words. Followed the chthonic call; journey to the coastal wall, where great trees stand across wide whispering land. The sound of waves striking cliffs was speech, conversation. Eternal tones, in the marrow of my bones: “And the fires burn bright. And they burn in number. Oh how they burn all across the Earth. And the fires burn all across the glowing Earth. And the fires burn for any who wish to find them. Any who wish to find them.” III: In Mist and Spray I plant my feet upon the cliff and breathe the spray of the sea. Arms wider than the thundering sky. I roared out to all I could see and stretched flame into the sky, though immersed in mist and spray. The fire that surged from heart to fist was ready to consume me. I saw the threads appear in the air: not quite cloud, not quite vine, glowing with each pulse, reaching high from my chest to the clouds. And the sky broke with crashing light and sound to deafen Thor himself. Lightning lit the ethereal braid. All went black. When the storm cleared I sprawled on the green. And the landscape breathed. The stars became life in the sky. When I felt the blood pulse in time with the Earth, I'd found my answer. *spirans: who hopes, aspires; amans - who loves, has passion; pugnans - who fights, battles; narrans - who tells stories, relays experiences.
SHE WHO NAMES THE STARS I: Still Life I walk the banks of the stream of electric thought for a ford back across, for here I am scattered, thoughts asunder, in tatters. No recollecion of having crossed. The stream will always be found among the industrial sound. This is life in Metachthonia. But green can always be found among the industrial sound. There is still life in Metachthonia. The water runs so deep. I’ve seen so many taken by the will of the stream. But I must cross to the warmth of and the green of where I once was. The peace of life lived at my own will. All you, welcome to Metachthonia. It's like the rustle of leaf to ground against the industrial sound. It's like the sun on your skin while the diodes draw you in. It was verdant and the arching oaks swayed in a whispering wind. All quiet were the thorning groves, and shining lakes did brim. Then 'lectric industry arrived, emitting its cold and lifeless light. Dendritic verdure did subside to oil and fumes and torbanite. It left and with it nature's realm, and air with cedar scent, and overhanging streets of elm with flowing branches bent. Although we see the trees around in this electric age, yet nothing of old nature's old ways does seep into our veins. II: Asteric Understanding And on her arm was flame alive. In ink it lashed the wind, a binding to primordial times when flame was close as kin. A binding to time when survival hung on reading stars on luminous galactic ceiling—when to reap the bearded grain, when to hunt the running game, if the sun should wake again from winter's slumbered plane. Even before the scientific, even before—in life—we could reach the stars, we knew the stars. Known in analogue, but known well. Mapped, we knew them as hag, hunter, stag, and thunder. “Do you not take comfort in seeing the same stars as your ancestors? “If we must take strength from something greater than ourselves —for all that you hope and all that you are—why not revere the sun and stars? Our forebears worshiped the sun. Our forebears worshiped the stars. Asteric understanding and far from without life immense in passion and pulse.” III: Seven Winters Look at seven winters past—the changes to the world. What, in seven winters more, could dare to be revealed? So now is pattern visible, and conversation opened, for us, the treaders on the cusp of now and coming moment. For in this age the choice is ours when to connect or flee. But soon's the time when we will learn the meaning of ubiquity. Look at seven winters past—the changes to the world. What, in seven winters more, could dare to be unfurled? Think, Metachthonic, where does it end, the reach of 'lectric nets? Look at present, past, and future trend, and what they may beget.” Having spoke, she looked to the shimmering sky. She saw our past, present, future, and so did I. In the shower of ageless light, I understood. “Astronomer,” I began. But when my eyes fell from the sky, she was gone.
DEAD OF WINTER I: Spoke The Huntress “Hail, Metachthonic! You there! Chthonic human in this post-natural world. You stand in isolation from the verdant Gaian nation. All you! Welcome to Metachthonia! Thoughtbuilt walls hold you all. You’ve risen from the Earth long after it birthed the age where cold light Shines above sun-warmth. You stand in isolation from the verdant Gaian nation. Though stalwart, cold logic is not enough for the pyric human to thrive and burn. If in the valley of the spirit ice lies across the river, it’s never in breaking through the ice. It's in the burning of the brand —in the warming of the land—that ice will lift. All you! Welcome to Metachthonia! Those without fire have kept you from burning brighter. II: The Bone Hand At