A writhing, stinking heap of offal, shattered bones, and glistening slabs of meat—some fresh, some putrid—the Fleshspoil is more than mere sustenance. It is wealth, power, and devotion, gathered from raids and hunts, heaped high as both bounty and offering. Limbs still twitch within the mass, half-consumed torsos gasping their final breaths as the Haruspex chant their rites, dividing the spoils with twisted wisdom.
To the Man Eaters, the Fleshspoil is the highest currency. A favored raider might be granted the choicest cuts, the still-living remnants of a worthy kill, while the weak gnaw on splintered bone. Yet all must partake—their bodies demand it, their curses compel it, and their dark god exults in their gluttony.
When the Fleshspoil swells beyond reckoning, when its reek turns the sky to rot, it ceases to be merely food. It becomes an offering to the Carniphage, proof of devotion, a signal to gorge beyond mortal limits. From such excesses, the greatest horrors are born, bodies swelling and splitting into something neither man nor beast, but closer to the Great Hungerer’s image. For this reason, the Fleshspoil is guarded as jealously as life itself. Without it, the Man Eaters are nothing—only empty, gnawing mouths in the dark.
