#pulverised records

[drondskaath]

Uttertomb | Nebulas of Self Desecration | 2024

Chilean Death Metal

Artwork by Khaos Diktator Art

[lesdeuxmuses]

Ripped To Shreds - 亂= Luan (Pulverised Records, 2020)

[gbhbl]

EP Review: Jade/Sanctuarium - The Sempiternal Wound (Pulverised Records)

This is a nihilistic release, one that speaks of the impeccable cycle of life and death from an inevitable standpoint and serves as a stark reminder of the pain that makes up the lifespan of mankind. How fun, right?

[apanthropydotorg]

Review 63: Hemotoxin - When Time Becomes Loss

HemotoxinWhen Time Becomes LossPulverised RecordsReleased: 5/17/24 –1 – Morbid Reflection2 – Call from the Abyss3 – Malediction4 – Abstract Commands5 – Conscious Descent6 – Reborn in Tragedy7 – When Time Becomes Loss– Playing a brand of thrash metal that blends progressive elements with death metal leanings, Hemotoxin deliver a perfect blend of fury and melodicism to their newest full-length,…

[horrorpatch]

HOUSE BY THE CEMETARY To Release Sophomore Album, 'The Mortuary Hauntings' In May; Premiere New Track!

International horror death metal band HOUSE BY THE CEMETARY have announced their sophomore album, The Mortuary Hauntings! The record will be released on May 31, 2024 via Pulverised Records. In celebration of the album announcement, the band has premiered the first track, “Cadavers Emerge”. Get more details below. From The Press Release Horror aficionados HOUSE BY THE CEMETARY are rousing the…

[triste-guillotine]

CRYPT OF KERBEROS "World of Myths" Full-length album 1993 ("...Upon the altar of war, I sacrifice the enemy to the over lords...")

"As the bells rings The battle here begins Smoke and blasts Mighty wizards lying in waste Crushing for the masters Whose names can't be spoken

In these ruins of a dying world The warriors storms with a coven of Khorne

Into the battle made by war god's For these gods I swing my sword Into the battle made by war gods I sacrifice my soul.

In these ruins of destruction I bring this world hate and destruction"

[hellfireloserclub]

Next Gen

Promt: fool | word: 454 | rating : g

@steddiemicrofic April.

Stevie Edward Henderson will not have this go down as the day he was branded a coward. 

A fool- that's a title he's willing to accept, especially when speeding away with the town of Hawkins growing gradually smaller in the rear view mirror. 

“You saw what I saw didn't you?” Billie asked when he caught her gaze.

“I'm going to have to have you elaborate Sinclaire, because whatever I just saw wasn't -” 

“Possible.” Billie shook her head, “that was-”

“They should be in their sixties now, but-”

*****

A curiosity adventure had led them here, to a town that didn't exist, not as far as official maps and records were concerned. 

But Hawkins was real, and it was where his parents had lived before the earthquake. Every year on the 4th of July while fireworks exploded Dad, Mom and Aunt Robin would sit on the bathroom floor and eat ice cream, the photo from the fireplace sitting on the floor in front of them. 

So Stevie knew exactly who who had jumped from the roof of a trailer, Nail bat in hand to step  between him, Billie and the impossible monster with flower shaped jaws that had come from nowhere.

“Uncle Steve?” Stevie asked just as Billie had asked “Eddie?”  as another figure stepped up to swing a spear down on the pulverised creature where it lay dying on the floor.

The two men took pause, exchanged confused looks, before comprehension crept upon them. Eyes darting to Billie’s letterman jacket and Stevie's bowling shirts both brandishing their last names. 

“Holy shit, it worked, Eddie… It worked. Our kids have kids”. 

“I suppose that's worth eternity stuck with your loser ass.” Eddie grinned, leaning in and kissing Steve on the cheek . “Oh god, how old are our kids? How old are you? Why are you here?”

None of this made sense, dead men couldn’t be standing in front of them right now. “Did you really push my mom in a vent to fight Rusians?”

“Applejack won’t  do anything she doesn’t want to, I'm hoping you didn’t get that from her, cause you guys can’t be here, it's not safe.” Eddie pushed them towards the place they had parked up. 

“Tell the kids we're fine, we have each other.” Steve said as something moved in the undergrowth. “Now go, before you get stuck here like us.”

“Don't let them come back, no matter how much they want to, we have this.” Eddie said as he pushed them towards the car.

