Simply a story over a bloodthirsty psychopath, who listens to classical music, while ripping the faces of his enemies off and bathing in their blood.
Simply put, a normal Monday morning for him at work. -- Anon Guest
There is something to be said about Chamber Music. It inspires the mind. It lifts the spirits. It's an excellent counterpoint to the screams of your enemies. As an aficionado, I know it was originally created to provide a pleasant background to high society hobnobbing. Proof one could afford musicians to play just so the performance could be talked over.
I pity those ancient musicians, sometimes. Imagine that poor luckless soul, working on their art just so they could sit in a corner and watch people ignoring their performance. I suppose it paid the rent. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe they were convinced that this was the best they could expect out of life. No wonder the revolutions came.
I'm merely a revolution of one. A singular performer in an opus made of blood and skin. A literal once-in-a-lifetime experience for those I render. I am sent against those who are an affront to civilisation. It's only fitting that they get to observe the beauty of it before they expire. Of course they don't appreciate my art. The fact that it's rendered in their blood and flesh might have something to do with it.