TÜSK

TÜSK rise again, like fog off the Tamar…

The stones have shifted.
The bells of Zennor toll once more.

From clay pits to sea cliffs, the old rhythm echoes—low, heavy, undeniable.

Written in the margins of the Mên-an-Tol:

“When the black rain falls, and the saffron moon returns, TÜSK shall sound the reckoning.”

They come bearing riffs like granite and harmonies carved from salt.
Not band. Not myth. Something older.

TÜSK are the drift. The dread. The deliverance.