the black edge of defeat, shatter the bones of your adversary. And howl out to the glowing night; drink deep its immortality. Before we go into the ground—before the bone hand drags us in —seek the moments of euphoria, the fires that light the great hall of a life. Relentless pursuer of enigma, incessant as the snow that falls, stand, lungs aflame, over your prey. Drink deep of burning clarity. III: Topos, Mythos, Anthropos “Huntress! I feel so cold, so tired. I’ve always charged, I've never baulked. But now the summit seems so far. Huntress! Have you ever been, so cold and tired, like the dead of winter?” “Metachthonic, you are weathered, not broken. Be-cause it is dark will there never be light? Because it is cold will there never be warmth? It is not the dead of winter. It is the heart of winter. Know you not the land on which you tread? For, under the snow, a heart beats hard. Can you not see its image in the self? Run with me. We will hunt the spirit of the land. In the solar glow, we will hunt. Hunt with me where topos, mythos, anthropos* collide. Woven to our souls we take our prize. Hear its beating heart; see the ice lift off the river. Weave this tapestry to adorn the great hall of life. *topos - place, location (cf. toponym); mythos - story, myth, legend; anthropos - human being
HYPOCHTHONIC REMNANTS I: Subterranean Glastonbury shapings; Carnac arrangings. Hypochthonic remnants summon Metachthonic tenants*. Songs of ages past lived and died still neolithic. Lore of ages past has waited for years to come to you. Raknehaugen, Anundshög, draw you through temporal murk. Sub-terranean remnants summon post-terranean tenants. We souls of ages past, we’ll tear up the earth to get to you. Buried neath the megalithic, spirits of ages past: the slumbering to rise again. Post-terranean vastlands, the self in terms electrical. All voiceless aspirants who hope in hexadecimals. We are the hypochthonic; we will give you voice. To you, the innate electronic, to rise above the noise. II: Song of Chthonia “We are the air that wakes with the dawn. We are the fire that burns with the midday sun. We are the water that cools with the dusk. We are the earth that restores with the midnight calm.” The times change like the river flows by: swift and raging. Never aware where its hurried course lies, yet ever racing. To take the times wholesale is to be taken by the times; to take the past wholesale is to be left behind. To weigh the finest of past and present is to navigate the times. In any year, culture, clime; to navigate is to thrive. Sing, sing to the sky the dark song of Chthonia. Sing loud, sing to the times, a call through Metachthonia. I am the air; far I shall roam Under the sky in all of its shades. I am fire; long I shall burn To renew the self and temper the blade. I am water; clear I shall flow To cleanse the self of what sullies the times. I am the earth; firm I shall stand. Hold fast to what shines through from the past. III: At Odell’s Heart When you stand among the pine, You stand in a far-stretching line Of all who've stood in rapture here And all who shall in coming year. For in the wood you are the same As those to come and those who came To root themselves in rapture here And those who shall in coming year. To sit at Odell's heart and contemplate the times among the fallen hemlock that rampart on all sides. To sit at Odell's heart and contemplate what's mine; what's mine to give, receive, provide; what's owed me by the times; what the times should give, provide, for all beneath them to thrive—so we know, like each fleck of snow in the storm, none is alone in this plight. It's a grounding, among these electric times to reflect what the times have become. To shrug off the wires and, in cool cedar air, think with forgotten clarity. A grounding, among these electric times. Your feet to the earth and your mind to its calm. Your soul to all who have stood where you are—to feel in their bones how timelessness flows now in the air around you. *hypochthonic: subterranean
RIVERS OF UNDERTHOUGHT I: River With the fresh, fragrant air does the river course by, yet unaware where its hurried course lies. Driven by current, all- encompassing tow, life on the surface moved by what roils below. So as we wend through speech and encounter, the rivers of underthought carry us forward. Awareness can grasp the path left in its wake, but never the course that the current shall take. Brother of mine, when we meet, the gestures and tones rivers of underthought let fly from your bones. Sister of mine, when we hear the songwords and tones, rivers of underthought seep into our bones. II: Stream And so they connect us, what truly bind us all to one another. Streams unseen, under all thought, join like the reservoirs and tributaries — as seen from miles above the Earth, stretching into its curvature. Join like the great interconnection of all water, of all life. As the rivers of underthought flow to the sea, through deltas to oceans, lakes, and estuaries. From any of their seven billion sources. The latticework of human experience. III: Deluge How the torrents sometimes rage; how they sometimes wane to rivulet; how they sometimes freeze with the cold; how they sometimes build so strong, so relentless, so boundless as to swell and swell and burst the dam. As the white water roars into the valley below, this is how we change, how the valley of the spirit reshapes its face — renews, restores, returns us again to balance. So crash together, run together, rivers of underthought. Oh the deluge when we gather.
