The Flight of Sleipnir
V

He had witnessed those journeys dozens of times, but had never participated: yet, even just as a spectator, he had always managed to grasp an infinitesimal part of what his grandfather, the shaman of the village on the shores of Lake Tahoe, experienced every time. This time, however, it was different, this time it was his turn, it was his first journey, his initiation.
A few hours before the ritual, Kiche had chewed the leaves of the wild potato: a small dose, as an extra gram would have caused nausea and respiratory blockage, but enough to put him in a condition to travel in a state of wakeful sleep (or sleepy wakefulness, as he liked to say, perhaps inspired by the sleepy behavior of bears in the summer).
Upon entering the cabin there was an intense smell of spices and chopped and burnt herbs (he knew that these too were fundamental ingredients for his experience): he immediately saw the bed, a straw and branch mat, and his grandfather next to it, welcoming him with a toothless smile, his face devastated by the cold, the sun, and the wrinkles. Without a word, he gestured for Kiche to lie down, and passing a hand over his forehead, invited him to close his eyes. Then he placed one end of a rope in Kiche's hand, telling him to pull it with force in case anything he saw, heard, or felt "there" could pose a danger to him, reassuring him that he would pull him out (but only this once, he would soon have to learn to walk alone).

He already knew how the journey would begin, it had been described to him many times: outside "his" cave, inside which was "his" spirit animal, which he should have known since it would be his companion in future journeys, until the end of his times. And so it went, he found himself in a very green clearing, but more than a cave carved into the rock, it seemed to be made from a massive ice wall: at the touch, the intense cold immediately radiated throughout his body, leaving his limbs tingling. He ventured inside, and the sunlight filtering through the entrance suddenly turned bluish, passing through the semi-transparent walls. Then, suddenly, in the twilight, he saw it, the largest horse he had ever seen. Grey, powerful, muscular, blood-red eyes, an incredible calm that hinted at all its power and strength. The horse stared at him, and its eyes froze the blood in his veins, making him wonder if he was mistaken, and if that being, so imposing, could truly be his guide, the companion of a boy, after all, quite frail, and by his own admission not even that courageous. Then it was a flash, in two blinks of an eye the horse not only approached him, but even allowed itself to be ridden, without Kiche realizing anything. Then it was hell.
The air that was once icy became incandescent, the cave began to collapse, melting like butter on fire, the ground liquefied into glowing lava. The boy flinched, about to pull the rope when he realized that his horse was not only flying (an astonishing feat in itself), but somehow had eight legs, galloping above the lava without touching it, following an imaginary path along underground flaming rivers and caves veined with purple and blue reflections. Kiche was afraid, thought he was going to die, but the horse communicated tranquility, he knew nothing could happen to him as long as he clung to its mane. But then a stronger jolt than the others threw him off: he lost contact with the mane, and a moment before touching the lava, he pulled with all his strength and closed his eyes, already feeling his skin burn.
When he reopened them he was back in his bed, soaked in sweat, with his grandfather beside him who welcomed him with the same smile. Kiche sighed with relief, but then he remembered he had spent only a few moments with the horse: and what if they weren't enough to seal the pact with it? What if he had to do it all over again? Terrified, he looked at his grandfather, hoping for an answer, which came: his grandfather pointed to his hand, still clenched in a tense fist. He opened it, and inside it hid silver hairs, which sparkled as soon as his eyes fell upon them, only to disappear into nothing. Then the boy understood that the pact had been sealed, and at the very moment he came to this conclusion, a neigh echoed through the valley, the most imposing neigh he had ever heard.

The fifth album is the gem in Flight Of Sleipnir's discography. The Colorado duo, release after release, has been able to hone its unique blend of epic doom, atmospheric black metal, psychedelia, folk, and stoner, and this "V" constitutes their consecration. In it, all the components are perfectly balanced, all contribute to the perfect success of each track, in which cold screams alternate with vocal harmonies that, like some guitar interludes, project the listener directly into sixties psychedelia. Underlying all is the proud, cadenced doom that pairs well with the Norse mythological themes addressed in the lyrics, seamlessly flowing into stoner smokes sometimes on the verge of drone (I've often heard even references to Angelic Process).
As already mentioned, it's perhaps the masterpiece in Our discography, with only this "V" reaching balance and elegance in their compositions, and even if at the first listen the pieces don't prove to be so "easy listening" due to their length and intricate structures, over time the work grows in quality, enchanting the listener more and more each time.