Darth Carnifex strode amidst the smoldering wreckage of Abregado-rae, the shelled skeletons of factories stretching out all around Him into the distant horizon. Smoke curled high into the sky, staining the clouds black with ash and soot that fell back to the earth as blackened snow. He’d chosen one of the larger ruins to hold court, the blown apart roof exposing the great convocation to the elements above. Glaivewings still soared through the darkened air on howling ion engines, circling endlessly in coordinated patrol patterns as though the enemy might appear at any moment.
But the truth was a far cry from expectations. The enemy had long since fled, driven back by flame and plague and the unrelenting sword of the Sith. All that remained were bodies and those unfortunate enough to not escape with their brethren-in-arms. The latter had been dragged into the factory, beaten and brutalized, and thrown into makeshift cages like cattle. There they were watched carefully by keen-eyed Graug guards, kept alive only long enough to suffer the horror that was yet to come.
By the time the Dark Lord entered the factory, the Graug were nearly finished with the preparations. Great cookpots had been set upon large pyres, bubbling broths boiling within each vessel as various herbs and vegetables were flung inside. Provisions such as these had been requisitioned from ships that now hung low in upper orbit, a necessary and even critical request for an occasion such as this. The Dark Lord had promised His Dark Legion a feast in exchange for victory, and they had delivered exactly what was pledged. He had never reneged on His word, and so a feast they would have.
A wide and flat bench had been prepared at the far end of the factory floor, carried in by two Graug and set upon a raised platform. It was Carnifex’s seat, a place from which He could look out upon His warriors and grant them His blessing. He assumed His position, and all eyes turned towards Him. He gave no speech, spoke no rousing words, He only gestured and they moved into action.
Heavy repulsor-sleds were carted in, heaped upon them were hundreds of pounds of Mandalorian armor. They’d been stripped from both the living and the dead, and now the Graug deposited them in great piles before the Dark Lord’s throne. Breastplates, vambraces, greaves, and innumerable helmets all clattered to the ground in a great rancorous cacophony. They changed His name in their barbarous heathen tongue, made signs of obeyance to Him, and reaffirmed their pledge to fight and kill in His name for all time.
By the time the ritual had ended, the Dark Lord’s throne was surrounded by a sea of Mandalorian armor, rising almost to the foot of His seat itself. Many more spoils were taken from the fallen children of Mandalore, and there would be many more to take. Carnifex had burned Mandalore and laid its people low, all Beskar was thus His to seize by right of conquest. These miscreants and brigands who wore what was rightfully His would be dealt with as they appeared, scurrying about in the muck as they were want to do. For now, another blow had been struck against the walking corpses of Mandalore, and there was revelry to be had.
The Dark Lord clapped His hands, signaling the end of one ritual and the beginning of another. The Graug let forth a cry of elation as the Mandalorian prisoners of war were brought forth from down below. This was their reward for leal service, and they would indulge in it heartily. Mandalorians were pulled from the cages kicking and screaming, their cries falling on deaf ears as the Graug seized them and began to methodically butcher them. They carved them wholesale, shearing flanks from bone, and depositing large chunks of meat into the boiling pots of broth. Others, the most voracious of Graugs, ate them raw and still living.
All the while, Carnifex watched. Unmoved by the suffering, He would only partake of small morsels brought forth to Him by His servants. The lion’s share of the feast was for His warriors, and He would not intrude upon their bounty.
Even so, with the tips of His fingers stained by Mandalorian grease, He did allow Himself the softest of smiles to break His otherwise impassive expression.
And the light of roaring cookfires danced in His eyes.
