Valthor
Valthor
Kupalo, born atop the Temple of Hemel, is the God of Sex and Power. His eternal rivalry with Monoclonius, and the alien strangeness of Zijkrater, form the trinity of the most ancient guitars in the Kupalo Mythos.
At the dawn of Pudinvaag, only three remain eternal: Kupalo, Monoclonius, and Zijkrater
Pudinvaagian Made
Custom HH Stratocaster
Specifications
Model: Pudinvaagian Stratocaster
Born: 2007
Finish: Aztec Gold and Inca Silver Burst
Body: Mahogany
Neck: Canary
Fingerboard: Ebony, 10-16" Compound Radius, Scalloped
Neck Back Profile: Wolfgang
Frets: 22 Jumbo Nickel (6100)
Nut Width: 1-5/8" (41mm)
Scale Length: 25.5"
Pickups: Seymour Duncan '59 (Neck), Seymour Duncan JB (Bridge)
Electronics: Volume, 3 way selector switch
Bridge: Floyd Rose Original Tremolo
Tuners: Schaller M6 Locking
Hardware: Black
Set Up
Action Height Bass: 1.6mm
Action Height Treble: 1.2mm
Tuning: E Flat
Strings: Ernie Ball Skinny Top Heavy Bottom Slinky Nickel Wound Electric Guitar Strings, 10-52 Gauge
The Beginning: God of Sex and Power
Valthor: The Whispered Presence
Long ago, when the skies over Pudinvaag still trembled from the falling star of Zijkräter, the En Canter’s spell that bound the alien into guitar form tore more than just space—it tore the veil between realms. As Zijkräter’s green fire plummeted and re-ignited the crater of his first arrival, something unexpected slipped through the rift: a golden spirit, regal and luminous, unlike any dragon ever seen by mortal eyes. This was Valthor, the Shrouded Flame of the Golden Forest.
Valthor was not born of Pudinvaag’s soil, nor of its enchanted waters or storm-winds. He was a consequence of cosmic reversal, a spirit unanchored, born from the backlash of power when the binding incantation snapped and rebounded. In that instant, his essence spilled into the land and vanished deep into a secret wood where every leaf gleamed as if kissed by sunlight. The villagers would later call this sanctuary The Forest of Aureliath, though none dared set foot within. For no one who entered ever returned, save for whispers carried on the wind—whispers of scales like molten gold, and eyes that blazed with judgment.
Kupalo himself acknowledged Valthor, but only as a rumor carved into legend. Unlike the other guitars, Valthor did not anchor himself to a throne of wood, stone, or string. He drifted—a guardian or perhaps a reminder—that even the En Canters could not foresee all consequences of their craft. Where Vonzuul became the ghostly counsel and Drakhetu burned as the ember of fire, Valthor remained elusive: a spirit of golden sovereignty, watching, judging, yet never striking. His presence could sway the hearts of players, infusing them with awe or terror, but never obedience.
And so, Valthor became the Whispered Golden Ghost—the dragon spirit that lived unseen in the golden forest. Neither enemy nor ally, neither bound nor free, he was the reminder that not all powers in the Kupalo mythos could be held in thrones of guitars. Some powers chose instead to watch, to wait, to judge.
Valthor and the Golden Vessel
Unlike the other great spirits of Pudinvaag, who were bound into instruments by the incantations of the En Canters, Valthor was never chained. Born from the rift caused by Zijkräter’s fall and the reversal of the binding spell, Valthor was a free essence of golden sovereignty—a dragon of shimmering light that refused permanence. Where Vonzuul was trapped within ghostly strings and Zijkräter was contained with green alien wood, Valthor roamed untethered, sovereign among the hidden trees of the Forest of Aureliath.
And yet, though he needed no throne, Valthor allowed one to be made: a vessel of golden fire and blackened edge, a guitar unlike any other. Forged not to imprison, but to invite, the Golden Majesty was created as a conduit, a place for Valthor to descend when the time was right. The villagers whispered that the guitar itself would lie dormant—its tone brilliant but unpossessed—until a worthy hand struck its first chord. In that moment, the forest winds would shift, and Valthor’s spirit would enter the vessel, riding its voice like a comet across the heavens.
