Liturgy

Tristak howls as he tears the head off the offending Vandal. The other prisoners retreat to the corners. Still-twitching mandibles drip warm fluid down his armor.

"None of you are worthy of the House Salvation banner!" Even the other warriors flinch. The civilians sob or throw up, the hopelessness of their situation becoming clear. "We fought for FREEDOM, we fought for JUSTICE, and you cowards betrayed your House!"

Rage boils in Tristak's throat, his fervor growing as the other prisoners pack themselves ever tighter. A rush of cold air sucks Tristak's antennae backward. He cannot feel the presence of anyone behind him, but Tristak sees the terrified eyes of his fellow prisoners fixed far above his dripping plate.

"RECKLESS YOUTH SMELLS SO SWEET, BUT I WILL VINT YOU TO YOUR TRUE POTENTIAL."

Tristak does not turn. He refuses to show fear.

His neck snaps back.

A single chord resonates within his thorax, and every molecule attunes to its bitter pitch. This melodic intoxicant soaks through Tristak's muscles. The cacophony that follows fills him with fresh strength, writhing in harmony with its echoing pulse.

"MY SWEET TONIC WILL BEAR YOU FORWARD. AND YOU WILL BEAR MORE, TO ME."

Tristak breathes in new life. The fog of his old ideals sloughs away as his focus is made sharp. The prisoners cry anew as he opens his slick mandibles wide to drink in their stench. Delicious.