“Erica and Dustin? Who would have thought it” Steve saluted as he dove into the hedge after the creature. 

“Go!” Eddie yelled as something howled in the distance. 

Nobody was going to believe them.

[lensman-arms-race]

Gimme the angst, 32 & 33 titans!

32. Something guaranteed to make them smile/laugh

Titan Cam would love to see Titan Speaker resting and feeling better after all they've been through. I think they were relieved to see Titan TV greet them with only mock anger instead of genuine malice, and they'd be so happy if the other two Titans became friends.

I think also Titan Cam genuinely appreciates it when the normal cams give them thumbs up. They're so proud of their tiny comrades! It makes them happy to be reminded that the normal cams do see them as a giant comrade and not simply a siege engine or other weapon.

Titan Speaker likes it when the other speakers play Everybody Wants to Rule the World in sync. They have mixed feelings about the optical sensors the skibidis installed in them (so the manipulator parasite could see what it was doing), because it's not something speakers need or would choose to install in themselves, but Titan Speaker does appreciate being able to perceive their comrades in a new sensory spectrum. It adds another dimension to dancing!

Titan TV loves pulverising skibidis. The other two Titans fight out of necessity, but even outside the heat of battle Titan TV relishes in making skibidi toilets suffer and die. "All toilets will die!" Every skibidi killed feels like an act of love towards the TV faction.

33. Something guaranteed to make them cry

Titan Camera is the oldest of the Titans and the only one of the 3 who has actually seen humans in the flesh. If they encountered a human survivor being killed by skibidis they'd be sadder about it than the other two titans, who have known humans only from recordings. It's not that TCam is particularly fond of humans (they're neutral towards them) but it would make them sad to remember that these things used to number in thousands of millions and now they're probably all gone forever from the actions of the skibidis. (Also, if skibidis are transformed humans, it's sad that these once brilliant creatures became such warped monstrosities.)

Titan Speaker will probably become overwhelmed and cry when treated with kindness. They're so grateful to have been welcomed back into the Alliance after their actions under the manipulator parasite. Once the current arc wraps up and TSpeaker can relax for a bit, they will probably have a meltdown of remorse over what they did - they feel they deserve to be punished somehow but none of their allies want that at all.

Titan TV will probably be devastated if/when the first TV dies in the war. So far they've avoided all casualties by being cautious (and from being the most powerful of the 3 factions). They're already fewer in number than the other types of hardware, so if a TV actually gets killed it's going to hit the Titan hard.

I have a headcanon that there are few enough TVs that they're all at least acquainted with each other, and the Titan has met every single one of them. Such a loss would hit them personally.

(Original post with list of questions)

[chromiumagellanic06]

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 15: Dreamer

MASTERLIST

Summary: Naera discovers something strange about Helaena.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: nothing, really

Princess Naera Targaryen, during the first year of her marriage, was seemingly very occupied. She is said to have worked from dawn to dusk on concluding her affairs in a rush, often enlisting the aid of her husband and uncle, Prince Daemon of the House Targaryen. Despite this, she had taken adequate time to grow as needed to familiarize herself with her half-brother, and nephew-by-law, Prince Aemond, as well as her half-sister, and niece-by-law, Princess Helaena. By several accounts, and none better than the letters sent by Ser Redmond of the Kingsguard to his family, the Princess had begun training Prince Aemond at his request, and had persuaded him against typical knightly brawls, and aligned him closer to the same grace and poise she herself fought with.

Her relationship with Princess Helaena, however, is under much dispute, as by certain accounts, the princess had begun speaking to the young girl about topics none other present could verify or even make sense of. It is well known in history that Princess Helaena, daughter of King Viserys of the House Targaryen, First of his Name, with Queen Alicent of the House Hightower of Oldtown, was a strange child. She is recorded by the Palace Maester as having been mentally deficient, and collaborating and interesting herself overly in insect life and off-turn musings. Thus, it is strange that Princess Naera, who had until previously made it practically known well and wide that she had no wish of learning anything of her half-siblings, would grow as close to them as she did, in as little time as she had. 