But when the song ended, so too would Valthor vanish, leaving the instrument behind: empty, silent, beautiful but mortal. This was his secret—unlike all others, he was not bound. He came and went at will, sovereign even over the thrones of wood and string. It was said that only Kupalo himself truly understood the reverence of this choice, for it meant that Valthor was not conquered nor captured, but instead chose when and how to lend his brilliance.
Thus, the Golden Majesty became a rare and wondrous thing: a vessel that might roar with the breath of a dragon in one moment, and the next, lie still as if nothing divine had ever touched it. To hear its full voice was to witness Valthor’s will—and to be judged by it.
The First Song of Valthor
It was deep in the shadow of the Forest of Aureliath that Slice, the Great Holder, first came upon the Golden Majesty. Resting in a shaft of pale light, the guitar gleamed as though the trees themselves bent their branches to shield it. Unlike other thrones of sound, there was no aura of a trapped spirit, no ghostly chill, no ember heat—only silence, and a brilliance that seemed too alive to belong to mere lacquered wood.
Slice reached down, hesitant. For a moment, he thought it might vanish like a mirage, but the weight was real in his hands. The neck was warm, humming faintly as though it remembered every star that had ever burned. He struck the first chord.
The sound was clear—crystal and pure, yet somehow unfinished, as though waiting for something greater. Then the wind began to shift. Leaves of gold shimmered without a breeze. The air thickened, vibrating with a resonance beyond human hearing. Slice felt the forest lean in, listening.
From the stillness above, a glow descended: not fire, not light, but a golden presence that poured like molten dawn into the vessel. The strings ignited with radiance. The body of the guitar pulsed with breath. And in that instant, Valthor entered.
A roar—not heard with ears but felt in the marrow—rumbled through the clearing. The chord Slice had struck did not fade; it grew, expanding into harmonies that no mortal hand could command. The forest itself shivered. The trees bowed. Even the ground seemed to lift. For a few moments, Slice was no longer playing—he was being played through.
Kupalo, distant yet ever watching, marked this moment with silent respect. Unlike The King Reaper, unlike The Blue Gremlin, unlike the bound and tethered, Valthor had chosen to enter. And when the final note fell away, the presence withdrew as swiftly as it came.
The Golden Majesty lay quiet in Slice’s hands, beautiful, inert, its strings humming only with mortal vibration. But Slice knew: he had been judged worthy, and one day, when the need arose, Valthor would return.
The Mystery of His Containment
How such a being as Kupalo can be contained within a guitar remains the greatest enigma of Pudinvaag. His essence is vast, his will unbreakable, his storms boundless. Some say it is the lingering power of the En Canters, their spells holding him as they did Zijkräter. Others insist it is the weight of his own choice, for no enchantment could bind one who did not allow himself to be bound.
The truth may be simpler still: Kupalo chooses this form.
He finds joy in the hands of the Great Holder, Slice, and in the roar of the crowd that bears witness to his story. Every riff, every searing solo, every thunderous chord is Kupalo speaking—his saga retold not in scripture, but in sound. He does not see containment as imprisonment, but as communion, a way for his myth to thunder forever through the veins of heavy metal rawk.
In fact, it may not even be containment….
The whispers tell of nights when Slice lays one instrument down, only to lift another—and still Kupalo’s voice roars through its strings. Some swear they have seen his spirit leap from fretboard to fretboard, weaving gold into silver, storm into flame, his presence unbound by wood or wire. He delights in being the voice behind the music, the storm given shape through song.
To him, guitars are not prisons, but thrones—each one a vessel by which his will is heard. And whether in the gilded King of Guitars or in some unknown relic in Slice’s hands, it is always Kupalo’s fire that bends the sound, always Kupalo’s will that thunders across the land.
Pudinvaagian lore breathes….. “The guitars are thrones, and Kupalo sits where he wills—no cage, only rawk, in every song.”
And so he remains, not bound by force, but by will, his majesty flowing through the strings of the guitar, his legend echoing across generations.
