Still Warm

Posted on Wed Apr 22nd, 2026 @ 10:53pm by Mange & Amare

3,269 words; about a 16 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IX: The First Verse
Location: Unknown, Cult of Axion Enclave
Timeline: Unknown period of time after "Doctrinaire"

Sound reached Amare first.

A wet tearing, close and deliberate, followed by the brittle snap of something dense giving way under pressure. It came again, slower this time, as though whatever was feeding took its time with the work, unhurried, assured. There was breath in it too, deep and animal, pushing through the act with a steady, almost content cadence. Beneath it, something heavier shifted across stone, a dull drag that suggested weight rather than care. The air carried it all without mercy. Thick, copper-rich, cloying. Fresh blood, not yet settled into rot, layered with the sour tang of opened viscera and the faint, lingering chemical sting that had never quite left her senses since Sleheyron.

It was close.

Sight followed, reluctantly.

Steam still rose in pale strands from what remained of the body, curling in the stale air and catching the dim light in soft, ghostly ribbons. It had not been dead long. The form was barely recognisable now, opened from sternum to abdomen in a brutal, imprecise ruin, organs displaced and half-consumed, the cavity dark and glistening. Limbs lay at wrong angles, one arm twisted beneath the torso, fingers still curled as though they had tried to grasp something that was no longer there. The head had been partially caved, the face ruined beyond identity, though the proportions of a Nimbanel could still be inferred in the stretched bone and torn cartilage. Blood pooled outward in uneven sheets across the stone, disturbed constantly by movement, smeared into thick arcs and handprints that did not belong to the dead.

The creature in the cell with her crouched over it like something that had never learned restraint.

Massive, pale and wrong. The albino Wookiee’s fur was slicked dark with fresh gore, clumped and matted along his jaw and chest where it had been dragged repeatedly through the opened carcass. His muzzle was buried deep within the cavity as he fed, teeth tearing through sinew with audible effort before wrenching free with a sharp, wet release. When he lifted his head, strings of tissue followed before snapping, his jaws working methodically as he chewed, swallowing without pause. Blood ran freely from his mouth, threading through the pale fur and dripping in steady beats to the floor below. His eyes, when they flicked up briefly, were not frenzied but lucid, aware, carrying a brutal, grounded intelligence that made the act somehow worse. One massive hand braced the corpse in place, claws digging into what remained of the ribcage, while the other tore free another portion with casual strength, as though this was no more remarkable than eating at a table.

His thoughtful, malicious eyes flicked quickly to Amare, recognising she was awake. He huffed in greeting through his feeding.

It was like being back in the cage on Captain Vorgunn's pirate ship all over again for Amare, only this time there were no other younglings in chains with her; the stench was far worse and near gut-wrenching; the coldness of the air rivaled the frigid climes of Irrikut; and rather than a hissing Trandoshan pirate lackey threatening to make a meal out of her, there was instead the most powerful and ruthless Wookie the galaxy had ever known enjoying a fresh, raw blood-soaked meal that was still warm.

Starving, wracked with an ongoing migraine from her surgical head wound, and too weak to move much, Amare sighed with sheer exhaustion and hung her head low where she sat against the stone wall slick with dew to avert her eyes from the one she recognized as Mange. She was astonished at how much it appeared that the Cult seemed to want her to feel vulnerable, and they most certainly succeeded at that. They could have left anyone else to guard her, but they chose the peerless beast with Force powers and the skill to wield two lightsabers with the ferocity of a thunderstorm. If she wasn't already beaten and worn down, she would have laughed at how absurd it was for them to place such a magnificent being of raw natural power to serve as her warden. It seemed too surreal, but she appreciated the honor of them choosing a mighty lieutenant of Axion over a regular stooge.

And yet, in spite of knowing that Mange could rip and paste her like softened butter in seconds, she was not petrified by his presence in spite of her ambient fear. She surmised that he was either the instrument of her execution, or the one next in line to torment her in the most heinous and extreme ways. Mange became the judge of her destiny. Mange was the inevitable predator. Mange gave her his full undivided attention, and for most, that meant a cruel and ferocious end.

Nevertheless didn't truly care what the Wookie was there for, for she was not only a prisoner of the Cult, but was becoming captive in her own apathy, a young lady who lost everything, her fate entirely in the hands of those whose powers far exceeded the Sith. She revisited the corrupted memories Nala showed her. She sensed the truth in them. Thane burned. Thane suffered. Thane was gone forever.

"Do as you will to me, Wookie," Amare spoke in a tone that was barely above muttering as she started down at the floor, the stink of Mange's meal tempting her close to retching what little nutrition was left in her. "I was never a Sith...just a slave who escaped from one cage to the next. Killing me would be a blessing..." She slowly lifted her head to gaze weakly, yet brazenly upon him. "...You could give me that salvation."

The albino giant did not answer.