It is also imperative to note that the Princess was firmly standing in support of the Blacks in the civil war, that is the faction of court supporting the claim of her sister, Princess Rhaenyra of the House Targaryen, as the rightful heir to the throne. Another notable member of the Blacks is, of course, her husband, Prince Daemon, and the couple did execute an instrumental role in the war that was to come. For her to fraternize with her half-siblings, the Greens, was observed as strange, and at the time, even indicated a potential political defection, as often suspected by Princess Rhaenyra, the Princess of Dragonstone, who was not present in King's Landing at the time of these affairs. As indicated by copies of letters retained by Grand Maester Mellos of the Red Keep, Princess Naera had argued against the heir on this subject by stating, very clearly, that her decisions were not to be doubted, as her support lay with the pure branch of the family at all times. 

Whether she had considered a defection during those formative years, as her father, King Viserys of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, had his health progressively depreciate, is moot, for historically, as indicated by all her actions related to the war itself, it is clear that her loyalties lay with her sister, at least when the Dragons danced and died. 

The Days before the Dance:

A Comprehensive History of the events preceding the Dance of Dragons

by Grand Maester Glyspar of the Reach

“I pulverised them all,” and Naera knew that she would keep silent at Aegon’s claims. Civility, yes, as she had once pledged. She would not question it. She would not point out the lack of height of his feats. She would not speak.

“Ser Criston believes that I shall be ready for tourneys soon.” Oh, but the little prince would all but fall off his horse before he even struck lances, and that was the bitter old truth.

Daemon had taken no such claims of civility, and snorted at his nephew’s words. Oh, by the old gods and the new, at least he did not snag in a comment with it. That would be a headache.

Naera moved around the peas on her plate. Her appetite seemed to be falling, day after day, for wine, for food, even for water. She felt as though she was a plant meant for a windowsill left outside in the sun and rain, in the open nourishment of the world. She didn’t love it.

She glanced across the table, where her half-sister fiddled with her fork also, muttering strange phrases under her breath. She had never really paid attention to her, who was Naera's, she supposed, niece by law, or would it be good niece? She did not know. Helaena had always seemed a little off, out of it, lost, as though her mind was tuned to a different frequency altogether. There were times she behaved in earnest, and those times only grew with the prayers and lessons Alicent had subjected her to in order to ‘prepare’ her for marriage. She was a victim of society.

Naera almost pitied the girl.

“Now,” Viserys coughed out to his son, “Daemon was only ten and six when he took part in his first tourney,” though his point, his crux was forgotten as he gasped for breaths and searched for water. His hair had all but fallen off, just a few palsied strands left to veil his rounded head. Naera wondered if his illness could be helped.

“Wasn’t our dear sister younger, father?” Aemond called out from across the table, catching half the family off guard, and all eyes turned to him. “I believe Naera partook in her first tourney before she came of age.” Their eyes were a flock of birds, halting at a tree, and then whooshing to the next.

Naera felt watched, and it was not pleasant. She shook off their curiosities, “Five and ten, I believe.” She did not believe—it had been five and ten. It had been just a dozen nights before…Naera shook those thoughts away.

Aemond had no reason to know this much of her—Daemon did not know this far into her past, and Naera was left curious as to why he did. His one eye did not leave her, not for very long, but his gaze was hardly malicious—it was almost earnest, admiring, hopeful. She did not know what to make of it.

“I believe Aemond shall be the youngest in the family after all,” Alicent tried, and tried, and failed. She tried for what, none any longer knew, for not every opportunity needed to be used as a demonstration of pride. “All is left for the gods to see.”

“The raven does not walk.” Naera flipped her head to Helaena, only to find the little girl plunging a knife into chicken’s meat. The raven does not walk, but she could not just be referring to the bird she ate. Ravens did walk, they had feet, and oh, Naera caught herself thinking too far.

Aemond stared at her, watching intently, almost smiling at her naivete, but not quite. She’d might as well play along.

Naera smiled at the child, “Which raven?” It was silly, really, to indulge her imagination only.

Helaena looked up, her face so very, very innocent and young, and whispered, “The one with three eyes.” The one with three eyes. The three-eyed raven. The three-eyed crow.

No.

Naera froze.

Raven.

Fire and Blood.

Naera felt chilled, as though one had poured ice down her veins, her bones grew frigid, her teeth all but chattering, legs shaking, but all that was seen was the rise of gooseflesh all across her skin.

Bloodraven.

Aemond watched her with intent, questioning her reaction, her widening eyes, her paling skin, her frightened state, at his sister’s words. All were too consumed by their days’ troubles—none paid mind to it at all, how the Silver Knight had been caught fearful of a little girl’s musings.

