When the Hungry Lord rises to feast, his grotesque form cannot contain its own monstrous existence. Flesh splits in wet, tearing ruptures, his jawbone cracks and unfolds, until his entire body is swallowed by the abyss of his own hunger. His limbs wither, his form collapses inward, and what remains is no longer bound by flesh, but made entirely of need.
The gaping maw that overtakes him is no mere mouth—it is a wound in the world, a churning portal to whatever distant realm the Carniphage dwells in. Its presence twists reality, suffocating the air with an unbearable weight of starvation. It lumbers forward in ceaseless urgency, dragging corpses and carrion into its ever-yawning abyss. Even the ravenous Man Eaters hesitate in its wake, knowing that no flesh is beyond its reach, not even their own.
The Fleshmad chant its praises, the Haruspex weep in frenzied reverence, but they know the truth: the Avatar cannot be controlled, only endured. It is a fleeting, monstrous divinity before hunger takes its toll and the flesh of the Hungry Lord is spent. And so it feasts, as all things in service to the Carniphage must.
