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Track 02: The Alchemist's Postulate
Genre: Baroque Progressive Rock
Duration: 03:29.0 Lore Source: "The Alchemist's Theories I" (Journal) In-Game Author: Balthazar Wiki Link: Click Here to Read Lore Tenth Rune drops the folk facade for a dive into Baroque Progressive Rock. This track is a manic descent into madness, driven by a frantic harpsichord and heavy bass. The "Movement III: The Well of Woe" section is particularly crushing, capturing the horror of an elixir "made of blood." |
~*~ Song Lyrics ~*~
Pure light engulfs the knowledge of the breed.
A flaming core, a wise and ancient seed.
I stare into the fire for hours on end...
Seeking a whisper. Seeking a friend.
But the voice is for the Flameborn, not for me.
We could have had such... enlightened conversation.
A missed opportunity for the nation.
A rather land, I might admit.
I found the Shrine... but now I sit.
Atop the cliff, amidst the caves.
...Also, how does one get down from here?
The Spires stretch to the firmament!
Denying entry! No consent!
I have two theories, if you catch my drift:
Theory One! A travel rift!
The silent ones move through the stone.
Theory Two! A burial throne!
They store their mind within the light
Before they fade into the night.
I step upon the ornate plate.
Nothing occurs. I accept my fate.
Unworthy.
Now look to the earth, where the workers slave.
Gouging a tunnel. Digging a grave.
The chasm spits fumes with every jab.
A formula birthed in an otherworldly lab.
From the flesh of the fungi! Deep beneath the mud!
It isn't made of water... it is made of blood.
I look at the flask and my heart is filled with dread!
Sophistication that will leave us dead!
It grants you power! It grants you breath!
But it smells like ruin! It smells like death!
This will never be a cure.
No, no. This will always...
be a weapon.
A flaming core, a wise and ancient seed.
I stare into the fire for hours on end...
Seeking a whisper. Seeking a friend.
But the voice is for the Flameborn, not for me.
We could have had such... enlightened conversation.
A missed opportunity for the nation.
A rather land, I might admit.
I found the Shrine... but now I sit.
Atop the cliff, amidst the caves.
...Also, how does one get down from here?
The Spires stretch to the firmament!
Denying entry! No consent!
I have two theories, if you catch my drift:
Theory One! A travel rift!
The silent ones move through the stone.
Theory Two! A burial throne!
They store their mind within the light
Before they fade into the night.
I step upon the ornate plate.
Nothing occurs. I accept my fate.
Unworthy.
Now look to the earth, where the workers slave.
Gouging a tunnel. Digging a grave.
The chasm spits fumes with every jab.
A formula birthed in an otherworldly lab.
From the flesh of the fungi! Deep beneath the mud!
It isn't made of water... it is made of blood.
I look at the flask and my heart is filled with dread!
Sophistication that will leave us dead!
It grants you power! It grants you breath!
But it smells like ruin! It smells like death!
This will never be a cure.
No, no. This will always...
be a weapon.