Black Crusade - Feast of Flesh

Chants echo, halls darken, the feast begins under a cursed moon. Shadows stretch long and deep, painting the cold stones of the fortress.
The hall swells with the growls of the Sons, armor clinks, blades drawn wet from recent conquests. A symphony of destruction hums in the air, punctuated by the screams of the captured. An Inquisitor, once hunter now captive, watches, horror etched deep within.
Torches flicker, casting monstrous silhouettes on blood-streaked walls. Flesh from bone, the feast unholy, ritualistic devouring of the enemy, offering to Malice, god of retribution and vengeance. Each bite, a desecration of the laws they once upheld.
The Sons chant praises to their dark deity, mouths smeared with the evidence of their betrayal. The Inquisitor's pleas drown under the roars of feasting warriors, his words meaningless in the face of their corruption. He knows his end, inevitable, part of the ritual soon.
Amidst the carnage, the hierarchy of chaos asserts itself, strong devouring the weak. The fortress, a living entity, thrives on the betrayal, walls seep with the blood of both guilty and innocent. The ground sacred by acts most foul.
As the night wanes, so does the frenzy. Silence falls heavy, only the crackle of dying torches. The Inquisitor,
now a witness,
forever changed,
carries the darkness of this night beyond the walls. A harbinger of tales that few dare believe.
The feast ends but its echo lingers, in the hearts of the damned and the minds of the survivors. The Sons of Malice, bound by blood and shadow, await the next call to feast, under the watchful eyes of their malevolent god.