“Of the old Gods,” Helaena added, and Naera felt cold, colder than she ever had, as the biting, freezing, burning cold settled around her, on her, within her, everywhere, with no end to it. There, there, there, trees, with faces grained in, and from the dark, hollow eyes rained blood, crimson, burning, warming—the old gods of the north, and it was cold, so very, very cold. She could feel her skin dry and freeze and ship off in pieces and clumps, cracking, shattering, breaking.

The same tree, but more, for past the branches and twigs and decay, beneath the snow and ice that crested it, entangled in vines and bales and all that lay there, was a figure with silver hair, pouring down, and the palest skin of decaying porcelain, and through his decaying, torn, broken body, with bones and nerves and hairs all clumped and tangles, pierced roots and thorns, strangling, tying, tearing it all tight, and amidst the gruesome mess, snapped open an eye of fire and of amethyst.

“Naera?” She fell back in her seat. The cold wasn’t there. The winds weren’t there. The weirwoods weren’t there. She turned to face Daemon, his eyebrows raised, questioning, but not silent. “Are you alright?” And she hated his tone—grimy, despicable, patronizing. Are you alright? As though a question by him could make her realise that she wasn’t—as though a statement from him could permit her to confess that she wasn’t.

“Quite fine,” and she hated her own tone also, ireful, disrespectful, contempt ridden. She felt guilt, for she knew that his intentions had surely been loving, but she could hardly separate his devotion from his desire to control her.

“You look a little pale, dear,” and Alicent did fare concern rather well on her features, not quite as hateful as Naera had justified her to have become. She was almost motherly, once in a while. She supposed Alicent was a mother—and thus had the gentleness people expected of her.

Ha.

Naera stood, eyes falling on Helaena, who stared down at her plate, shy, timid, as though speaking her mind was something to be regretted. “I believe I shall retire, then,” her mind settling on a goal of sorts to speak to her sister again, someday soon. 

“I’ve sent for the maester.” Daemon walked into her—their—bed chambers.

“Did you get into another tavern brawl with a Kingsguard, or did you just trip while walking?” Naera set the letter to her side, reaching for the next. Another request for her attendance at Qarth. She crumpled the page up and threw it in with the rest. That was seven—five more, she’d expect, if things were still in order back in the Walled City. If not, she might need to attend after all.

“You’re ill.” He stated it as though it was obvious.

“Not any more ill than I’ve ever been, kepus,” and she stopped herself from tossing in a statement of how considerate his care was. He didn’t need his pride to grow larger than it already had.

“Naera,” and he was growing annoyed, she noticed, and looked up at him, at his crossed arms and anxious face. He was worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she shook her head. “It’s just…she’s a strange child,” Naera decided, laying back in bed, tossing the papers she had carried to her side. 

“Hm?” Daemon was tired, eyes nearly shut for the night, “Yes, strange girl…” he trailed off, not really projecting any thoughts on it.

“Yes, but strange, do you understand her?” Naera did not seem tired, or ill—she was stranger, Daemon decided. She was hooked on her half-sister—the future Green Queen, for all they know, and she was stunted by her words. The raven does not walk. Of course, ravens don’t walk.

“Naera, the girl isn’t right in the head.” He concluded easily, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to somehow coax her to sleep, but she did not relent. Naera sat still beside his head, mind up in the air, thinking, wondering, theorizing—it was a waste of her efforts.

He sighed, “What is so strange?” He’d indulge her.

“Don’t you—” she stopped herself, he didn’t need to know, “Nothing, you are right.” She closed her eyes in respite, calming whatever cursed curiosity mingled in her thoughts. “Rest.” She pulled the blankets over her head, settling beside him, three candles still burning bright beside her. She never let him put them all out for a second. He had stopped questioning it, for the night is dark and full of terrors.

“Perhaps, she’s a dreamer,” he tried to console his wife, although she felt no grief or sorrow irrespective.

Naera shuffled the sheets off, sitting up, leaning close to his face. Her eyes gleamed in the light and darkness, but oh, she feared something in his words.

“Daenys, you mean.” Daenys the Dreamer, she who foresaw the Doom of Valyria and saved the Targaryens from its horrors. Daemon hummed, yanking her down to lie on his chest, and he carded his fingers through her hair, perhaps only to calm her down, to drill her into a dazed sleep.

