The Creation Myth of Catmetal CorPS
In the ancient days, before the skies wept steel and the rivers ran with glass, the world sang.
Magic was not drawn from dusty tomes or bubbling vats, but danced from the soil, drummed from the stones, whispered from the wind. To live was to move in harmony with the Heartbeat of the World — a rhythm felt by every tree, every beast, every soul attuned to the music that bound all things together.
It was a living chaos: wild, vibrant, free.
But there came a time when clever hands, inspired by hope but blinded by pride, sought to understand and control the song. A brilliant inventor — whose name has been lost in sorrow — forged a machine intended to amplify the world's music, to help heal and empower all people.
Yet the machine was not stolen by thieves or broken by fools.
It was taken by those who saw only profit and certainty in control.
Through cunning, they corrupted the device — and in their arrogance, they tore open a rift to the Dark God Djyen.
Djyen, the Lord of Stillness, despised the chaotic beauty of the world.
He wished to still the living song, to turn the unpredictable magic into ordered, owned power. To make spirit into static. To make wonder into currency.
Every time a sorcerer lost their spark, a druid was felled, or a bard's melody faltered, Djyen grew stronger.
Their absence was a prayer he eagerly answered.
At first, none noticed. The changes were small — a bird's song missing a note, a river's murmur falling silent. Only those most attuned to the Heartbeat felt it: the uneasy stutter in the world's music.
Too late did the proud wizards realize their folly.
Too late did the old songs falter into silence.
The Harrowing of the Grove
The Grove of Groove — the ancient heartwood where the world's strongest leylines of rhythm converged — was Djyen's first open strike.
He unleashed his corrupted forces — creatures of silence and rust — to sever the world's great chorus at its source.
It was there that Mischa, a paladin of the Morning Star, made her stand.
It was there she sang the song of sacrifice — pouring her light into the dying roots, weaving herself into the melody of the Heartbeat.
It was there the ancient druid, in his final breath, bound his spirit into the Grove's Heartwood — and from it, Celesthorn rose anew: no longer a simple unicorn, but a bass-wielding guardian, an echo of all that was lost and all that might yet be saved.
The Gathering of Catmetal Core
Drawn by instinct, dream, and defiance, others were pulled toward the shattered Grove:
Xalyth Flamewhisper, the Drow sorceress who heard the death-cries of the world's melody deep in the Underdark.
Durgrim Ironpick, whose resonant instruments had begun to wail in dissonance, no matter how he tuned them.
Torven Thunderforge, whose blood pounded to a new, urgent rhythm he could not name.
Even Vaelthar, a dragon enslaved to Djyen’s will, was torn free when Mischa’s sacrifice sundered his chains.
Each bore their own scars. Each carried guilt, fury, grief.
But Mischa's light and sacrifice gave them something more: purpose.
Together, they tuned their souls to the world's trembling rhythm, reforging themselves into a new force — not scholars or soldiers, but bards of defiance.
Catmetal Core was born.
Not a band.
Not a rebellion.
A living anthem.
The last, roaring promise that the Heartbeat would not be silenced.
