A heavy breeze of sourness and harshness entangles the senses, leaving a muddy blood tasting and a sulphuric itch, once the reddish hinges shriek. Advices and warnings about the convenience of letting certain things to rest without disturbance for the aeons to come, is certainly a rule meant to be broken, be either by the fool of the brave ones. And like the flock of bats that found their way through the open gates flowing with untidily violence, following the flap of their wings an even louder sound emerges from the depths: the chants of the elder ones and their atrocities, for generations committed nether in the blackness of their unapproachable underground. And theirs is the belief of the nefarious, silently but widely called Deathcult. Based not only on the principles of death and its mysteries, but in the whole spectrum of everything that is pernicious and fierce. And when unleashed, far away from fading away, the murmur will last and stay as certainly as the day o reckoning will reach us all.