*(The cave's low lights flicker like jack-o'-lantern grins, heated floor pulsing with an undercurrent of mischief as the hangout crowd stirs with whispers of the coming night. Static crackles with a playful chill, low bass rumbling like distant thunder. Lunatic's voice rolls in, bardic and booming, laced with a wicked edge.)*
"This is Lunatic the Empath, broadcastin' live from the shadowy heart of the Cave Studio—New Break Radio Podcast, where the records spin eternal and the dances chase the void. October 11, 2025, and the air's thick with omens, kin—the steel walls 'round our hearts are creakin', monsters peekin' from the four dimensions' edge. But fear not the carve; we're turnin' the dark to delight! Mark your calendars for October 31—All Hallows' Eve in the cave for the *Monsters Mash*!
Join us here in the depths, where the river rock floor's heated glow wards off the frost, and the forever flame dances wild on methane's breath. We'll be joined by the dancers in full costume—shadow beasts, locust-winged specters, two-wolf hybrids prowlin' the gloom, Father's judgment robes flowin' like mist. They'll whirl and stomp, makin' you see the music in their spins: demons dancin' away the plagues, void's why twistin' into why not? Costumes mandatory, souls optional—bring your inner monster, stay true to the bone.
And oh, the blessing: a new artist slinks from the ether—Reaper, the hooded harbinger with a scythe-sharp voice and strings tuned to the grave. Debutin' his single *Death* live on the heated stones, a doom-folk dirge heavy on 3-string wails and bass that drags you under. It's the void's sequel: steel walls crumblin' under death's knock, no love for monsters but a twisted embrace, Father's walk leadin' to Mother's final sigh. Why? 'Cause in the mash, we laugh at the carve—dance the demons till dawn breaks the hush.
Tune in for the podcast special: 'Monsters Mash Mayhem'—live spins, bardic tales of the Door's demons, and Reaper's drop echoin' through the four. Doors crack open at dusk, October 31—shoeless feet only, sacred spring punch flowin' free. New Break Radio Podcast: where the darkness howls, but we dance it down. Don't miss the mash; your demons are waitin'!"
*(Broadcast fades with eerie 3-string plucks and crowd howls, the heated floor's warmth teasing the coming chill.)*
If the mash calls your monster, howl back—costume ideas? Demon dances? The cave's gearin' up; what's risin' fro*(The cave's heated floor hums with a restless warmth, river rocks cradling the shuffle of shoeless feet as the hangout crowd leans in, low lights casting elongated shadows like fingers reaching for the sundown horizon. Static whispers in like a conspirator's breath, the forever flame sputtering low on methane's sigh. The Empath's voice—yours, resonant and woven with the saga's threads—fades in, then merges seamlessly with Lunatic's gravelly echo, a dual howl from the void's edge.)*
"Ah, kin, this is the Empath speakin' through the veil, remindin' you of the night that beckons—Halloween's Monsters Mash, October 31 in the Cave Studio's depths. Sundown cracks the sky open, and with it drops Reaper's single *Death*: a scythe-swingin' dirge on 3-string grave strings and bass that drags souls under. Dancers in monstrous guise—locust masks, wolf-pelt shrouds, steel-heart armor—will whirl the demons away, turnin' the carve into a carnival of release. No love for monsters? We'll love 'em fierce that night, dancin' the why into wild abandon. Doors yawn at dusk; bring your shadows, leave your fears at the heated stones.
But for now, as the sun clings greedy to the ridge, we've got a bridge from the daylight's drag—a fresh LP unearthed by one of our dancers, Shadow Weaver. She glided in veiled in twilight silk, arms laden with this relic: *Whispers from the Iron Veil* by the Forgotten Forge Collective, a doom-folk double-disc pressed in '73, grooves etched like runes on rusted plates. Brought from her attic crypt, it's pure void vintage—low-tuned acoustics scrapin' like Bonehead's 3-string kin, tales of steel walls cracklin' under inner siege. We're spinnin' Side A live on the podcast: 'Carve of the Unseen,' a track that picks up the darkness, questionin' the why with harmonica ghosts and a bass drone that vibrates straight to the bone.
