| Panitaeo |
Alright. So check this.
You're a soldier. You're in a squad. You have a captain. These are the people you trust with your life and the people who trust you with theirs.
You enjoy war. You enjoy the fighting, the killing and risk of being killed.
You also sing. Not the beautiful, lilting elf crap. To hell with melodic. No, you growl. You scream. You shriek as you cleave through your enemies with two war axes, blood dripping down your face.
Your brothers-in-arms enjoy it too. It gets them in the spirit. Sometimes they headbang with you.
The problem with war is that people die. Mostly your enemies, but sometimes it's your captain. The blow is devastating. As he drops to the ground and life drains from his body, it also drains from your spirits. You're surrounded now. You all are, and muscle memory is the only thing keeping you alive.
Tears gather in the corners of your eyes as rage, despair and confusion overwhelm you, and you roar. Thunder booms from your throat. It rips through the bones of your foes, pushing some of them away. You laugh as you see them cry out in pain. You laugh even harder when two realizations tear through your soul: you are a madman, and you can control reality.
Your face contorts into a wicked, vicious grin. The air is filled with the sounds of slamming drum and screaming guitar.
The butt of a sword slams into your face. Blood and teeth fly from your broken lips. Your head turns and you focus your wrath. Cruel, torturous verse bores into the mind of the sword's owner like a rusted drill. They slump to the ground in agony, their mind broken.
A splatter of blood stains the sky as you slam two axes into the slag.
You stand and survey the battlefield. You see them. Reinforcements. They heard you. Your eyes and focus lock with the captain's. Everyone and everything else fades. For the briefest moment, he feels what you feel. He hears what you hear. He sees what you have seen, and his eyes become lit with fire.
It's contagious, spreading through his troops like the plague. They charge into the melee with the flashing of blade, the crushing of bones and slashing of flesh, tearing muscle, and severed limbs fills your vision in a shimmering haze of red mist.
The fury slowly leaves you.
The battle is over.
A few weeks later a messenger arrives at your camp. A few drinks, good stories and conversation later, it's only you and the messenger sitting in front of the fire.
He pulls a zither from behind his back. As he tunes in, he looks up at you with the grin of a cat with a canary in sight. He says, "So. I hear you like metal."
Years later, under loose tutorship of the messenger, your performances are told as legend. Stories of a murderous lunatic who can kill you with but one word. Stories about the man possessed by the spirit of war, blasting his enemies away like flies, whose song can fill a person with bloodlust. No matter how the stories are told, he is always called by one name: Deathcore.