A hip-hop EP based on retrofuturistic SF/fantasy indie roguelike Caves of Qud.
You may wish to listen to these songs as a YouTube playlist.
Cover art by Jack Dunne: IG: @jackdunne_art.
Far from the toxic arboreta of his home arcology, a rare unmutated human advertises his mastery of Qud's many hazards through an artform whose lineage, they say, can be traced back to the days of the Eaters: a long series of exaggerated boasts set to a strict rhythm and meter, accompanied by unearthly noises generated by technology whose mathematical simplicity is belied by the complexity of its results. Did he secure musical assistance from the Barathrumites? Or are his claims of robotic collaborators more than facetious braggadocio? The martial training of his homeland is evident in his motions. What syzygy is brought about by blade and axe? By wit and insult? Can a song be dismissed as a mere "ego trip" in a world where the psychic weight of Ego can distort reality itself?
MP3: Seventh Sultan
Art: higher-res image
I looked into a mirror yesterday, and did not recognize the face that looked back. It was my own: my face, my hair, my eyes, my smile, my zanshin, my savoire faire, my sprezzatura, my tastes and philosophy and memories and habits and foibles. And it was the face of a stranger. Strange to think that I have become enemy to myself, a sling bullet launched through time to strike myself in the skull, a dagger to pierce the heart of identity and leave it jetting blood that paints the answer to the ancient question who am I? Who am I? Who is he? He is the one who took everything from me, even myself.
MP3: Evil Twin
Art: higher-res image
These ovens, coolers, pantries, cooktops, sinks, grills, racks, and salamanders were built on the tombstones of water barons who dreamed once of conquest and now sleep without dreams. One baron remains. Her dream was the strongest, and it has come true. What challenger can step into Kitchen Heptagon without fear? Without doubt? Without a moment of reflection on the evanescence of glory, which fades as quickly as dry ice sublimes; of life, whose heat fades no more slowly from a corpse than from a casserole? This question is not rhetorical. The answer is about to arrive.
MP3: Carbide Chef
Art: higher-res image
From Joppa, bear ten points left of the Spindle and go seven parasangs as the glowcrow flies—or pick up the road outside the ancient ruin of Third Alawar—and you will find the village of Tagaruk nestled amid the rocky hills somewhere between Red Rock and the Rusted Archway. A peaceful place; no more than a few tents of sundried and rack-stretched croc leather slung over dogthorn lattices, but peaceful, though everyone there carried a dagger. I tasted their local specialty, hot from the clay oven, and I was transported. When I found my way back, I asked their mayor to tell me more about the village, and this is what he said.
MP3: Tagaruk
Art: higher-res image
I was sent to Red Rock without no warning of its dangers. Seasoned wanderers warned me that this simple quest was a trap; no matter. I sprang the trap and devoured its bait. To Golgotha I was sent, with only a vague warning of disease; I drank flaming ichor from a vessel of aluminum to burn that disease from my tongue. To Bethesda Susa they sent me, hinting that I might watch out for trolls; my armor still bears the marks of axe and frost, my bootsoles still glow blue, but their skulls are laced through with pinpoint holes. I seek fresh chaos; I will break the rules; I will break the world. The only decision that troubles me is which trophies to carry away and which will rust.
MP3: Ruin
"What you understood to be the psychic sea was a only a pond. There are other watchers now, countless in number, beyond the gulf of materiality. Points light glimmer in all directions, but what are directions on a space that cannot be ordered? All you know now is of an aether vaster than the very mathematics that describe it. And you are not nor will you ever be again alone."
MP3: Glimmer