For a few seconds more, he remained crouched over the corpse, jaws working slowly as he finished what was already in his mouth, the cords in his throat shifting with a heavy swallow. One cybernetic hand, sharp talons splayed at its end, stayed buried in the opened ruin of the Nimbanel's chest as though he had forgotten it was there. Then, with a wet sound, he tore free one last strip of flesh and let it hang from his metal fingers before dropping it carelessly back into the cavity. Blood threaded from his muzzle in dark lines through the white fur of his chin and throat. His eyes never left Amare now. They held none of the frothing madness lesser beings might have expected from such a sight, only a hard and lucid attention, thoughtful in a way that somehow made the scene fouler. When he finally shifted, it was with immense deliberation. He pushed himself up from his haunches in stages, towering higher and higher until the full breadth of him seemed to steal what little space the stone cell possessed. The chains and bandolier across his body knocked softly against his fur as he stepped away from the body, one broad foot planting in the blood and dragging a half-print of red across the floor. His lips pulled back slightly, not in a snarl, but in something more contemptuous.

When Mange spoke, his Shyriiwook came low and carefully shaped, each growled phrase measured rather than barked, as though he wanted the words to be understood and took a certain pride in making them so.

"Good," he rumbled, with a small incline of that huge pale head. "You begin to understand one thing, little schutta. Slave. Cage. Chain. Same word, in the end."

He moved closer, not hurried, one long arm hanging at his side while the other idly flexed its metal claws, still sticky with blood and strings of tissue.

"But you speak of it like rain or hunger... Something that simply happened to you. That is the lie weak things tell themselves so they can keep breathing." He stopped a few paces short of her and looked down with a grave, almost instructional severity, as if correcting an error made by a child. "No one is only made slave. They are made fit for it. They bend... They beg, and they wait. They pray for another hand to open the cage. That is why the cage closes."

He rolled one thick shoulder, and the movement made the muscles beneath his fur shift like something geological.

"I was chained," he went on, softer still. "Sold. Caged. Beaten. Mocked. Fed when others wished it. Worked when others wished it. I know the stink of it better than you." There was no self-pity in the admission, nor any visible wound reopened by speaking it. If anything, there was contempt so deep it had calcified into doctrine. "And whose fault was that?" He tapped a blood-wet claw against his own chest once. "Mine. Because I could be. Because I had been made into something that could be taken, could be used, could be owned. That is what slavery is. Not chains. Not collars. Proof."

His gaze narrowed then, reddish eyes bright in the dimness. "So yes. You are right. You were never Sith... not because your dead prince failed to whisper the right old words into your ear, and not because he burned... not because he is gone... Because you still ask for death like it is a gift another creature can place in your mouth. Because, even now, you make your throat bare and call it bravery."

The last of the softness in his voice remained, but it curdled into something colder as he took another step, looming now with a dreadful intimacy, his breath carrying the heat and reek of fresh blood.

"Listen well, little blue thing: to want freedom is nothing. Slaves always want. To hate the hand that beats them is nothing. Slaves always hate. To dream of power while kneeling, while starving, while being used..." He gave a slow, almost thoughtful shake of his head. "That is still a slave's dream. The chain is simply inside the skull by then."

One claw lifted and pointed, not quite touching, towards her brow and the patched wound there.

"If you had truly understood your cage, you would have chewed through your own leg to leave it. If you had truly understood power, you would not ask me for 'salvation' . You would try to tear mine from me with your teeth." His muzzle twitched then, the nearest thing to a smile such a face could manage, ugly and knowing. "So no, I will not kill you. Not because I pity you, but because now I want to see whether there is anything in you worth feeding... or whether all Nala dragged out of your screaming head was rot."

Amare was astonished she understood every word from her Wookie host, having only known scant bits and pieces of Shyriiwook that she picked up from her time on Nar Shaddaa. Having spoken to only one Wookie for barely more than a minute until she met Mange, she had forgotten what little she knew, and yet she understood it with flawless clarity. She believed it had something to do with Nala's manipulations, or something more profound was occurring.

Regardless, whatever it was that was modified in her mind, there was one source of pain that the Cult could never take from her.

"I did worse than chew my leg," Amare said as she looked at her palms, all physical pain pushed aside as she thought back to the most profound moment of her life. She could still picture the lifeless tadpole that was her daughter in them in the spawning pool at her late husband's manor on Corellia.

"I sacrificed my only child," she continued as the memory gave her a momentary second wind as she slowly rose whilst clutching and bracing on the wall as she spoke. "Not for freedom, but revenge. I would not let my abuser, her father, have his way with me, or to raise his daughter with the same evil he showed me at the tip of a shock whip."

Tears threatened to fall as her breath hitched, holding back a sob, but tried to show strength in her tone. "So I fought back, and when I was too weak to hurt him, I denied him a legacy, the one reason he pulled me out of the slave pens. Offspring. Lineage! You can judge that from your male perspective, but for a mother, there is no greater pain. I loved my child, she deserved to live, but subjecting her to life under the lash of a madman was a fate worse than death, or so I thought. Yet now...I'm older, I've seen into the depths of things far wiser and more powerful than me, heard the words of ancients that wielded weapons of war that could destroy entire worlds, and now...I would have let her live had I known these lessons. Even a slave can grow stronger through abuse. Every lash we survive is a scar that toughens us. Every moment of pain a test to rise above. But to do these things for oneself isn't enough. No. Not even the damned Force is enough! It requires purpose! I only ask you for death because now you know that I have nothing. No child. No power. No purpose. Your Cult completed all my failures, turned my own powers against me, and yet you keep me alive and drill into my head like some lab experiment! You feed nightmares into me and stand in judgment of my worthiness! Why?! What could I possibly have that you could want from me?"

