Genre: Medieval Folk Ballad / Tavern Epic / Dark Acoustic Fantasy
(ingen cinematic, ingen moderne folk-pop, ingen power elementer)
Mood Flow:
Lantern-lit tension → grim dry humor → brutal honor → dangerous temptation → hard-earned victory → quiet moral reflection
Voice:
Single main vocal ONLY.
Elder half-orc veteran. Deep baritone. Gravel-heavy. Smoke-scarred. Slight rasp on high notes. Intimate. Close-mic tavern storytelling.
No choirs. No backing vocals. No female layers. No harmony stacks.
Instrumentation (strict medieval):
• Soft lute fingerpicking (primary melody)
• Hurdy-gurdy low drone (constant bed, subtle)
• Frame drum (slow heartbeat pulse, skin-on-wood sound)
• Low bowed fiddle ONLY during duel/drake lift
• Optional very soft wooden flute in intro/outro
NO modern drums.
NO cinematic pads.
NO bass guitar.
NO modern reverb wash.
Music must sit under vocal at all times.
Tempo:
78 BPM verses
90–92 BPM duel lift
Return to 78 BPM outro
Length: 4–5 minutes max
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Lyrics
ACT LIKE AN ORC
(Final Medieval Tavern Cut)
[Verse 1 – Lute only]
We met beneath a dying moon,
Map thin in lantern glow.
A monk with scars like split old oak,
A girl in steel too young to know.
A ranger quiet as winter frost—
And orders sharp and short:
“Find the orc warband’s intent.
Return with clear report.”
[Verse 2 – Hurdy-gurdy enters]
An old grey wizard raised his hand:
“You’ll wear their skin till work is done.
But mark this well—act long enough,
And you’ll forget what you begun.”
Green fire cracked along our bones,
Teeth where prayer once stood.
We looked at one another then—
And knew this road was no small good.
[Verse 3 – Frame drum heartbeat]
We left the roads. We walked the fields.
Spoke low. Moved slow.
We learned their laugh. We learned their rage.
We learned what orcs all know.
And after days of smoke and ash—
We saw their bonfire rise.
[Verse 4 – Firelight tension]
In the heart of drink and shouting
A half-orc woman bound upright.
Bruised, but staring through them all
With unbroken, steady sight.
They spoke of selling her for gold.
The monk spat into flame.
“Gold is soft. Strength decides.”
And pointed out a name.
He had marked their chief.
[Verse 5 – Fiddle joins softly]
Axe rose high in roaring sparks.
He wore no steel at all.
Just scar and fist and stubborn breath—
And refused to fall.
Bone met iron. Blood met dirt.
Six strikes hard and clean.
When their leader kissed the ash—
The camp stood in between.
Respect is loud in orcish lands.
And dangerous to keep.
[Verse 6 – Tempo lifts slightly]
They marched to iron monster walls.
Spoke of raids on farms and grain.
We counted numbers. Marked their paths.
Freed the chained from chain.
The shaman’s whisper followed him—
Power dressed as praise.
He laughed it off… but I saw it there.
That fire behind the gaze.
[Verse 7 – Drake lift 90 BPM]
Another warband split the night.
A drake cut low through ruin sky.
Its rider sniffed the lie we wore—
And chose that we should die.
The beast flew low. Too low.
The monk stepped once—was gone from ground.
Reappeared where wings were found.
Cast the rider down in flame—
Fell beside him all the same.
Dust rose thick.
Twelve heartbeats passed.
When he stood—
The field was ours at last.
[Outro – back to lute only]
We walked the freed back home by dawn.
Gave warning plain and clear.
The spell wore thin. Our skins were ours.
But something lingered near.
Act like an orc long enough—
You feel it settle deep.
The trick is walking home again
Before it chooses
To keep.
