Dead Melodies - Sylvan (2024)

Dead Melodies presents us the dark wooded album, Sylvan. A musical tale of mystical woodlands and tribal folk. Atmospheric post rock soundscapes, dark ambient-acoustic and organic sound design

In the realm of shadow and whisper existed a being known as Zephyra, a dark seraphim cloaked in obsidian feathers that absorbed the light around her. Zephyra was neither angel nor demon, but a mysterious force that governed the ebb and flow of human destiny.

Perched upon the edge of twilight, she observed the mortal realm with eyes that held the reflections of countless fates. Zephyra's existence was intertwined with the delicate balance of fortune and misfortune sometimes known as the symmetry of fate. She soared silently through the night, casting her shadowy wings over unsuspecting souls, unseen to the human eye for in the shadow realm she roamed.

Those who sensed her presence felt an inexplicable chill, as if destiny itself whispered through the rustle of her wings. Zephyra's touch could bring either blessings or curses, her choices veiled in the mysteries of patterns unknown.

In the villages nestled between the ancient forests and forgotten whispers, tales of the enigmatic dark seraphim were entwined in ancestral legends. Some believed her to be a harbinger of doom, while others saw her as a celestial guardian watching over the threads of their lives.

Out of both fear and gratitude for her guardianship, villagers furnished shrines with offerings hopeful for safe passage through their years, though the younger generation believed themselves wiser than telltale myth and made no sacrifice, and disdain for this apparent godlike being grew, instilling anger towards her mystic reign.

At the end of the forest valley stood a knoll, and upon it a tree. Said to be millennia old and her place of rest, its ancient gnarled and knotted boughs imposed a daunting silhouette as if an extension of the seraphim's unnatural rule. Its roots elaborately weaving in and out swallowing up the earth like a spider's web encases its prey. And at the base of the knoll, the long reaching roots had shaped in such a way that an altar had formed; its top perfectly flat and crimson stained, testament to the sacrificial offerings the village elders thought to appease Zephyra's will.

The opposing views amongst the young had led to angry mobs taking the tree by storm to cut it down and rid the people of the seraphim's grip with the tree seen as her stronghold. But, for as the elders had long told, those who sharpen their axes will drown in blood, for iron and ore will anger the beast, and to her, the price ye shall pay. These old sayings did not scare the young mobs, as try they did, but each attempt to sever its lifeblood failed for the ancient roots and branch were impenetrable, and after each misadventure a mysterious and horrifying death was bestowed upon the village the following day. Iron for an eye, the elders always said and, with time, living in the shadow of fear and hope again became the norm.

But one moonlit eve, a humble artist named Elara sought guidance from the elusive seraphim with an offering not of blood nor plant, but of a painting of the ancient tree upon the knoll. Intrigued by her sincerity, Zephyra materialised before her, wings casting a shadow over the moonlit path. Elara hesitated but then asked the seraphim to reveal her destiny.

Zephyra, with a voice that echoed through the ages, spoke of intertwined paths and choices. She bestowed upon Elara the gift of foresight, allowing her to paint visions of both joy and sorrow. Elara's artwork became a reflection of the delicate dance between light and darkness, capturing the essence of the human experience.

As tales of Zephyra's gift spread, the villagers embraced the seraphim's presence, understanding that life's tapestry was woven with threads of both shadow and light. Zephyra continued her silent vigil, overseeing the fortunes and misfortunes of those whose lives she touched, a mysterious guardian in the realm between dusk and dawn. With her earthly messenger, Elara said to paint a picture a day that told the fortunes, or lack-of them to come to pass at next sun.

And the tree upon the knoll stood strong under the watch of the village elders and never again was an axe raised, nor was blood spilled in the name of Zephyra.