SNUFFED OUT: THE LITURGY OF THE FIFTH STEAK (A REQUIEM FOR THE GOLDEN AVOCADO)
Two months of fat lies. Two months the candle wax melted,
In the feigned prayers of those who are used to tearing flesh down.
He thought that “5teak” was a bridge, a glory to be felt and pelted,
But it was merely a blade to carve his thick skin till he drowns.
Thirteen severed leagues of Amarr’s blind, hollow pride,
An iconic, brass brilliance locked in the cold low-sec grid.
Pilot NBA walked blindly to where his dark saints reside,
Unknowing that in a pitch-black Discord, his final doom was hid.
“Buy an Avatar, son. We need a heavy plate for the shield,”
The scheming enemy clan whispered to him through the night.
Now his dead carcass stands frozen in an empty, quiet field,
Believing in strangers’ words, trapped by their treacherous might.
One hundred and fifty billion went down to the knife in a flash,
Burnt almost to absolute zero into a dry system registry code.
Warp scramblers intertwined, ending the sweet-talking trash,
Leaving but a handful of empty riddles where the blueprints once glowed.
Warp-nets intertwined. Not a sound. The trap. The breakdown.
Hydraulics rip from within. Scramblers hold the heavy frame.
He wrote to them politely, thinking he’d join their home town,
But the home turned out to be a slaughterhouse he couldn’t name.
One hundred and eighty-six shadows came for his very soul,
A hundred Runes and Raptors of the Abyss, locking their jaws in the dark.
And everyone drove their nail into the hull that lost control,
Where the dying spirit spat sparks from the thrusters, leaving its mark.
And the curtain was dropped by Alpaca — their Overlord true,
From that very “five-steak” corp that bred this masterful snare.
He delivered the final blow, calm, calculated, right through,
Sending the massive mushroom cloud into the crimson warp-flare.
And the loot is but pennies, two hundred million for the score.
For Snuffed Out, the profit is nothing; they crave the ash and the rust.
While on Reddit the victim screams of the betrayal and war,
The gray waves of the void wash the dirt from the killboard to dust.
The Abyss asks for no faith. The Abyss remembers no face.
You were but heavy meat for its rusted, relentless wheels.
Chronicles are written in the ashes of a burned-down place,
And this blind Avatar is just a handful of tears no one feels.
The last sparks grew cold. The darkness swallowed the trap whole.
One hundred and eighty-six silent, granite, merciless stones
Stare at the mangled coffin of armor that once had a soul,
Where the titans’ fading strength was left completely alone.
And a freezing chill blows, a stench of iron from this dead space,
Where the lifeless loops of warp-nets hold the charred silhouette.
Only the crimson Runes of the Void illuminate the place,
Burning in a silent local chat, where loyalty is not met.
A gruesome, scorched, jagged trail remains where he fell —
A monument to a blindness that low-sec has never seen before.
Debris of brass plates making the warp burn like hell,
The cosmic winter weaves them into its graveyard floor.
Praise to their silent diplomacy, the patience of wolf packs that wait,
Who sang to the fool of peace and light for two long, patient months.
Snuffed Out is a rabid force, breaking the locks of fate,
For them, no target is impossible, no temple stands safe from their hunts.
Snuffed Out is an absolute, dark, primordial force.
Here every contract is a noose, and every vow is a knife.
They do not recruit you. They bury your course.
And if you gave them your name—you have forfeit your life.
The dust of shattered orbits revolves in a chaotic spin,
The extinguished, broken torch of Amarr burns dim in the deep.
And this silent stillness, like an eternal shroud of steel,
Takes the ashes of fallen gods into its permanent sleep.
— Chronicle of the Mistress of the Star Void, Aleksandra Quartz
Dedicated to the Architects of the Corpse Ash and the relentless hunt of Snuffed Out.
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