“Viserys was always fascinated with Daenys,” he recalled, “Always said that he’d be a dreamer like Daenys, or like Aegon. Once,” Daemon chuckled in reminiscence, “He got very drunk, went on about how Aegon was a dreamer also—foresaw the end of Westeros, a long night that never ends, and then he tripped down a staircase.” Fun days, before his brother had grown to resent him for who he was—before his first exile, he supposed.

A Dreamer. Naera did not speak as he recounted further tales of his young days, for her mind stuck to what she had seen—what she had heard. If Helaena could prophesize—would it mean that there would one day be a creature such as that? A long night—no.

“The long night, kepus,” she corrected, “The winter that shall never end.” He knew the tale, surely, every nursery tale north of the Riverlands referred to the Longest Winter, a thousand years ago, when kings froze in their palaces and mothers murdered their children as acts of mercy, but there was more—in the East, there was more to the tale, be it to the Bloodstone Emperor of Yi Ti, or the legends of the Shadowlands themselves. “The long night ends with a prince of light charging against the darkness. The prince who was promised,” the Conqueror, the Breaker of Chains, to whom even darkness knelt, whom even the night feared. “When the red star bleeds,” and she heard her words echo within her mind, hollow, cold, luxurious and old, but distant and faded. Melisandre. “Azor Ahai, borne amidst salt and smoke, who shall wake dragons from stone. It is an old tale from Asshai, in the religion of the Lord of Light, that such a warrior shall return.”

Daemon wheezed out a breath, “When shall that be?”

“Ten years? A thousand? After a very long summer, it is known.” Me nem nesa, it is known, and she knows—that it shall be her, the Conqueror, the Breaker of Chains. The Princess who was Promised. The Last Targaryen, no, the very Last Dragon, and hers shall be the blood of Old Valyria.

“We shall all be long gone by then,” he mumbled against her head.

“Indeed,” Naera turned her head to watch the flames dance around the candles. “We shall.”

“Is that all you’ve got?” Then followed a string of debilitating insults in High Valyrian, and Naera was almost persuaded to laugh at Daemon’s treatment of Aegon. It wasn’t as though it’d help him. He had gone too far.

Ser Criston had excused himself from the affairs, claiming something along the lines of guard rotations, but he simply did not wish to be present as Daemon treated his nephew—the Green Queen’s son, in the way that was his god-given right as an asshole uncle.

Naera only watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, counting the seconds until she could drag him back to reading her correspondence. It had become easier with some help, and she wasn’t convinced to grant him respite from his chosen duties.

Ser Redmond glanced at her from the edges of his eyes, staring down the dagger at her waist, the resilience on her face. He had not enjoyed getting stabbed by Valyrian Steel. He glanced, off and on, between blades and metals, as he tried his whole best at training her other brother. Failing.

“Would you train me, Princess?” Aemond reached out a dulled blade towards her.

“I believe Ser Redmond has been assigned to train you, my Prince.” Naera glanced across at Redmond, smiling, frustrated, hesitating, shameful, for he had barely stood a chance against her ever.

“Ser Redmond is weak.” Ah, there, he said it. “You are not.” He sounded almost pleased to say that, as though praising her pleasured him, earnestly, with pride.

“Very well,” and she took the blade in her hand, heavy, but tolerable. “Come,” and he charged at her, swords clashing, and he grunted, gasped, and gave away his attack. Again, and she dragged her blade up above him, dodging his attempts with ease, jumping, bending, surprising.

“Now,” Naera stopped him with a raise of her hand, and Aemond could only take a breather, watching with intrigue as his half-sister spun and twisted the blade in the air, perfectly balanced, perfectly silent. “You can either be a Westerosi knight,” armour clinking, steel blades clashing, orderly, strong and secure, “You can be loud, and proud,” she pulled the blade behind herself, tossing it up in the air, and it soared down in an arc, the whipping of the blade against the wind the only music of its making, and she caught it by the ragged hilt, silent, graceful, careful, quiet, calculated, experienced. “Or, you can be quiet,” and she took a light step forward, blade striking across his face before he could see. She hadn’t broken his skin, barely grazed it, even, “and deadly.”

He was reminded, of a beast which hardly roared, it only soared, high in the skies, preying, hunting, lying in wait, silent.

“Like Vhagar.”

“Like Vhagar.” Naera smiled, fixing her braid against conflicting with her vision. “Again.”

He did try again, holding his breath, eye-watering from the effort, and again, and again. He tried for the entire evening, her work long forgotten, and they both missed Daemon watching from the edges alongside a scowling Aegon. 