IN MIST WE WALK I: The Hammering The mountain looms in the clouds above. Although of the earth, it stands with the gods. It was so easy to stare at screen while all outside was in vibrant green. So I fed the mind while body withered away. Now I put one foot before the other and a journey begins. The hammering of my heart, the great flesh anvil. The same redfire heart with which this life is forged thunders with the thrill of the unknown path—Thor’s hammer pounding against my chest. The terror that succeeds the shapes/Surrounding in the forest mist./The air that fills with mythic taste/Which binds to me from heart to fist. And when I re-emerge and leave the fog with the trees the thoughts I’ve won are seared to me forevermore. The hammering of my heart, the great flesh anvil. The same redfire heart on which all myth is born flares at the distant scent of laurel wreaths, heaves at the sight of a newfound path—Lugh’s fire roaring within my chest. II: Vernal Rains Here sits our hundred ‘lectric years in the shadow of chthonic millennia. Is this progress? As we sit our waking hours in worship at diode altars. Diodes only displace darkness; they never illuminate. You! who would choose the dark so the sun might burn even brighter as it soars. You! who would lose the brightness of the diode to regain the night and its lore. Your season is nigh. I can feel it on the wind. I can smell the chthonic climes as the vernal rains begin. You! who would spend waking hours with life immense in passion, pulse, and power. You! who would walk through hexadecimal thunder with the will of the advancing hunter. Your season is nigh. I can feel it on the wind. I can smell the chthonic climes as the vernal rains begin. “Every age has them. Every age has those who learn to thrive like sovereigns. Who walk each step with the fire of life, aware some days burn brighter than others. Who learn the landscape of the time. Its hills, its valleys. Who learn to navigate it with precision. With passion. With pulse. With immensity of spirit.” III: Another Journey Begins I walk the banks of the stream of electric thought. I cross to the warmth of where I once was. I look down to see a sixfold flame in hand. Sing me the dark songs of Chthonia. Sing life immense in passion and pulse. I am the snow that falls: incessant, relentless, boundless. I am the rain that whips: raging, cleansing, cool. I am the sun that burns: awakened and scatt’ring the clouds. I am the heart that heaves: renewed, thundering. Sing me the dark songs of Chthonia. Sing me the song of Metachthonia. Sing me life immense in passion and pulse. I am the river that swells: incessant, relentless, boundless. I am the dam that bursts: raging, cleansing, cool. I am the stride ahead. I am the journey that begins. You! spiritwalker, igniter of the sixfold flame—you! who breathe the essence of fire and exhale the chant of life. You! Who rend the earth and snow beneath your feet as you hurl yourself through endless miles of trails—to the summit of your pursuits. In mist we walk through the lands of Metachthonia. From mist we emerge and build the fires of old Chthonia. And the fires burn bright, All across the earth, For any who wish to find them. For any who wish to find them. For the fires burn bright, All across the earth. One foot before the other, And another journey begins. In mist we walk, we sovereigns of old Chthonia. From mist we emerge, crowned sovereigns of Metachthonia. Rule on into the dusk.


(meh-tah-KTHOH-nee-ah) n. [< A.Grk meta- 'after' + chthoni- (stem of chthon 'earth' + -ios adj. suffix) + -a;]
1. the epoch after the age of the earth; this current electric age


released June 17, 2016

Guitars, vocals: Joel Violette
Drums: Rae Amitay (Immortal Bird)
Bass: Brendan Hayter (Obsidian Tongue)
Cello: Raphael Weinroth-Browne (The Visit)
Additional vocals on "Dead of Winter": Rae Amitay

All songs written by J Violette,
except Rivers of Underthought by Hayter/Violette.
All lyrics by J Violette.

Mixed and mastered by Siegfried Meier at Beach Road Studios/Beach Road Mastering.
Drums recorded at Bricktop Recording, Chicago.
Cellos recorded at Sackville Studios, Toronto.
Guitars and vocals recorded at Studio Jolheim, Fredericton.

Cover photo by Knate Myers.
Cover lettering by Adam Gillis.
Cover layout by Brett Goodchild.


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metal from the atlantic fog

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