Why do we ride atop these elegant craft? The better to hear the screams of our prey as we ride them down, to savour the fear etched on their faces, to taste the tantalising tang of their blood in the air as an appetiser before the feast. But not a single skull was to be found taken as sick trophies by these despicable attackers.
Their innards were hung from control panels like grotesque decorations of some insane celebration. Their blood was slick upon the walls and floors of the dormitories. The bones of five thousand brave men lay scattered about the winding corridors.
I will never forget what I saw at Obsidian Station.
