Grundle's Satellite

Grundle’s satellite looms in memory as a derelict warship, its hull pierced and hollowed out by decades of void and appetite. The structure is little more than a ribcage of blackened metal framing—reactor scraps jut like broken teeth, twisted and cold. Hatches gape like maws where atmosphere bled into silence, their edges scorched from internal cataclysm. The corridors, if they ever existed, are now a slick maze of fused viscera and molten debris, walls shimmering with the oily residue of Drashig digestion. Light spills in jagged beams through fractured observation decks, casting pools of sickly grey illumination over floor plates that groan under unseen movements within. The air hums with residual radiation and the metallic reek of consumed flesh, the silence thick enough to taste—until, inevitably, feeding begins again.