[Vinyl needle drops—crackle blooms into a slow, twanging riff, vocals like wind through chain-link, the crowd swaying in hushed trance.]
Shadow Weaver's gift hits the heated floor: 'In the iron veil, the heart hides its scar / Darkness knocks soft, but the why goes far / Stay true to the ache, let the monsters spar / No light for the lost, just the endless jar...' Feel it? The dancers are risin' slow, silhouettes twistin' like smoke—see the music in their veiled spins, arms carvin' air as if strikin' their own steel walls. This LP's the prelude to Reaper's drop, massagin' the soul with pre-Halloween chill.
New Break Radio Podcast: 'Veils and Voids' episode streams now—tales of the Door's demons, live spins, and a bardic riff on Father's walk through the monsters' mash. Sundown on the 31st waits hungry; till then, let Shadow Weaver's whispers carve you true. Howl your remembrances, kin—what demon you dancin' away?"
*(Podcast fades with the LP's trailing drone, static warming like a distant flame, the cave's hum inviting the next shadow.)*
If this veil tugs at your steel, drop your LP tale or costume curse—the hangout's breathin' for the mash. What's whisperin'*(Sundown bleeds crimson through the cave's jagged mouth, casting the heated river rock floor in a ruddy haze as shadows swallow the hangout whole. The forever flame gutters low on methane's whisper, low lights dimmed to embers, costumes rustling like dry leaves—locust-veiled dancers, wolf-masked wanderers, steel-heart specters frozen mid-spin. Static hisses like a held breath, the crowd's murmurs dying to reverence as the air thickens with the scent of sacred spring and scorched earth. The Empath's voice—yours, woven with the veil's chill—merges into the broadcast, Lunatic's echo a gravelly undertone, as if the cave itself intones the rite.)*
"Ah, kin, sundown claims the ridge at last—October 31, 2025, the Monsters Mash awakens in the Cave Studio's throat. The dancers' whirl slows to a hush, costumes cloakin' the four dimensions in disguise: quantum ghosts in tattered shrouds, present beasts with ember eyes, depth's demons clawin' at the warm stones. We've danced the plagues away, laughed at the void's why—but now, the true reaper rises. Folks, Reaper steps from the black, not alone, but joined by the Dark Monks of Black Tower: hooded figures from the saga's shadowed spires, voices like wind through bone flutes, chantin' the ancient dirge. No instruments tonight—just raw throat and breath, a cappella thunder rollin' from the gut. Reaper tells us 'bout Death: it comes with a touch from a reaper, subtle as Father's walk in the three days' silence. Reapers? They're us, kin—humans pawns in Death's grand design, tools unknowin', carvin' the steel wall wider with every unwitting stroke. No love for monsters, but Death loves 'em all the same.
Podcast live: 'Reaper's Touch' episode captures it raw—the monks' low chant buildin' like the Door's yawn, Reaper's spoken-sung tale slicin' through. Feel the touch in your veins, dancers; see it in the shadows' sway. The mash howls on—join the rite, or let the void claim your step."
---
**Death**
*(By Reaper, feat. The Dark Monks of Black Tower – A Cappella Doom Chant, Performed Live at Monsters Mash, Sundown Ritual Mix)*
*Intro (Monks' Chant: Low, droning hum building in unison, layered voices like wind through a crypt—repetitive, guttural vocables echoing off heated stones)*
*(Monks, in rumbling harmony)* Om... brah... mara... siddhi... hum...
*(Rising, circling)* Death... touch... reaper... design...
Om... brah... mara... siddhi... hum...
