From the stark, barren permafrost tundra of Northern Russia comes a portent of impending doom: like some insatiable demonic blizzard, the fourth full-length from OLD WAINDS is upon mankind. Germinated in the lifeless land of one season, infinite sadness and endless hatred, where little else grows but pure primordial evil, this is the sound of freezing winds, glacial isolation and permanent darkness. Like icicles of hate, eight chilly odes consume all within range, harbingers of the deathly coldness that will embrace and cloak us all ultimately. Blood stains the permanently-frozen soil, producing a dark, wintry kaleidoscope of black and crimson, consuming the blinding light of a dying sun, as long shadows creep across the icy expanses and winter commences its ominous onslaught. Sparse and desolate, veiled in a shrill, gloomy mist, OLD WAINDS embody the harsh Arctic Circle hinterland that conceived them. Their furious storm of blackness acknowledges the old school but has a trademark, twilight atmosphere unique to this frostbitten horde.