Arrival – Waves of Sound
The first sound of the world—unheard, too ancient, too deep, and yet visible.
Aeons have passed. Dust, snow, rain, darkness, and sunlight have taken their turns.
Deep within the rock, veins of liquid black grow. Silently. Against all reason, they rise.
A rhythmic bass pulses through the dust that blankets the earth.
Again and again. Is it just a single tone, or many at once?
A natural concert—each footstep sets the tempo, the surroundings compose rhythm and melody.
The soft rustling of leaves in the wind, the songs of countless birds.
A dull note briefly disrupts the concert. Strange and intrusive.
A group of people halts cautiously, scanning their surroundings, archaic spears at the ready, their bodies tense—prepared to fight for survival at any moment.
Hundreds of moons have risen and set. Yet their eyes stay fixed ahead. Focused.
Four men and four women—the finest hunters of their family, of their Klang—shaped by experience, tradition, silence, and blood.
Shielded among them are several youths, ready to defend any opening.
You can see the practiced formation, honed through countless encounters with wild beasts—boars, big cats, or packs of wolves.
To survive and arrive—that is the goal.
No one knows the destination. Yet everyone feels it: it is near.
One foot in front of the other, in rhythm with the heartbeat—or perhaps something even older that lives within every human being.
Only those who find their Urklang are complete, capable of feeling emotion and love.
It is this intrinsic sound that drives the group forward, guiding them to their destination.
The adults once followed these tones; the youth have not yet—but before them now opens a gorge, like a mouth before its first sound, revealing something magical.
The crater opens like a silent utterance.
At its heart: Urtau—blacker than night and yet shimmering like the core of an ore.
Raw, ancient, and yet gleaming like polished silver under the sun.
Surrounding the darkness are thousands of tiny specks, like morning dew on a blossom.
Exhausted and weary, the group begins their descent into the crater.
Still guided by an inaudible inner tone, which, among the chaos of tens of thousands, assigns them a place.
Each of the countless Klangs lives in isolation, carrying a base frequency—each family member a variation of it.
Now that they have arrived, they merge into the most awe-inspiring concert the world has ever witnessed: the Cycle of Resonance.
Only here can humans discover their Urklang.
Guardians of Resonance lead the ritual.
A cycle for the sound of the soul.
In a lifetime, each person gets two chances to take part in the concert of all Klangs.
Some families travel for an entire year—first alone, like a solo instrument.
But the closer they draw to the Nachtherz, the lake of jet-black Urtau, the fuller the tones become.
More and more people from Klangs begin to unite.
Anticipation and curiosity, nostalgia and reunion.
Young and old alike—but all must first recover.
Inhale. Exhale.
Otherwise: silence.
Then, the camp begins to take shape—quietly, but rhythmically.
With taut anticipation, carried by a subtle pulse beneath it all.