*(Reaper's Voice: Spoken-sung, a hollow rasp cutting the chant like a scythe through fog, slow and deliberate, crowd swaying in shadowed trance)*
Sundown calls the hooded kin, Black Tower's monks in silence spin.
No strings, no drum—just breath and bone,
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
We chant the veil where the lost are thrown.
Death comes soft, with a reaper's hand,
Humans bent to its command.
*Verse 1 (Monks weave under Reaper's tale, chant swelling like a gathering storm)*
*(Monks)* Om... touch... carve... void... hum...
*(Reaper)* Reapers walk among the light, unknowin' tools in endless night.
Humans forged for Death's cold art, steel wall 'round a beatin' heart.
We touch the fevered, the frail, the frayed,
Design unfolds in the bed we made.
Why? The void's eternal jest,
No love for us, the unblessed.
*(Monks, crescendo)* Brah... mara... reaper... claim... siddhi... hum!
*Chorus (Full Monks' Chant: Thunderous, overlapping waves crashing against Reaper's lead—crowd echoes faintly, toes gripping warm rocks)*
*(Monks & Reaper, in ritual call-response)*
Death comes with a touch! *(Monks: Touch... carve...)*
From a reaper's hand, unseen clutch! *(Monks: Unseen... design...)*
Humans used, never to know, *(Monks: Never... know...)*
Father's walk in the silence's glow. *(Monks: Silence... judgment... hum!)*
Two worlds divide at the scythe's edge, *(Monks: Divide... edge...)*
Monsters fall from the final ledge. *(Monks: Fall... void...)*
No love, no light—only the end! *(All: Om... brah... mara... siddhi... hum!)*
*Verse 2 (Chant quiets to whispers, Reaper's rasp growing intimate, like a confession in the low lights)*
*(Monks, soft undertone)* Mara... siddhi... whisper... hum...
*(Reaper)* We sip the spring, feel Mother's sigh,
But Death's design paints the how and why.
Reapers like me, pawns in the game,
Touch a fever, whisper a name—
The steel wall cracks, pain carves through,
Unknowin' we serve, the dark accrue.
Locusts fade, but the touch remains,
Plagues' echo in our hidden chains.
*(Monks, building again)* Brah... touch... human... pawn... siddhi... hum!
*Chorus (Even darker swell, monks' voices fracturing like cracking earth, dancers' shadows elongating in ritual sway)*
*(Monks & Reaper)*
Death comes with a touch! *(Monks: Touch... carve...)*
From a reaper's hand, unseen clutch! *(Monks: Unseen... design...)*
Humans used, never to know, *(Monks: Never... know...)*
Father's walk in the silence's glow. *(Monks: Silence... judgment... hum!)*
Two worlds divide at the scythe's edge, *(Monks: Divide... edge...)*
Monsters fall from the final ledge. *(Monks: Fall... void...)*
No love, no light—only the end! *(All: Om... brah... mara... siddhi... hum!)*
*Bridge (Monks solo: A cappella drone rising to a wail, evoking the three days' hush broken by scythe-song; Reaper joins in layered whispers)*
*(Monks, escalating)* Om... brah... mara... (echo: mara...) siddhi... (echo: siddhi...) hum... (echo: hum...)
*(Reaper, overlapping)* Stay true to the touch, embrace the carve...
Reapers unknowin', Death's hidden starv...
Void's why unanswered, in the four we drown...
Monsters we touch, wearin' the crown.
*(Monks peak, then hush)* Siddhi... hum... death... touch...
*Outro (Chant fades to a single, resonant hum, Reaper's final rasp trailing like smoke; crowd exhales in unison, costumes rustling as dances resume slow and spectral)*
*(Reaper, whispered over dying hum)* Sundown's rite is done, but the touch lingers on...
Reapers among you, in the mash we spawn.
No instruments, just the soul's dark song—
Death's design, where we all belong.
*(Monks, final echo)* Om... hum... death... comes...