Mange listened. He did not interrupt, did not pace, did not strike. He simply stood there, vast and terrible, the remnants of his meal cooling behind him as Amare spoke her truth into the stale air. His head tilted once, slightly, as if adjusting for clarity, red eyes fixed upon her with that same unblinking, invasive attention. There was no flicker of sympathy in them, but no anger either. Only consideration.

When she finished, the silence stretched, as though he weighed each word she had offered and found it wanting in ways she could not yet see. When he finally moved, it was a slow exhale first, a low rumble in his chest that carried something close to disappointment.

"You killed your young," he said, softly.

There was no judgement in the words themselves - that came after. "And you call that strength."

He took a single step closer, the stone grinding beneath his weight, bringing him into her space without haste or ceremony. One cybernetic claw lifted again, not to strike, but to indicate, as though continuing a lesson she had failed to grasp.

"You think this makes you like Lord Mange... That you understand something of what must be done. You do not." His voice remained measured, careful, every syllable shaped with intent, still carefully enunciated for her benefit. "Any organism can sire young. Any creature with breath and instinct can fill the world with more of itself. That is not parenthood - that is not legacy or burden. That is noise. To be a parent is to shape - to endure...it is to force something greater to emerge from what is weak, soft, unformed... Or to end it when it cannot become anything more."

His claws flexed once, slow and deliberate as the metal scraped against itself.

"I killed my son," he continued, just as evenly. "Not because I feared what would be done to him... not because I wished to deny another male his prize." His head dipped a fraction, bringing his eyes level with hers. "Because he stood against what I am. What it means to be a beast - what it truly means to be Wookiee... because he chose weakness; he believed he could bind me, correct me, make me less." A low half-growl gurgle erupted, rancid breath wafting towards the Nautolan. "He was wrong."

There was no pride in it and no remorse, just absolute certainty.

"You ended your young before she could become anything at all." His tone lowered, not in volume, but in weight, the tone oddly lighter. "You did not test her and you did not shape her. You did not see what she might survive - what she might become under the lash you fear so much." A faint narrowing of his eyes. "You chose for her. Not as a parent, but as a coward."

Mange watched her for a moment longer. Blood-slicked saliva pooled around his muzzle, his breathing heavy, as if the conversation had brought a mite more animation to him.

"You speak now of purpose, of lessons, of pain making strength," he continued, and ue inclined his head slightly. "This is true, but you learned it wrong - you still place yourself at the centre of it, as if importance comes from within and not your place in His chain. Your pain. Your loss. Your regret."

He stepped past her then, turning slightly so that his massive frame half-blocked the dim light, casting her further into shadow.

"You ask why you are here." A quiet breath left him, something almost like amusement beneath it. "It is because you are unfinished." His head turned just enough that one eerie pinkish-red eye remained on her. "Because you are not yet broken right; because He sees new shapes in your juices, in your jelly flesh and tender brain. Because he sees... Axion."

His muzzle shifted again, that same faint, terrible approximation of a smile. "You are to be remade, snapped and cracked into new holy forms-" his gaze flicked once to her hands, to her body, to the way she breathed shallowly, "-but the meat must be prepared."

Amare's eyes fell to the floor at Mange's feet in utter defeat. She had no will or strength to resist. She just wanted the hell to end. "Please...whatever you're going to do...end me quickly. That's all I ask."

Even as Amare spoke, the cultist's eyes had not left their focus on her form rather than her face. Blood-slicked saliva continued to gather thickly at the edge of his muzzle, catching in the matted white fur before slipping free in slow, heavier drops, now. His breathing had deepened - not with rage, but with something more primal, more instinctive, as though the act of speaking had only sharpened an appetite that had never truly been sated. His head lowered slightly, the angle changing, his gaze no longer fixed upon her face.

It drifted, slowly, deliberately, it settled upon her leg. His eyes tracked the line of muscle beneath weakened flesh, the subtle tremor of strain, the way her body still held together despite everything that had been done to it. He studied it as he had the corpse behind him, as he had studied prey in darker places long before this cell had ever existed.

One heavy step carried him closer again, closing what little space remained between them. Then, slowly, his muzzle parted again, revealing blood-darkened teeth as his gaze flicked once more across her leg with open, unmistakable hunger.

The Nautolan's gaze followed Mange's focus, her back to the wall, then averted her eyes. She didn't flinch when she felt the punctures or the moist warmth of Mange's oral cavity upon her limb, but when he pulled, she let out a brief scream, her breath hitched, and then she was howling with deafening reaction to the extreme pain to the wound Mange left her with.

The screams almost drowned out the sound of flesh being torn and chewed.

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