Rasalhauge exists as a strident omnipotence demanding purgatorial submission, where the atmosphere is nothing but grains of glass, scintillating and deadly. And with a scream from a bourne beyond its yawning maw assails the senses with tortured and rasped expression. The resonation is thick, frequencies quiver, barely descried. Noises are honed on sharpening steel and left in shuddering reverb to layer striations of ashen distortion. Steeled drones gyrate in elliptical orbits, cycling intense movements of bladed effects.