---
**Notes on the Performance**:
- **A Cappella Doom Chant Style**: Pure vocal ritual—no instruments, just Reaper's scythe-sharp rasp and the Monks' layered, guttural chants inspired by Tibetan throat-singing meets Gregorian dirge. Vocables ("Om... brah... mara... siddhi... hum") evoke ancient invocations, building tension like the Door's pulse.
- **Themes**: "Death comes with a touch from a reaper"—subtle, inevitable; "Reapers are humans used by Death for its design, reapers never know"—unwitting agents in the saga's cosmic carve, tying to void's why, steel walls, Father's unknowable judgment, and monsters' isolation. Dances visualize it: touches in mock-reaps, shadows fleeing the "touch."
- **Monsters Mash Vibe**: Sundown rite at peak—low lights to blood-red glow, heated floor a ironic warmth against the chill; dancers in costume resume, "reaping" each other in playful horror, sacred spring spiked with "void elixir." Podcast captures the raw audio: breaths, echoes, crowd shivers. Runtime: ~6:00, for trance immersion.
*(Podcast crackles with fading chants, the mash erupting in spectral cheers—demons danced away, but the touch... it lingers. Static warms, inviting the night's deeper whirl.)*
The rite's etched in the stones, kin—Reaper's touch felt? Howl your de*(The cave’s low lights are still smoldering from Reaper’s ritual, but the heated floor suddenly pulses hotter, like the river rocks themselves are blushing. A single red lantern flares to life over the turntable. The Empath steps back into the circle, voice low and velvet, the crowd parting like smoke. Bass speakers rumble awake, a slow, syrupy heartbeat that makes every ribcage vibrate.)*
"This is the Empath, back from the void with a late-night medicine for the Monsters Mash after-hours.
The demons been danced out, the reapers gone quiet… now it’s time to stroke the soul raw.
Droppin’ a brand-new beat cooked fresh in the cave’s womb.
Title: **Passion**
Main instrument: one filthy, sub-low bass, finger-style, no picks, no mercy.
Slow, wet, deliberate, like midnight fingers down your spine.
No drums, no melody, just bass and breath… and the truth that lives between heartbeats.
Light the red lantern, kill the rest.
Let the bass massage what Reaper only carved."
**Passion**
*(Live one-take, bass-only, recorded shoeless on the heated river rock floor)*
*(Low bass note blooms, 32 Hz, felt in the sternum more than heard)*
Mmmm… feel that?
That’s the first stroke… slow… right at the base of the soul.
*(Fingers slide, string bends, warm tube distortion purrs)*
Passion ain’t loud, cats…
Passion is pressure…
A thumbprint on the throat of desire…
A growl that starts in the gut and ends between somebody’s thighs.
*(Bass walks lower, notes dripping like honey off the edge of the world)*
This one’s for the monsters who finally took the mask off…
For the wolves that chose the good one tonight…
For the reapers who laid the scythe down and remembered skin.
*(Harmonic slap, string pops like a heartbeat skipping)*
Stroke…
Release…
Stroke…
Hold…
*(Sub-bass drops even deeper, cave walls vibrate, costumes rustle as bodies sway unconsciously)*
Passion don’t ask permission.
Passion don’t say please.
Passion just…
…touches.
And everything that was steel around your heart starts to melt.
*(Final note sustains, feedback howls soft, then silence… only the low throb of the heated floor remains)*
That was **Passion**.
One bass.
One take.
All soul.
Monsters Mash after-hours is officially baptized in sweat and sub frequencies.
Stay close to the red light, cats… the night’s still young, and the bass ain’t done strokin’.
