About Plainsong

A seraph flies over a dark plain beneath a great ring in the sky, and its altitude is a sung note. Climb and the choir’s voice climbs with you; dive and it falls — always through the degrees of D dorian, so any path you fly comes out as chant. Speed is breath: move and the voice swells, hover and it sinks back toward the low hum of the monks underneath. There is no sequencer in this toy at all, no grid and no tempo. The sound is one continuous line that you are drawing in the air, right now.

The polyphony is the old trick of the round, done with time itself: followers trail your exact flight path at fixed delays, each singing the same line an octave or a fifth below. Your one melody becomes four-part sacred counterpoint mechanically — the suspensions and resolutions between the delayed copies are precisely the sound of old church music, and you can watch them happen, because the followers are visible, flying the line you flew seconds ago. Thread a drifting ring and a new voice joins the canon, so the hymn grows as you play: one voice, then two, until a whole choir is chasing you across the plain.

Changelog

• Initial release