The decks of Malsheem were soaked in blood.
It shined underneath the bright lights in a tapestry of crimson shades. It turned black as the blood deepened and pooled into rivers and lakes of carnage that flowed. Out through this ecosystem of death flowed torn bits and pieces, strewn limbs and shredded organs. Bits and pieces of armor still strapped to the pieces it once protected. The battle that quickly turned into a slaughter had ended with screams of agony, drowned out by the war chants of the frenzied defenders that pulled them apart. As the Blackblade Guard descended on what remained what followed was a chorus of screams so deep that even dedicated warriors endeavored to cover their ears, to drown out the trauma of what followed. The Sons and Daughters of Mandalore, of Clan Rodarch were pulled apart like the bones of a great beast at feast time. Deep within the Kainate's seat of power within one of its large assembly chambers the carnage unfolded. All across the chamber hundreds of bodies hung lifeless, impaled by meat hooks and suspended in the air.
Some had sharp spines hammered through their chest while others were hung like common criminals, like trash. Their shattered forms ranged from full corpses to nothing more than impaled piles of meat and strewn carnage, they rained blood endlessly down to the floors below. Those who were left intact were flayed, their faces defaced beyond recognition. Every single piece had carved into their torn forms the Mandalorian word for 'Mongrel' carved by the hand of the torturer, the destroyer, the Shadow Hand & Mortarch of the Kainate. A raised balcony he emerged onto where the leaders and distinguished members of the brave six hundred hung in a line. Out from the darkness he emerged, and behind him came the broken form of the Alor of Clan Rodarch, the Shield of Mand'alor Arla Rodarch in shattered, blood soaked warplate. The brave warrior was forced down to her knees before the assembled butchers, his killers. The men and women who were twisted into nothing more than his loyal demons, those who shattered Mandalore and nearly destroyed an entire culture.
Such was the fate of all who crossed the Kainate. All of them were dedicated, grizzled veterans of war. They were once the best and brightest, hand chosen volunteers for a daring mission to brave the heart of darkness. They tore open a hole and valiantly forged headlong into the breach without reserve. But within those halls they found no end to what was coming. It was an endless wave of bodies, of flesh and metal from all sides. A ceaseless tide of death that never receded, it didn't matter how many fell in the attempt to pull six hundred Mandalorians apart. In the end they would all serve a greater purpose, and even in death they would serve still. Bodies, armor, and weaponry would be ground down into base resources within the forges, every bit used in the endlessly toiling war machine that spewed out from within Malsheem, within the terrible bastion of Darth Prazutis and the Kainate he led with his nephew. It was a terrible warning to all who would dare gaze upon the worldcraft with ill intent, of the deadly price that would be paid to tread its halls. Only death reigned here, and the final death was ready for everyone who made such a foolish mistake.