New Break Radio Podcast, live from the cave that never sleep*(The cave's heated floor cools to a brooding warmth, river rocks absorbing the last embers of the Monsters Mash as December's chill creeps in despite the methane flame. Low lights dim to near-black, only a single crimson lantern glowing like beast eyes in the void. The hangout crowd sits in a tight circle, costumes shed to raw skin, breaths syncing in hushed anticipation. Static hums low, then dissolves into the Dark Monks' return—hooded silhouettes from Black Tower filing in silent, throats already vibrating with a subsonic drone that rattles bones more than ears. Lunatic the Empath steps center, voice a hollow rasp, eyes reflecting the lantern's red like twin voids staring back.)*
"Lunatic the Empath here, kin—December 23, 2025, and the cave's gone colder than the void outside. The mash is memory now, demons danced to dust... but one lingers. Tonight, no bass, no strings—just my voice and the Dark Monks of Black Tower hummin' the low abyss behind me. A new song rises from the saga's deepest carve: **Beast in the Void**.
Turn to the darkness.
Let the monks' hum pull you in.
Feel the beast eyes starin' back—yellow slits in the black, unblinking, ancient.
Fear floods first.
Fight surges next.
Survival screams loudest.
But the question hangs sharper than any claw:
Will your mind adapt... or die?
Podcast live—'Eyes of the Abyss' episode. No light but the red. Breathe slow. The beast is watchin'."
**Beast in the Void**
*(By Lunatic the Empath feat. The Dark Monks of Black Tower – A Cappella Dread Chant, Live in Near-Darkness, December Ritual Mix)*
*(Monks begin: a single, endless low hum—subharmonic, chest-rattling, like the earth's own growl from beneath the heated floor. Layers build slowly, throats vibrating in perfect dissonance, evoking the void's infinite hunger.)*
*(Monks' background hum throughout: Oooommm... braaaahhh... void... eyes... hum... never breaking, rising and falling like breath in the dark)*
*(Lunatic's voice: spoken-sung, intimate at first, growing feral)*
Turn to the darkness...
Let it swallow the light.
Feel the hum crawl up your spine—
That's the void breathin' tonight.
Deep in the black, two eyes ignite...
Yellow slits, ancient, wise,
Starin' back from the endless night.
Beast eyes.
Your eyes.
One and the same.
*(Monks swell: braaaahhh... beast... stare... hum...)*
Fear kicks first—heart hammers the cage,
Cold sweat beads, legs beg to flee the stage.
Fight rises second—fists clench, teeth bare,
Adrenaline roars, "I'll kill what's there!"
Survival screams third—primal, raw, blind,
Every nerve wired to leave the beast behind.
But the eyes don't blink.
They wait.
They know.
*(Monks deeper, almost infrasound: void... adapt... die... hum...)*
The beast ain't out there—
It's in here.
Steel wall 'round the heart?
It built the lair.
Father walked silent in judgment's three days...
Now the beast walks louder in your mind's maze.
No love for monsters?
This one's yours to claim.
Will your mind adapt—
Bend like reed in the storm,
Learn the beast's language,
Wear its form?
Or will it die—
Shatter clean under the stare,
Soul fragments scattered
In the void's cold air?
*(Monks crescendo: braaaahhh... eyes... adapt... die... hum... peaking, then sudden drop to whisper-drone)*
Look closer, kin...
The beast smiles slow.
It knows your name.
It always did.
Fear.
Fight.
Survival.
Adapt...
or die.
*(Monks hold the final hum—long, unrelenting—until it fades into the cave's natural silence. A single drip from the river echoes like a heartbeat stopping. Lunatic exhales, the crimson lantern flares once, then dims.)*
The beast is still watchin'.
Question is...
are you?
New Break Radio Podcast—live from the void that stares back.
No more words tonight.
Just the hum... and whatever answers back from inside you.
*(Silence lingers. The heated floor feels colder now. The monks depart without a sound. The hangout sits frozen, eyes wide in the dark, waiting to see who adapts... and who breaks.)*s.
We out here lovin’ the dark till it loves us back.mon's name, or spin a post-mash record. The cave breathes; what's risin' from your sundown? in your void?m your void?