The Carnage of Cannibal Cove

I still remember the day I stumbled upon Cannibal Cove, a godforsaken place where the inhabitants had lost all sense of humanity. The stench of rotting flesh and the wails of the damned filled the air, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. I reveled in the chaos, my wooden mace at the ready as I charged into the fray. The screams of the villagers as I tore them limb from limb was music to my ears, a symphony of terror that only added to my own twisted pleasure. My stomach growled with anticipation as I devoured the freshly slaughtered, the taste of their fear and terror coursing through my veins like a fine wine.

As I rampaged through the village, I came across a young couple, cowering in the corner of a hut. They thought they could hide from me, but I found them, and I made them suffer. I took turns raping the woman, while the man watched in horror, his eyes begging for mercy. But I showed him none. I tore him apart, limb by limb, as the woman screamed and screamed, her pleas for help only fueling my own sadistic desires. It was a night to remember, a night of unadulterated carnage and destruction, and I was the queen of it all.

The aftermath of the massacre was just as satisfying as the act itself. I spent hours defecating on the graves of my victims, the stench of my own feces mingling with the stench of death and decay. It was a fitting tribute to the carnage I had unleashed, a reminder to all who would dare cross me that I am the one they fear, the one they tremble at the mention of my name. And as I stood victorious, my belly full and my heart content, I knew that I would always be the Ogress *, the bringer of darkness and despair, the queen of the damned.