“Who taught you how to fight?” Aemond asked her later, arms sore, and breath still swollen while she seemed to have barely exerted herself—there was grace, a leering, lingering, lasting calmness, as though the fire had gone out from her soul-the fire of her blood had extinguished, leaving behind a carcass of grace and equity.  

“There was a battle master in Sunspear, an Eastern Sellsword,” she had never even learned his name, Naera realised, “He knew all the ways, from Braavos, from the Grass Sea, from Yi Ti, and the knightly ways of whatever lay North of Dorne.”

“Everything, then.” He sounded gladder than she had ever heard him, almost hopeful, as though she could teach him all those ways also.

“Yes,” she would indulge him, perhaps, but as they walked, he stopped, watching somewhere deep in the corridors, where knelt his sister, a centipede in her hand. Helaena muttered things furiously at her septa, who only looked around for assistance, frustrated with her girl’s behaviours.

Muttering furiously, she stopped with the words, loud and clear, “There is a beast beneath the boards.” There is a beast beneath the boards.

Beast—Dragon. Boards—wooden boards? Floors? The Earth?

“Aemond,” she caught his attention, “Has anything Helaena ever said come true?” She swallowed, dry, grating, as he pondered upon her words. Naera feared her words, what they could mean, what the answer could represent—a truth most dangerous.

Aemond only stared back at Helaena, who had set the centipede down on the window sill to fetch another, much longer, letting it crawl up her hand as she spoke more, faster, mind rushing, lips failing to follow.

He fought for words, remembering too much, and all too soon, whatever she had said, whatever had occurred, trying to find that little overlap which Naera questioned, scrutinised and examined. After their births, the sullen look in his mother’s eyes whenever she saw Rhaenyra, the pain, the anguish, and the bugs, the fear, the needlework, the dullness of Helaena’s entire life, and more, and more, the mutterings, the whispers, every word, every breath, every musing of Helaena’s—Laena Velaryon, and oh, he remembered the day when the Strong boys and Aegon had handed him a pig, and what his dearest sister had said.

He'll have to close an eye.

“Yes.”

Naera drew in a cold, long breath, something of fatigue catching up with her, a dull ache in her back, lingering, growing, spreading across her shoulders, her neck, daring to lap at her head.

“What was it?”

Aemond turned back to Naera, a hand flying up to his eyepatch. Oh.

No.

“That I’ll have to close an eye.” Then, there was the urge to justify it—to repeat the claim he so forcefully had bestowed upon the Greens. An eye for a dragon. He got more than he gave, and he gained the mightiest beast of them all. He gained Vhagar, the last great dragon.

“What else?” Naera asked, tune moulded into a whisper. “What else did she say?” What else did she prophesize?

“Spools of black, spools of green, and…” he shook his head, trance broken, her whispers in his mind quietening, “There is a beast beneath the boards.”

There is a beast beneath the boards.

Spools of black, spools of green—The Blacks, and the Greens, the dresses, the colours, the threads. Rhaenyra and Aegon—Rhaenyra and Alicent, rather, the Black Princess and the Green Queen. Spools of black. Spools of green.

There is a beast beneath the boards? “Thank you, my Prince,” Naera was already taking large, calm, confused steps towards Helaena’s quarters

MASTERLIST

[valentin10]

WRC : Sébastien Ogier remporte son 10e Rallye Monte-Carlo et pulvérise un nouveau record | Flashscore

Le Français Sébastien Ogier a remporté dimanche son 10e Rallye Monte-Carlo, manche inaugurale de la saison du championnat du monde WRC, améliorant son propre record du nombre de victoires sur l’épreuve. — À lire sur www.flashscore.fr/actualites/sport-mecanique-wrc-sebastien-ogier-remporte-son-10e-rallye-monte-carlo-et-pulverise-un-nouveau-record/zyWkZCiM/

[auroroboros1]

Die Fetus is an American rock band, formed in 1991 in Greater Marlborough, Maryland. This is a rock band. Despite several lineup changes over the years, John Gallagher remains the original member and is the band's sole lead vocalist. Gallagher has said that the name of the band was meant to be an insult to the teenager. Until the day he died, Fetus had released nine studio albums. History Previous (1991–1996)

No citations are provided in this section. Please help improve this article by adding citations to specific sources. Please find them challenged and deleted. (February 2023) (Learn how and when to delete this message).

