
They do not arrive like an army. They arrive like a funeral march you hear before you understand that it is already too late. The Dirgeweavers are an ancient band of spacefaring musicians for whom the stage is not a place to perform, but an altar. Their concerts are not meant to entertain. They break will and harvest souls as tribute for the right to breathe in time with their rhythm.
Their home is a splintered meteor turned into a refuge for renegades, heretics, and creatures of every kind. In its cracks live slave markets, underground temples, and workshops where instruments are made from flesh and loyalty is made from fear. Here they recruit new servants, melt captives into the lineup, and prepare the next galactic revel, after which entire stations wake with no memory and no future.
Lineup
Morrow Kain is the drummer and a master of flesh. A cruel surgeon and a bone mechanic. His drum kit is alive, literally. The bones and skin of victims have been awakened and condemned to feel. Every strike of his sticks is not just a sound but a fit of pain that crawls through the venue like an infection. The crowd catches the beat, and with it, the agony of someone else, turned into music.
Riven Grist is the bassist, stitched together from the parts of captive enemies and those who once left the band the wrong way. A monstrous corpse eater and cannibal whose task is to keep everyone on the same frequency. His repeating chords are a chain. He tunes the group and the audience into a single pulse where individuality is erased, leaving only a shared hunger and a shared step.
Vexa Vhal is the lead guitarist, once the mistress of her own cabal and a notorious raider. She traded blunt conquest for something sweeter. To subdue with words and music proved more satisfying than blood. She belongs at the center of attention, and her solos tear ovations from the hall. Sometimes she cuts in where only the frontwoman’s voice was meant to be, out of spite, to tease the crowd and remind everyone that in this pack there is someone already measuring the crown for fit.
Seraphyne Sable Hymn is the frontwoman and the bond that holds them together. An explosion, a scream, a strategist of notes. For the others it is ego and amusement. For her it is faith and craft. She made a bargain with a powerful demon. Eternal youth and power in exchange for the souls she bends beneath her songs. The musicians around her change, the lineup is melted down and rots, but she remains the same, always young, always ready for an endless tour through other peoples’ civilizations.
Now
Recently, enchanting demonic dancers have been seen near the meteor. Too quiet, too beautiful, too close. This is not coincidence and not a touring curiosity. This is a hunt. And the Dirgeweavers, sensing a rival, turned to their ancient patron, a seductive lady who aids them in exchange for souls and living stock.
Because against those who enslave through movement, you need a force that can tear enchantment apart with sound. And if the demonesses build their stage from silk and a glance, the Dirgeweavers build theirs from bone, pain, and a chorus after which you no longer remember who you were. Only to whom you owe your next breath.
Sculptor: Stepan Kotlyarov
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