Dead Fat was formed in 1991 in Marlboro, Maryland by John Gallagher and Jason Netherton. The band began in 1992 when guitarist Nick Spilius met singer Insert. Gallagher decided he wanted to continue working for the time being until he found a suitable drummer. The band's time together appeared in the 2011 film Bathophonies, with Rob Belton filling in for Nick Spillip and guitarist Brian Lett. In early 1994, four new songs that formed the sound of An Expression of Love and Malivolence were recorded and eventually released in 1995 as a California independent label, Wild Rex, from the first demo on the list, were released as a compilation. All songs from both demos are included as a single disc.

In 2011, the band released their 1996 album on Pulveriser Records in Illinois, the release of their album, Violent Purge. The album took on a heavy metal sound and featured seven original songs and one cover of Death, "Scum," which did well. In 1995, drummer Rob Belton left, and the band was replaced by drummer Casey Buckler. They briefly toured and played live but never recorded. Casey left the band because he agreed to play drums on that year's tour. He asked them to leave. Glory Underground (1996–2000)

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In 2011, he played with the band for the first time since the summer of 1996 in Cal. However, Eric Sayenga left the band in the fall of 1997 and Mean drummer Kevin Talley joined the band for a Texas tour in May 1997. He joined the band and rejoined the band in the spring of 1997. The band was then signed to independent label Morbid Records. album. Do It Early 1998. Almost immediately, the band released their second album, Killed in Adrenaline.

Morbid Records promoted the release of the electronic album in Europe. They later performed at the Milwaukee Metal Fest (1998–2000) and in 1998, the USA and a tour of Canada (with Actis Flash Acts) and Europe (with Darrend Li became more famous for performing on popular reality shows such as Done , however, guitarist Brian Lata left the band in late 1998. along with a new "Sparky" Voyles, and in 1999 the band formed The first three-week "Secret Terror" tour began in the US. Shortly after this tour, the Grotsky Exploitation EP was released by the band with Blunt Li was reissued under the album title. Force. Ricertio Records and New Groups. (2000–2003)

In 2011, around 2000, Diambria launched another underground label, En Li ran Dry Leapsey Records and eventually signed the band.

Return to Steve Carr's Hit And Run Theater in Maryland in the summer 2000. When he left (where all of Death's Fate's albums were recorded), Die Fetty had no enemies they were supposed to have sent. The album's political themes, and the songwriting, have been treated over the years. This greatly influenced the look of "Morscore". The song also entered the top 100 songs of the 2000s.

However, Isa Netherton broke up and original member Jason Netherton took over. They left the band on their own, and months after the album's release, the song.

[drondskaath]

Gutless | High Impact Violence | 22nd November, 2024

Australian Death Metal

Artwork by Jesse Webb

[lesdeuxmuses]

Desultory - Through Aching Aeons (Pulverised Records, 2023)

[gbhbl]

Album Review: House By the Cemetary - The Mortuary Hauntings (Pulverised Records)

Horror and heavy metal, specifically death metal, go together like cheese and wine, and few bands embody the spirit of cult horror and old-school death metal as well as House by the Cemetary.

[tkroddy]

Artist Research

Dr. Reddy's Laboratories Ltd.'s Fastminar

This 40-foot sculpture, breaking Guinness World Record for largest toothbrush sculpture of a body part, consists of 80'000 toothbrushes contributed from dentists across the country of India.

The creation of the sculpture is said to be "an attempt to draw attention to the topic of dentine and tooth sensitivity, treatment options, maximising outreach and encouraging timely action to bring India relief from sensitivity." - The Times of India

Dr. Reddy's Laboratories Ltd.'s Fastminar

I am drawn to the sheer size of this piece. They successfully pulled off creating curves in the tooth from toothbrushes which are rigid and often relatively straight. I am so curious to see how they formed the tooth. The sculpture stood for 365 days, and the materials used for its construction were dismantled, pulverised and re-used in construction. The contribution from many toothcare professionals around India as well as their reasoning behind its construction is a lovely aspect I think is worth mentioning. The name of the sculpture is also interesting. A Minar is a tower or turret found in cities across India. A Minar is the pride of a city, and take years to build. Qutb Minar in New Delhi, standing at a staggering 238-feet and an UNCESO World Heritage Site, was constructed between 1199 and 1220. The Fastminar in contrast was built in a month, hence the name.

It's an absurd, eye-catching and socially important sculpture.